Mr. Mercedes (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #1)(29)

“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.”

“Who exactly does Vigilant work for?”

“It’s called the Sugar Heights Association. You know, one of those neighborhood things. They fight over the zoning regulations when they don’t like em and make sure everyone in the neighborhood keeps to a certain . . . uh, standard, I guess you’d say. There are lots of rules. Like you can put up white lights at Christmas but not colored ones. And they can’t blink.”

Hodges rolls his eyes. Peeples grins. They have gone from potential antagonists to colleagues—almost, anyway—and why? Because Hodges happened to recognize the guy’s slightly off-center first name. You could call that luck, but there’s always something that will get you on the same side as the person you want to question, something, and part of Hodges’s success on the cops came from being able to recognize it, at least in most cases. It’s a talent Pete Huntley never had, and Hodges is delighted to find his remains in good working order.

“I think she had a sister,” he says. “Mrs. Trelawney, I mean. Never met her, though, and can’t remember the name.”

“Janelle Patterson,” Peeples says promptly.

“You have met her, I take it.”

“Yes indeed. She’s good people. Bears a resemblance to Mrs. Trelawney, but younger and better-looking.” His hands describe an hourglass shape in the air. “More filled out. Do you happen to know if there’s been any progress on the Mercedes thing, Mr. Hodges?”

This isn’t a question Hodges would ordinarily answer, but if you want to get information, you have to give information. And what he has is safe enough, because it isn’t information at all. He uses the phrase Pete Huntley used at lunch a few hours ago. “Dead in the water.”

Peeples nods as if this is no more than he expected. “Crime of impulse. No ties to any of the vics, no motive, just a goddam thrill-killing. Best chance of getting him is if he tries to do it again, don’t you think?”

Mr. Mercedes says he won’t, Hodges thinks, but this is information he absolutely doesn’t want to give out, so he agrees. Collegial agreement is always good.

“Mrs. T. left a big estate,” Hodges says, “and I’m not just talking about the house. I wonder if the sister inherited.”

“Oh yeah,” Peeples says. He pauses, then says something Hodges himself will say to someone else in the not too distant future. “Can I trust your discretion?”

“Yes.” When asked such a question, the simple answer is best. No qualifiers.

“The Patterson woman was living in Los Angeles when her sister . . . you know. The pills.”

Hodges nods.

“Married, but no children. Not a happy marriage. When she found out she had inherited megabucks and a Sugar Heights estate, she divorced the husband like a shot and came east.” Peeples jerks a thumb at the gate, the wide drive, and the big house. “Lived there for a couple of months while the will was going through probate. Got close with Mrs. Wilcox, down at 640. Mrs. Wilcox likes to talk, and sees me as a friend.”

This might mean anything from coffee-buddies to afternoon sex.

“Miz Patterson took over visiting the mother, who lived in a condo building downtown. You know about the mother?”

“Elizabeth Wharton,” Hodges says. “Wonder if she’s still alive.”

“I’m pretty sure she is.”

“Because she had terrible scoliosis.” Hodges takes a little hunched-over walk to demonstrate. If you want to get, you have to give.