Mr. Mercedes (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #1)(44)

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—”

Embarrassed, Hodges says, “I don’t think at this point—”

“I understand,” Jerome says. “But I did think about your problem while I was in line, and I’ve got a question.”

“Yes?”

“Your make-believe Beemer guy, where was his spare key?”

Hodges sits very still, thinking how very quick this kid is. Then he sees a line of pink ice cream trickling down the side of his waffle cone and licks it off.

“Let’s say he claims he never had one.”

“Like the woman who owned the Mercedes did.”

“Yes. Exactly like that.”

“Remember me telling you how my mom got pissed at my dad for calling Parsonville Whiteyville?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to hear about a time when my dad got pissed at my mom? The only time I ever heard him say, That’s just like a woman?”

“If it bears on my little problem, shoot.”

“Mom’s got a Chevy Malibu. Candy-apple red. You’ve seen it in the driveway.”

“Sure.”

“He bought it new three years ago and gave it to her for her birthday, provoking massive squeals of delight.”

Yes, Hodges thinks, Tyrone Feelgood has definitely taken a hike.

“She drives it for a year. No problems. Then it’s time to re-register. Dad said he’d do it for her on his way home from work. He goes out to get the paperwork, then comes back in from the driveway holding up a key. He’s not mad, but he’s irritated. He tells her that if she leaves her spare key in the car, someone could find it and drive her car away. She asks where it was. He says in a plastic Ziploc bag along with her registration, her insurance card, and the owner’s manual, which she had never opened. Still had the paper band around it that says thanks for buying your new car at Lake Chevrolet.”

Another drip is trickling down Hodges’s ice cream. This time he doesn’t notice it even when it reaches his hand and pools there. “In the . . .”

“Glove compartment, yes. My dad said it was careless, and my mom said . . .” Jerome leans forward, his brown eyes fixed on Hodges’s gray ones. “She said she didn’t even know it was there. That’s when he said it was just like a woman. Which didn’t make her happy.”

“Bet it didn’t.” In Hodges’s brain, all sorts of gears are engaging.

“Dad says, Honey, all you have to do is forget once and leave your car unlocked. Some crack addict comes along, sees the buttons up, and decides to toss it in case there’s anything worth stealing. He checks the glove compartment for money, sees the key in the plastic bag, and away he goes to find out who wants to buy a low-mileage Malibu for cash.”

“What did your mother say to that?”

Jerome grins. “First thing, she turned it around. No one does that any better than my moms. She says, You bought the car and you brought it home. You should have told me. I’m eating my breakfast while they’re having this little discussion and thought of saying, If you’d ever checked the owner’s manual, Mom, maybe just to see what all those cute little lights on the dashboard signify, but I kept my mouth shut. My mom and dad don’t get into it often, but when they do, a wise person steers clear. Even the Barbster knows that, and she’s only nine.”