Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(28)

Maybe not, but that letter raises questions. Suppose Mr. Mercedes had written a similar missive to Mrs. Trelawney? Mrs. Trelawney with all those tics and insecurities just below a thin crust of defiance? Wasn’t it possible? Mr. Mercedes certainly would have known about the anger and contempt with which the public had showered her in the wake of the killings; all he had to do was read the Letters to the Editor page of the local paper.

Is it possible—

But here his thoughts break off, because a car has pulled up behind him, so close it’s almost touching his Toyota’s bumper. There are no jackpot lights on the roof, but it’s a late-model Crown Vic, powder blue. The man getting out from behind the wheel is burly and crewcut, his sportcoat no doubt covering a gun in a shoulder holster. If this were a city detective, Hodges knows, the gun would be a Glock .40, just like the one in his safe at home. But he’s not a city detective. Hodges still knows them all.

He rolls down his window.

“Afternoon, sir,” Crewcut says. “May I ask what you’re doing here? Because you’ve been parked quite awhile.”

Hodges glances at his watch and sees this is true. It’s almost four-thirty. Given the rush-hour traffic downtown, he’ll be lucky to get home in time to watch Scott Pelley on CBS Evening News. He used to watch NBC until he decided Brian Williams was a good-natured goof who’s too fond of YouTube videos. Not the sort of newscaster he wants when it seems like the whole world is falling apa—

“Sir? Sincerely hoping for an answer here.” Crewcut bends down. The side of his sportcoat gapes open. Not a Glock but a Ruger. Sort of a cowboy gun, in Hodges’s opinion.

“And I,” Hodges says, “am sincerely hoping you have the authority to ask.”

His interlocutor’s brow creases. “Beg pardon?”

“I think you’re private security,” Hodges says patiently, “but I want to see some ID. Then, you know what? I want to see your carry-concealed permit for the cannon you’ve got inside your coat. And it better be in your wallet and not in the glove compartment of your car, or you’re in violation of section nineteen of the city firearms code, which, briefly stated, is this: ‘If you carry concealed, you must also carry your permit to carry concealed.’ So let’s see your paperwork.”

Crewcut’s frown deepens. “Are you a cop?”

“Retired,” Hodges says, “but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten either my rights or your responsibilities. Let me see your ID and your carry permit, please. You don’t have to hand them over—”

“You’re damn right I don’t.”

“—but I want to see them. Then we can discuss my presence here on Lilac Drive.”

Crewcut thinks it over, but only for a few seconds. Then he takes out his wallet and flips it open. In this city—as in most, Hodges thinks—security personnel treat retired cops as they would those on active duty, because retired cops have plenty of friends who are on active duty, and who can make life difficult if given a reason to do so. The guy turns out to be Radney Peeples, and his company card identifies him as an employee of Vigilant Guard Service. He also shows Hodges a permit to carry concealed, which is good until June of 2012.

“Radney, not Rodney,” Hodges says. “Like Radney Foster, the country singer.”

Foster’s face breaks into a grin. “That’s right.”

“Mr. Peeples, my name is Bill Hodges, I ended my tour as a Detective First Class, and my last big case was the Mercedes Killer. I’m guessing that’ll give you a pretty good idea of what I’m doing here.”

“Mrs. Trelawney,” Foster says, and steps back respectfully as Hodges opens his car door, gets out, and stretches. “Little trip down Memory Lane, Detective?”

“I’m just a mister these days.” Hodges offers his hand. Peeples shakes it. “Otherwise, you’re correct. I retired from the cops at about the same time Mrs. Trelawney retired from life in general.”

“That was sad,” Peeples said. “Do you know that kids egged her gate? Not just at Halloween, either. Three or four times. We caught one bunch, the others . . .” He shook his head. “Plus toilet paper.”

“Yeah, they love that,” Hodges says.

“And one night someone tagged the lefthand gatepost. We got it taken care of before she saw it, and I’m glad. You know what it said?”

Hodges shakes his head.

Peeples lowers his voice. “KILLER CUNT is what it said, in big drippy capital letters. Which was absolutely not fair. She goofed up, that’s all. Is there any of us who haven’t at one time or another?”

“Not me, that’s for sure,” Hodges says.

“Right. Bible says let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

That’ll be the day, Hodges thinks, and asks (with honest curiosity), “Did you like her?”

Peeples’s eyes shift up and to the left, an involuntary movement Hodges has seen in a great many interrogation rooms over the years. It means Peeples is either going to duck the question or outright lie.

It turns out to be a duck.

“Well,” he says, “she treated us right at Christmas. She sometimes mixed up the names, but she knew who we all were, and we each got forty dollars and a bottle of whiskey. Good whiskey. Do you think we got that from her husband?” He snorts. “Ten bucks tucked inside a Hallmark card was what we got when that skinflint was still in the saddle.”