Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(106)

On his way to the checkout, he stops at a cardboard stand-up display featuring the four clean-cut boys in ’Round Here. The copy reads GET YOUR GEAR ON FOR THE BIG SHOW JUNE 3RD! Only someone has crossed out JUNE 3RD and written 2NITE below it.

Although Brady usually takes an M tee-shirt—he’s always been slim—he picks out an XL and adds it to the rest of his swag. No need to stand in line; this early he’s the only customer.

“Going to the show tonight?” the checkout girl asks.

Brady gives her a big grin. “I sure am.”

On his way back to the motel, Brady starts to think about his car. To worry about his car. The Ralph Jones alias is all very fine, but the Subaru is registered to Brady Hartsfield. If the Det-Ret discovers his name and tells five-oh, that could be a problem. The motel is safe enough—they no longer ask for plate numbers, just a driver’s license—but the car is not.

The Det-Ret’s not close, Brady tells himself. He was just trying to freak you out.

Except maybe not. This particular Det solved a lot of cases before he was Ret, and some of those skills still seem to be there.

Instead of going directly back to the Motel 6, Brady swings into the airport, takes a ticket, and leaves the Subaru in long-term parking. He’ll need it tonight, but for now it’s fine where it is.

He glances at his watch. Ten to nine. Eleven hours until the showtime, he thinks. Maybe twelve hours until the darkness. Could be less; could be more. But not much more.

He puts on his new glasses and carries his purchases the half-mile back to the motel, whistling.

4

When Hodges opens his front door, the first thing Jerome keys on is the .38 in the shoulder rig. “You’re not going to shoot anyone with that, are you?”

“I doubt it. Think of it as a good luck charm. It was my father’s. And I have a permit to carry concealed, if that was on your mind.”

“What’s on my mind,” Jerome says, “is whether or not it’s loaded.”

“Of course it is. What did you think I was going to do if I did have to use it? Throw it?”

Jerome sighs and ruffles his cap of dark hair. “This is getting heavy.”

“Want out? If you do, you’re taillights. Right this minute. I can still rent a car.”

“No, I’m good. It’s you I’m wondering about. Those aren’t bags under your eyes, they’re suitcases.”

“I’ll be okay. Today is it for me, anyway. If I can’t track this guy down by nightfall, I’m going to see my old partner and tell him everything.”

“How much trouble will you be in?”

“Don’t know and don’t much care.”

“How much trouble will I be in?”

“None. If I couldn’t guarantee that, you’d be in period one algebra right now.”

Jerome gives him a pitying look. “Algebra was four years ago. Tell me what I can do.”

Hodges does so. Jerome is willing but doubtful.

“Last month—you can’t ever tell my folks this—a bunch of us tried to get into Punch and Judy, that new dance club downtown? The guy at the door didn’t even look at my beautiful fake ID, just waved me out of the line and told me to go get a milkshake.”

Hodges says, “I’m not surprised. Your face is seventeen, but fortunately for me, your voice is at least twenty-five.” He slides Jerome a piece of paper with a phone number written on it. “Make the call.”

Jerome tells the Vigilant Guard Service receptionist who answers that he is Martin Lounsbury, a paralegal at the firm of Canton, Silver, Makepeace, and Jackson. He says he’s currently working with George Schron, a junior partner assigned to tie up a few loose ends concerning the estate of the late Olivia Trelawney. One of those loose ends has to do with Mrs. Trelawney’s computer. His job for the day is to locate the I-T specialist who worked on the machine, and it seems possible that one of the Vigilant employees in the Sugar Heights area may be able to help him locate the gentleman.

Hodges makes a thumb-and-forefinger circle to indicate Jerome is doing well, and passes him a note.

Jerome reads it and says, “One of Mrs. Trelawney’s neighbors, Mrs. Helen Wilcox, mentioned a Rodney Peeples?” He listens, then nods. “Radney, I see. What an interesting name. Perhaps he could call me, if it’s not too much trouble? My boss is a bit of a tyrant, and I’m really under the gun here.” He listens. “Yes? Oh, that’s great. Thanks so much.” He gives the receptionist the numbers of his cell and Hodges’s landline, then hangs up and wipes make-believe sweat from his forehead. “I’m glad that’s over. Whoo!”

“You did fine,” Hodges assures him.

“What if she calls Canton, Silver, and Whoozis to check? And finds out they never heard of Martin Lounsbury?”

“Her job is to pass messages on, not investigate them.”

“What if the Peeples guy checks?”

Hodges doesn’t think he will. He thinks the name Helen Wilcox will stop him. When he talked to Peeples that day outside the Sugar Heights mansion, Hodges caught a strong vibe that Peeples’s relationship with Helen Wilcox was more than just platonic. Maybe a little more, maybe a lot. He thinks Peeples will give Martin Lounsbury what he wants so he’ll go away.

“What do we do now?” Jerome asks.