Mr. Mercedes (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #1)(55)

“Uh-huh,” Hodges says. “Let me make a note of that.” He turns a page in his pad and jots I have to get out of here on the new one.

“That’s a good idea,” she says, bright-eyed. “I’ve just got to tell you how sorry I was when your wife left you, Detective Hodges. She did, didn’t she?”

“We agreed to disagree,” Hodges says with an amiability he doesn’t feel.

“It’s so nice to meet you in person and know you’re keeping an eye out. Have another cookie.”

Hodges glances at his watch, snaps his pad closed, and gets up. “I’d love to, but I’d better roll. Got a noon appointment.”

She scans his bulk and says, “Doctor?”

“Chiropractor.”

She frowns, transforming her face into a walnut shell with eyes. “Think that over, Detective Hodges. Back-crackers are dangerous. There are people who have lain down on those tables and never walked again.”

She sees him to the door. As he steps onto the porch, she says, “I’d check on that ice cream man, too. This spring it seems like he’s always around. Do you suppose Loeb’s Ice Cream checks out the people they hire to drive those little trucks? I hope so, because that one looks suspicious. He might be a peedaroast.”

“I’m sure their drivers have references, but I’ll look into it.”

“Another good idea!” she exclaims.

Hodges wonders what he’d do if she produced a long hook, like in the old-time vaudeville shows, and tried to yank him back inside. A childhood memory comes to him: the witch in Hansel and Gretel.

“Also—I just thought of this—I’ve seen several vans lately. They look like delivery vans—they have business names on them—but anyone can make up a business name, don’t you think?”

“It’s always possible,” Hodges says, descending the steps.

“You should call in to number seventeen, too.” She points down the hill. “It’s almost all the way down to Hanover Street. They have people who come late, and play loud music.” She sways forward in the doorway, almost bowing. “It could be a dope den. One of those crack houses.”

Hodges thanks her for the tip and trudges across the street. Black SUVs and the Mr. Tastey guy, he thinks. Plus the delivery vans filled with Al Qaeda terrorists.

Across the street he finds a stay-at-home dad, Alan Bowfinger by name. “Just don’t confuse me with Goldfinger,” he says, and invites Hodges to sit in one of the lawn chairs on the left side of his house, where there’s shade. Hodges is happy to take him up on this.

Bowfinger tells him that he makes a living writing greeting cards. “I specialize in the slightly snarky ones. Like on the outside it’ll say, ‘Happy Birthday! Who’s the fairest of them all?’ And when you open it up, there’s a piece of shiny foil with a crack running down the middle of it.”

“Yeah? And what’s the message?”

Bowfinger holds up his hands, as if framing it. “‘Not you, but we love you anyway.’”

“Kind of mean,” Hodges ventures.

“True, but it ends with an expression of love. That’s what sells the card. First the poke, then the hug. As to your purpose today, Mr. Hodges . . . or do I call you Detective?”

“Just Mister these days.”

“I haven’t seen anything but the usual traffic. No slow cruisers except people looking for addresses and the ice cream truck after school lets out.” Bowfinger rolls his eyes. “Did you get an earful from Mrs. Melbourne?”

“Well . . .”

“She’s a member of NICAP,” Bowfinger says. “That stands for National Investigations Committee on Aerial Phenomena.”

“Weather stuff? Tornadoes and cloud formations?”

“Flying saucers.” Bowfinger raises his hands to the sky. “She thinks they walk among us.”

Hodges says something that would never have passed his lips if he’d still been on active duty and conducting an official investigation. “She thinks Mr. Tastey might be a peedaroast.”

Bowfinger laughs until tears squirt out of his eyes. “Oh God,” he says. “That guy’s been around for five or six years, driving his little truck and jingling his little bells. How many peeds do you think he’s roasted in all that time?”

“Don’t know,” Hodges says, getting to his feet. “Dozens, probably.” He holds out his hand and Bowfinger shakes it. Another thing Hodges is discovering about retirement: his neighbors have stories and personalities. Some of them are even interesting.

As he’s putting his notepad away, a look of alarm comes over Bowfinger’s face.

“What?” Hodges asks, at once on point.

Bowfinger points across the street and says, “You didn’t eat any of her cookies, did you?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I’d stay close to the toilet for a few hours, if I were you.”





6


When he gets back to his house, his arches throbbing and his ankles singing high C, the light on his answering machine is blinking. It’s Pete Huntley, and he sounds excited. “Call me,” he says. “This is unbelievable. Un-f*cking-real.”

Hodges is suddenly, irrationally sure that Pete and his pretty new partner Isabelle have nailed Mr. Mercedes after all. He feels a deep stab of jealousy, and—crazy but true—anger. He hits Pete on speed-dial, his heart hammering, but his call goes right to voicemail.