Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(84)
ELIZABETH SIROIS WHARTON, 87, passed away peacefully on May 29, 2010, at Warsaw County Memorial Hospital. She was born on January 19, 1923, the son of Marcel and Catherine Sirois. She is survived by her brother, Henry Sirois, her sister, Charlotte Gibney, her niece, Holly Gibney, and her daughter, Janelle Patterson. Elizabeth was predeceased by her husband, Alvin Wharton, and her beloved daughter, Olivia. Private visitation will be held from 10 AM to 1 PM at Soames Funeral Home on Tuesday, June 1, followed by a 10 AM memorial service at Soames Funeral Home on Wednesday, June 2. After the service, a reception for close friends and family members will take place at 729 Lilac Drive, in Sugar Heights. The family requests no flowers, but suggests contributions to either the American Red Cross or the Salvation Army, Mrs. Wharton’s favorite charities.
Brady reads all this carefully, with several related questions in mind. Will the fat ex-cop be at the visitation? At the Wednesday memorial service? At the reception? Brady’s betting on all three. Looking for the perk. Looking for him. Because that’s what cops do.
He remembers the last message he sent to Hodges, the good old Det-Ret. Now he smiles and says it out loud: “You won’t see me coming.”
“Make sure he doesn’t,” Deborah Ann Hartsfield says.
He knows she’s not really there, but he can almost see her sitting across the table from him, wearing a black pencil-skirt and the blue blouse he especially likes, the one that’s so filmy you can see the ghost of her underwear through it.
“Because he’ll be looking for you.”
“I know,” Brady says. “Don’t worry.”
“Of course I’ll worry,” she says. “I have to. You’re my honeyboy.”
He goes back downstairs and gets into his sleeping bag. The leaky air mattress wheezes. The last thing he does before killing the lights via voice-command is to set his iPhone alarm for six-thirty. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.
Except for the tiny red lights marking his sleeping computer equipment, the basement control room is completely dark. From beneath the stairs, his mother speaks.
“I’m waiting for you, honeyboy, but don’t make me wait too long.”
“I’ll be there soon, Mom.” Smiling, Brady closes his eyes. Two minutes later, he’s snoring.
7
Janey doesn’t come out of the bedroom until just after eight the following morning. She’s wearing her pantsuit from the night before. Hodges, still in his boxers, is on the phone. He waves one finger to her, a gesture that says both good morning and give me a minute.
“It’s not a big deal,” he’s saying, “just one of those things that nibble at you. If you could check, I’d really appreciate it.” He listens. “Nah, I don’t want to bother Pete with it, and don’t you, either. He’s got all he can handle with the Donald Davis case.”
He listens some more. Janey perches on the arm of the sofa, points at her watch, and mouths, The viewing! Hodges nods.
“That’s right,” he says into the phone. “Let’s say between the summer of 2007 and the spring of 2009. In the Lake Avenue area downtown, where all those new ritzy condos are.” He winks at Janey. “Thanks, Marlo, you’re a doll. And I promise I’m not going to turn into an uncle, okay?” Listens, nodding. “Okay. Yeah. I have to run, but give my best to Phil and the kids. We’ll get together soon. Lunch. Of course on me. Right. Bye.”
He hangs up.
“You need to get dressed in a hurry,” she says, “then take me back to the apartment so I can put on my damn makeup before we go over to the funeral home. It might also be fun to change my underwear. How fast can you hop into your suit?”
“Fast. And you don’t really need the makeup.”
She rolls her eyes. “Tell that to Aunt Charlotte. She’s totally on crow’s-feet patrol. Now get going, and bring a razor. You can shave at my place.” She re-checks her watch. “I haven’t slept this late in five years.”
He heads for the bedroom to get dressed. She catches him at the door, turns him toward her, puts her palms on his cheeks, and kisses his mouth. “Good sex is the best sleeping pill. I guess I forgot that.”
He lifts her high off her feet in a hug. He doesn’t know how long this will last, but while it does, he means to ride it like a pony.
“And wear your hat,” she says, looking down into his face and smiling. “I did right when I bought it. That hat is you.”
8
They’re too happy with each other and too intent on getting to the funeral parlor ahead of the relatives from hell to BOLO, but even on red alert they almost certainly wouldn’t have seen anything that rang warning bells. There are already more than two dozen cars parked in the little strip mall at the intersection of Harper Road and Hanover Street, and Brady Hartsfield’s mud-colored Subaru is the most unobtrusive of the lot. He has picked his spot carefully so that the fat ex-cop’s street is squarely in the middle of his rearview. If Hodges is going to the old lady’s viewing, he’ll come down the hill and make a left on Hanover.
And here he comes, at just past eight-thirty—quite a bit earlier than Brady expected, since the viewing’s not until ten and the funeral parlor’s only twenty minutes or so away. As the car makes its left turn, Brady is further surprised to see the fat ex-cop is not alone. His passenger is a woman, and although Brady only gets a quick glimpse, it’s enough for him to ID Olivia Trelawney’s sister. She’s got the visor down so she can look into the mirror as she brushes her hair. The obvious deduction is that she spent the night in the fat ex-cop’s bachelor bungalow.