Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(43)

“Some of my friends call Parsonville Whiteyville,” Jerome says. “I heard my father say it once, and my mother told him to shut up with the racist talk.”

“Uh-huh.” Jerome’s friends, the black ones, probably call Sugar Heights Whiteyville, too, which makes Hodges think he’s doing okay so far.

Odell has stopped to check out Mrs. Melbourne’s flowers. Jerome pulls him away before he can leave a doggy memo there.

“So anyway,” Hodges resumes, “the long-term lady friend has a condo apartment in the Branson Park area—Wieland Avenue, Branson Street, Lake Avenue, that part of town.”

“Also nice.”

“Yeah. He goes to see her three or four times a week. One or two nights a week he takes her to dinner or a movie and stays over. When he does that, he parks his car—a nice one, a Beemer—on the street, because it’s a good area, well policed, plenty of those high-intensity arc-sodiums. Also, the parking’s free from seven P.M. to eight A.M.”

“I had a Beemer, I’d put it in one of the garages down there and never mind the free parking,” Jerome says, and tugs the leash again. “Stop it, Odell, nice dogs don’t eat out of the gutter.”

Odell looks over his shoulder and rolls an eye as if to say You don’t know what nice dogs do.

“Well, rich people have some funny ideas about economy,” Hodges says, thinking of Mrs. T.’s explanation for doing the same thing.

“If you say so.” They have almost reached the shopping center. On the way down the hill they’ve heard the jingling tune of the ice cream truck, once quite close, but it fades again as the Mr. Tastey guy heads for the housing developments north of Harper Road.

“So one Thursday night this guy goes to visit his lady as usual. He parks as usual—all kinds of empty spaces down there once the business day is over—and locks up his car as usual. He and his lady take a walk to a nearby restaurant, have a nice meal, then walk back. His car’s right there, he sees it before they go in. He spends the night with his lady, and when he leaves the building in the morning—”

“His Beemer’s gone bye-bye.” They are now standing outside the ice cream shop. There’s a bicycle rack nearby. Jerome fastens Odell’s leash to it. The dog lies down and puts his muzzle on one paw.

“No,” Hodges says, “it’s there.” He is thinking that this is a damned good variation on what actually happened. He almost believes it himself. “But it’s facing the other way, because it’s parked on the other side of the street.”

Jerome raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I know. Weird, right? So the guy goes across to it. Car looks okay, it’s locked up tight just the way he left it, it’s just in a new place. So the first thing he does is check for his key, and yep, it’s still in his pocket. So what the hell happened, Jerome?”

“I don’t know, Mr. H. It’s like a Sherlock Holmes story, isn’t it? A real three-pipe problem.” There’s a little smile on Jerome’s face that Hodges can’t quite parse and isn’t sure he likes. It’s a knowing smile.

Hodges digs his wallet out of his Levi’s (the suit was good, but it’s a relief to be back in jeans and an Indians pullover again). He selects a five and hands it to Jerome. “Go get our ice cream cones. I’ll dog-sit Odell.”

“You don’t need to do that, he’s fine.”

“I’m sure he is, but standing in line will give you time to consider my little problem. Think of yourself as Sherlock, maybe that’ll help.”

“Okay.” Tyrone Feelgood Delight pops out. “Only you is Sherlock! I is Doctah Watson!”

13

There’s a pocket park on the far side of Hanover. They cross at the WALK light, grab a bench, and watch a bunch of shaggy-haired middle-school boys dare life and limb in the sunken concrete skateboarding area. Odell divides his time between watching the boys and the ice cream cones.

“You ever try that?” Hodges asks, nodding at the daredevils.

“No, suh!” Jerome gives him a wide-eyed stare. “I is black. I spends mah spare time shootin hoops and runnin on de cinder track at de high school. Us black fellas is mighty fast, as de whole worl’ knows.”

“Thought I told you to leave Tyrone at home.” Hodges uses his finger to swop some ice cream off his cone and extends the dripping finger to Odell, who cleans it with alacrity.

“Sometimes dat boy jus’ show up!” Jerome declares. Then Tyrone is gone, just like that. “There’s no guy and no lady friend and no Beemer. You’re talking about the Mercedes Killer.”

So much for fiction. “Say I am.”

“Are you investigating that on your own, Mr. Hodges?”

Hodges thinks this over, very carefully, then repeats himself. “Say I am.”

“Does the Debbie’s Blue Umbrella site have something to do with it?”

“Say it does.”

A boy falls off his skateboard and stands up with road rash on both knees. One of his friends buzzes over, jeering. Road Rash Boy slides a hand across one oozing knee, flings a spray of red droplets at Jeering Boy, then rolls away, shouting “AIDS! AIDS!” Jeering Boy rolls after him, only now he’s Laughing Boy.

“Barbarians,” Jerome mutters. He bends to scratch Odell behind the ears, then straightens up. “If you want to talk about it—”