Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(77)

“How old is this Holly?” Jerome asks.

“About my age, but she suffers from a certain amount of . . . emotional retardation, I guess you’d say.”

Jerome considers this silently, then says: “She probably needs to reconsider Kyle Busch.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

Janey says Aunt Charlotte has also called to marvel over the monthly electrical bill, which must be huge; to confide that the neighbors seem very standoffish; to announce there is an awfully large number of pictures and all that modern art is not to her taste; to point out (although it sounds like another announcement) that if Olivia thought all those lamps were carnival glass, she had almost certainly been taken to the cleaners. The last call, received just before Janey left for the restaurant, had been the most aggravating. Uncle Henry wanted Janey to know, her aunt said, that he had looked into the matter and it still wasn’t too late to change her mind about the cremation. She said the idea made her brother very upset—he called it “a Viking funeral”—and Holly wouldn’t even discuss it, because it gave her the horrors.

“Their Thursday departure is confirmed,” Janey says, “and I’m already counting the minutes.” She squeezes Hodges’s hand, and says, “There’s one bit of good news, though. Auntie C says that Holly was very taken with you.”

Hodges smiles. “Must be my resemblance to Jeff Gordon.”

Janey and Jerome order dessert. Hodges, feeling virtuous, does not. Then, over coffee, he gets down to business. He has brought two folders with him, and hands one to each of his dinner companions.

“All my notes. I’ve organized them as well as I can. I want you to have them in case anything happens to me.”

Janey looks alarmed. “What else has he said to you on that site?”

“Nothing at all,” Hodges says. The lie comes out smoothly and convincingly. “It’s just a precaution.”

“You sure of that?” Jerome asks.

“Absolutely. There’s nothing definitive in the notes, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t made progress. I see a path of investigation that might—I repeat might—take us to this guy. In the meantime, it’s important that you both remain very aware of what’s going on around you at all times.”

“BOLO our asses off,” Janey says.

“Right.” He turns to Jerome. “And what, specifically, are you going to be on the lookout for?”

The reply is quick and sure. “Repeat vehicles, especially those driven by males on the younger side, say between the ages of twenty-five and forty. Although I think forty’s pretty old. Which makes you practically ancient, Bill.”

“Nobody loves a smartass,” Hodges says. “Experience will teach you that in time, young man.”

Elaine, the hostess, drifts over to ask how everything was. They tell her everything was fine, and Hodges asks for more coffee all around.

“Right away,” she says. “You’re looking much better than the last time you were here, Mr. Hodges. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

Hodges doesn’t mind. He feels better than the last time he was here. Lighter than the loss of seven or eight pounds can account for.

When Elaine’s gone and the waiter has poured more coffee, Janey leans over the table with her eyes fixed on his. “What path? Tell us.”

He finds himself thinking of Donald Davis, who has confessed to killing not only his wife but five other women at rest stops along the highways of the Midwest. Soon the handsome Mr. Davis will be in State, where he will no doubt spend the rest of his life.

Hodges has seen it all before.

He’s not so naïve as to believe that every homicide is solved, but more often than not, murder does out. Something (a certain wifely body in a certain abandoned gravel pit, for instance) comes to light. It’s as if there’s a fumble-fingered but powerful universal force at work, always trying to put wrong things right. The detectives assigned to a murder case read reports, interview witnesses, work the phones, study forensic evidence . . . and wait for that force to do its job. When it does (if it does), a path appears. It often leads straight to the doer, the sort of person Mr. Mercedes refers to in his letters as a perk.

Hodges asks his dinner companions, “What if Olivia Trelawney actually did hear ghosts?”

2

In the parking lot, standing next to the used but serviceable Jeep Wrangler his parents gave him as a seventeenth birthday present, Jerome tells Janey how good it was to meet her, and kisses her cheek. She looks surprised but pleased.

Jerome turns to Hodges. “You all set, Bill? Need anything tomorrow?”

“Just for you to look into that stuff we talked about so you’ll be ready when we check out Olivia’s computer.”

“I’m all over it.”

“Good. And don’t forget to give my best to your dad and mom.”

Jerome grins. “Tell you what, I’ll pass your best on to Dad. As for Mom . . .” Tyrone Feelgood Delight makes a brief cameo appearance. “I be steppin round dat lady fo’ de nex’ week or so.”

Hodges raises his eyebrows. “Are you in dutch with your mother? That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Nah, she’s just grouchy. And I can relate.” Jerome snickers.