KISSES ON THE MIDWAY
1
Hodges is up at six A.M. on Thursday morning and makes himself a big breakfast: two eggs, four slices of bacon, four slices of toast. He doesn’t want it, but he forces himself to eat every bite, telling himself it’s body gasoline. He might get a chance to eat again today, but he might not. Both in the shower and as he chews his way resolutely through his big breakfast (no one to watch his weight for now), a thought keeps recurring to him, the same one he went to sleep with the night before. It’s like a haunting.
Just how much explosive?
This leads to other unpleasant considerations. Like how the guy—the perk—means to use it. And when.
He comes to a decision: today is the last day. He wants to track Mr. Mercedes down himself, and confront him. Kill him? No, not that (probably not that), but beating the shit out of him would be excellent. For Olivia. For Janey. For Janice and Patricia Cray. For all the other people Mr. Mercedes killed and maimed at City Center the year before. People so desperate for jobs they got up in the middle of the night and stood waiting in a dank fog for the doors to open. Lost lives. Lost hopes. Lost souls.
So yes, he wants the sonofabitch. But if he can’t nail him today, he’ll turn the whole thing over to Pete Huntley and Izzy Jaynes and take the consequences . . . which, he knows, may well lead to some jail time. It doesn’t matter. He’s got plenty on his conscience already, but he guesses it can bear a little more weight. Not another mass killing, though. That would destroy what little of him there is left.
He decides to give himself until eight o’clock tonight; that’s the line in the sand. He can do as much in those thirteen hours as Pete and Izzy. Probably more, because he’s not constrained by routine or procedure. Today he will carry his father’s M&P .38. And the Happy Slapper—that, too.
The Slapper goes in the right front pocket of his sportcoat, the revolver under his left arm. In his study, he grabs his Mr. Mercedes file—it’s quite fat now—and takes it back to the kitchen. While he reads through it again, he uses the remote to fire up the TV on the counter and tunes in Morning at Seven on Channel Six. He’s almost relieved to see that a crane has toppled over down by the lakeshore, half-sinking a barge filled with chemicals. He doesn’t want the lake any more polluted than it already is (assuming that’s possible), but the spill has pushed the car-bomb story back to second place. That’s the good news. The bad is that he’s identified as the detective, now retired, who was the lead investigator of the City Center Massacre task force, and the woman killed in the car-bombing is identified as Olivia Trelawney’s sister. There’s a still photo of him and Janey standing outside the Soames Funeral Home, taken by God knows who.
“Police are not saying if there’s a connection to last year’s mass killing at City Center,” the newscaster says gravely, “but it’s worth noting that the perpetrator of that crime has as yet not been caught. In other crime news, Donald Davis is expected to be arraigned . . .”
Hodges no longer gives Shit One about Donald Davis. He kills the TV and returns to the notes on his yellow legal pad. He’s still going through them when his phone rings—not the cell (although today he’s carrying it), but the one on the wall. It’s Pete Huntley.
“You’re up with the birdies,” Pete says.
“Good detective work. How can I help you?”
“We had an interesting interview yesterday with Henry Sirois and Charlotte Gibney. You know, Janelle Patterson’s aunt and uncle?”
Hodges waits for it.
“The aunt was especially fascinating. She thinks Izzy was right, and you and Patterson were a lot more than just acquaintances. She thinks you were very good friends.”
“Say what you mean, Pete.”
“Making the beast with two backs. Laying some pipe. Slicing the cake. Hiding the salami. Doing the horizontal b—”
“I think I get it. Let me tell you something about Aunt Charlotte, okay? If she saw a photo of Justin Bieber talking to Queen Elizabeth, she’d tell you the Beeb was tapping her. ‘Just look at their eyes,’ she’d say.”
“So you weren’t.”
“No.”
“I’ll take that on a try-out basis—mostly for old times’ sake—but I still want to know what you’re hiding. Because this stinks.”
“Read my lips: not . . . hiding . . . anything.”
Silence from the other end. Pete is waiting for Hodges to grow uncomfortable and break it, for the moment forgetting who taught him that trick.
At last he gives up. “I think you’re digging yourself a hole, Billy. My advice is to drop the shovel before you’re in too deep to climb out.”
“Thanks, partner. Always good to get life-lessons at quarter past seven in the morning.”
“I want to interview you again this afternoon. And this time I may have to read you the words.”
The Miranda warning is what he means.
“Happy to make that work. Call me on my cell.”
“Really? Since you retired, you never carry it.”
“I’m carrying it today.” Yes indeed. Because for the next twelve or fourteen hours, he’s totally unretired.
He ends the call and goes back to his notes, wetting the tip of his index finger each time he turns a page. He circles a name: Radney Peeples. The Vigilant Guard Service guy he talked to out in Sugar Heights. If Peeples is even halfway doing his job, he may hold the key to Mr. Mercedes. But there’s no chance he won’t remember Hodges, not after Hodges first braced him for his company ID and then questioned him. And he’ll know that today Hodges is big news. There’s time to think about how to solve the problem; Hodges doesn’t want to call Vigilant until regular business hours. Because the call has to look like ordinary routine.
The next call he receives—on his cell this time—is from Aunt Charlotte. Hodges isn’t surprised to hear from her, but that doesn’t mean he’s pleased.
“I don’t know what to do!” she cries. “You have to help me, Mr. Hodges!”
“Don’t know what to do about what?”
“The body! Janelle’s body! I don’t even know where it is!”
Hodges gets a beep and checks the incoming number.
“Mrs. Gibney, I have another call and I have to take it.”
“I don’t see why you can’t—”
“Janey’s not going anywhere, so just stand by. I’ll call you back.”
He cuts her off in the middle of a protesting squawk and goes to Jerome.
“I thought you might need a chauffeur today,” Jerome says. “Considering your current situation.”
For a moment Hodges doesn’t know what the kid is talking about, then remembers that his Toyota has been reduced to charred fragments. What remains of it is now in the custody of the PD’s Forensics Department, where later today men in white coats will be going over it to determine what kind of explosive was used to blow it up. He got home last night in a taxi. He will need a ride. And, he realizes, Jerome may be useful in another way.
“That would be good,” he says, “but what about school?”
“I’m carrying a 3.9 average,” Jerome says patiently. “I’m also working for Citizens United and team-teaching a computer class for disadvantaged kids. I can afford to skip a day. And I already cleared it with my mom and dad. They just asked me to ask you if anyone else was going to try to blow you up.”
“Actually, that’s not out of the question.”
“Hang on a second.” Faintly, Hodges hears Jerome calling: “He says no one will.”
In spite of everything, Hodges has to smile.
“I’ll be there double-quick,” Jerome says.
“Don’t break any speed laws. Nine o’clock will be fine. Use the time to practice your thespian skills.”
“Really? What role am I thesping?”
“Law office paralegal,” Hodges says. “And thanks, Jerome.”
He breaks the connection, goes into his study, boots up his computer, and searches for a local lawyer named Schron. It’s an unusual name and he finds it with no trouble. He notes down the firm and Schron’s first name, which happens to be George. Then he returns to the kitchen and calls Aunt Charlotte.
“Hodges,” he says. “Back atcha.”
“I don’t appreciate being hung up on, Mr. Hodges.”
“No more than I appreciate you telling my old partner that I was fucking your niece.”
He hears a shocked gasp, followed by silence. He almost hopes she’ll hang up. When she doesn’t, he tells her what she needs to know.
“Janey’s remains will be at the Huron County Morgue. You won’t be able to take possession today. Probably not tomorrow, either. There’ll have to be an autopsy, which is absurd given the cause of death, but it’s protocol.”
“You don’t understand! I have plane reservations!”
Hodges looks out his kitchen window and counts slowly to five.
“Mr. Hodges? Are you still there?”
“As I see it, you have two choices, Mrs. Gibney. One is to stay here and do the right thing. The other is to use your reservation, fly home, and let the city do it.”
Aunt Charlotte begins to snivel. “I saw the way you were looking at her, and the way she was looking at you. All I did was answer the woman cop’s questions.”
“And with great alacrity, I have no doubt.”
“With what?”
He sighs. “Let’s drop it. I suggest you and your brother visit the County Morgue in person. Don’t call ahead, let them see your faces. Talk to Dr. Galworthy. If Galworthy’s not there, talk to Dr. Patel. If you ask them in person to expedite matters—and if you can manage to be nice about it—they’ll give you as much help as they can. Use my name. I go back to the early nineties with both of them.”
“We’d have to leave Holly again,” Aunt Charlotte says. “She’s locked herself in her room. She’s clicking away on her laptop and won’t come out.”
Hodges discovers he’s pulling his hair and makes himself stop. “How old is your daughter?”
A long pause. “Forty-five.”
“Then you can probably get away with not hiring a sitter.” He tries to suppress what comes next, and can’t quite manage it. “Think of the money you’ll save.”
“I can hardly expect you to understand Holly’s situation, Mr. Hodges. As well as being mentally unstable, my daughter is very sensitive.”
Hodges thinks: That must make you especially difficult for her. This time he manages not to say it.
“Mr. Hodges?”
“Still here.”
“You don’t happen to know if Janelle left a will, do you?”
He hangs up.