Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(61)

The driver pulls around him, buzzing down his passenger-side window to yell Asshole at the top of his lungs. Brady pays no attention to that, either.

There must be thousands of Toyota Corollas in the city, and hundreds of blue Toyota Corollas, but how many blue Toyota Corollas with bumper stickers reading SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE? Brady is betting there’s just one, and what the hell is the fat ex-cop doing in the old lady’s condominium apartment? Why is he visiting Mrs. Trelawney’s sister, who now lives there?

The answer seems obvious: Detective Hodges (Ret.) is hunting.

Brady is no longer interested in reliving last year’s triumph. He pulls an illegal (and completely out-of-character) U-turn, now heading for the North Side. Heading for home with a single thought in his head, blinking on and off like a neon sign.

You bastard. You bastard. You bastard.

Things are not going the way they are supposed to. Things are slipping out of his control. It’s not right.

Something needs to be done.

12

As the stars come out over the lake, Hodges and Janey Patterson sit in the kitchen nook, gobbling takeout Chinese and drinking oolong tea. Janey is wearing a fluffy white bathrobe. Hodges is in his boxers and tee-shirt. When he used the bathroom after making love (she was curled in the middle of the bed, dozing), he got on her scale and was delighted to see he’s four pounds lighter than the last time he weighed himself. It’s a start.

“Why me?” Hodges says now. “Don’t get me wrong, I feel incredibly lucky—even blessed—but I’m sixty-two and overweight.”

She sips tea. “Well, let’s think about that, shall we? In one of the old detective movies Ollie and I used to watch on TV when we were kids, I’d be the greedy vixen, maybe a nightclub cigarette girl, who tries to charm the crusty and cynical private detective with her fair white body. Only I’m not the greedy type—nor do I have to be, considering the fact that I recently inherited several million dollars—and my fair white body has started to sag in several vital places. As you may have noticed.”

He hasn’t. What he has noticed is that she hasn’t answered his question. So he waits.

“Not good enough?”

“Nope.”

Janey rolls her eyes. “I wish I could think of a way to answer you that’s gentler than ‘Men are very stupid’ or more elegant than ‘I was horny and wanted to brush away the cobwebs.’ I’m not coming up with much, so let’s go with those. Plus, I was attracted to you. It’s been thirty years since I was a dewy debutante and much too long since I got laid. I’m forty-four, and that allows me to reach for what I want. I don’t always get it, but I’m allowed to reach.”

He stares at her, honestly amazed. Forty-four?

She bursts into laughter. “You know what? That look’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in a long, long time. And the most honest one. Just that stare. So I’m going to push it a little. How old did you think I was?”

“Maybe forty. At the outside. Which would make me a cradle-robber.”

“Oh, bullshit. If you were the one with the money instead of me, everyone would take the younger-woman thing for granted. In that case, people would take it for granted if you were sleeping with a twenty-five-year-old.” She pauses. “Although that would be cradle-robbing, in my humble opinion.”

“Still—”

“You’re old, but not that old, and you’re on the heavyweight side, but not that heavy. Although you will be if you keep on the way you’re going.” She points her fork at him. “That’s the kind of honesty a woman can only afford after she’s slept with a man and still likes him well enough to eat dinner with him. I said I haven’t had sex in two years. That’s true, but do you know when I last had sex with a man I actually liked?”

He shakes his head.

“Try junior college. And he wasn’t a man, he was a second-string tackle with a big red pimple on the end of his nose. He was very sweet, though. Clumsy and far too quick, but sweet. He actually cried on my shoulder afterward.”

“So this wasn’t just . . . I don’t know . . .”

“A thank-you f**k? A mercy-f*ck? Give me a little credit. And here’s a promise.” She leans forward, the robe gaping to show the shadowed valley between her br**sts. “Lose twenty pounds and I’ll risk you on top.”

He can’t help laughing.

“It was great, Bill. I have no regrets, and I have a thing for big guys. The tackle with the pimple on his nose went about two-forty. My ex was a beanpole, and I should have known no good could come of it the first time I saw him. Can we leave it at that?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling, and stands up. “Come on in the living room. It’s time for you to make your report.”

13

He tells her everything except for his long afternoons watching bad TV and flirting with his father’s old service revolver. She listens gravely, not interrupting, her eyes seldom leaving his face. When he’s done, she gets a bottle of wine out of the fridge and pours them each a glass. They are big glasses, and he looks at his doubtfully.

“Don’t know if I should, Janey. I’m driving.”

“Not tonight you’re not. You’re staying here. Unless you’ve got a dog or a cat?”