Mr. Mercedes (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #1)(57)

Hodges doesn’t feel like that, but at least he hasn’t lost the Megabucks. He still has a case to work.

“I gotta get back in there, Billy, before he changes his mind.”

“Yeah, yeah, but Pete? Before you go?”

“What?”

“Get him a court-appointed.”

“Ah, Billy—”

“I’m serious. Interrogate the shit out of him, but before you start, announce—for the record—that you’re getting him lawyered up. You can wring him dry before anyone shows up at Murrow, but you have to get this right. Are you hearing me?”

“Yeah, okay. That’s a good call. I’ll have Izzy do it.”

“Great. Now get back in there. Nail him down.”

Pete actually crows. Hodges has read about people doing that, but hasn’t ever heard it done—except by roosters—until now. “Turnpike Joe, Billy! Fucking Turnpike Joe! Do you believe it?”

He hangs up before his ex-partner can reply. Hodges sits where he is for almost five minutes, waiting until a belated case of the shakes subsides. Then he calls Janey Patterson.

“It wasn’t about the man we’re looking for?”

“Sorry, no. Another case.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“Yeah. You’ll still come with me to the nursing home?”

“You bet. I’ll be waiting on the sidewalk.”

Before leaving, he checks the Blue Umbrella site one last time. Nothing there, and he has no intention of sending his own carefully crafted message today. Tonight will be soon enough. Let the fish feel the hook awhile longer.

He leaves his house with no premonition that he won’t be back.





7


Sunny Acres is ritzy. Elizabeth Wharton is not.

She’s in a wheelchair, hunched over in a posture that reminds Hodges of Rodin’s Thinker. Afternoon sunlight slants in through the window, turning her hair into a silver cloud so fine it’s a halo. Outside the window, on a rolling and perfectly manicured lawn, a few golden oldies are playing a slow-motion game of croquet. Mrs. Wharton’s croquet days are over. As are her days of standing up. When Hodges last saw her—with Pete Huntley beside him and Olivia Trelawney sitting next to her—she was bent. Now she’s broken.

Janey, vibrant in tapered white slacks and a blue-and-white-striped sailor’s shirt, kneels beside her, stroking one of Mrs. Wharton’s badly twisted hands.

“How are you today, dear one?” she asks. “You look better.” If this is true, Hodges is horrified.

Mrs. Wharton peers at her daughter with faded blue eyes that express nothing, not even puzzlement. Hodges’s heart sinks. He enjoyed the ride out here with Janey, enjoyed looking at her, enjoyed getting to know her even more, and that’s good. It means the trip hasn’t been entirely wasted.

Then a minor miracle occurs. The old lady’s cataract-tinged eyes clear; the cracked lipstickless lips spread in a smile. “Hello, Janey.” She can only raise her head a little, but her eyes flick to Hodges. Now they look cold. “Craig.”

Thanks to their conversation on the ride out, Hodges knows who that is.

“This isn’t Craig, lovey. This is a friend of mine. His name is Bill Hodges. You’ve met him before.”

“No, I don’t believe . . .” She trails off—frowning now—then says, “You’re . . . one of the detectives?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He doesn’t even consider telling her he’s retired. Best to keep things on a straight line while there are still a few circuits working in her head.

Her frown deepens, creating rivers of wrinkles. “You thought Livvy left her key in her car so that man could steal it. She told you and told you, but you never believed her.”

Hodges copies Janey, taking a knee beside the wheelchair. “Mrs. Wharton, I now think we might have been wrong about that.”

“Of course you were.” She shifts her gaze back to her remaining daughter, looking up at her from beneath the bony shelf of her brow. It’s the only way she can look. “Where’s Craig?”

“I divorced him last year, Mom.”

She considers, then says, “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Can Bill ask you a few questions?”

“I don’t see why not, but I want some orange juice. And my pain pills.”

“I’ll go down to the nurses’ suite and see if it’s time,” she says. “Bill, are you okay if I—?”

He nods and flicks two fingers in a go, go gesture. As soon as she’s out the door, Hodges gets to his feet, bypasses the visitor’s chair, and sits on Elizabeth Wharton’s bed with his hands clasped between his knees. He has his pad, but he’s afraid taking notes might distract her. The two of them regard each other silently. Hodges is fascinated by the silver nimbus around the old lady’s head. There are signs that one of the orderlies combed her hair that morning, but it’s gone its own wild way in the hours since. Hodges is glad. The scoliosis has twisted her body into a thing of ugliness, but her hair is beautiful. Crazy and beautiful.

“I think,” he says, “we treated your daughter badly, Mrs. Wharton.”

Yes indeed. Even if Mrs. T. was an unwitting accomplice, and Hodges hasn’t entirely dismissed the idea that she left her key in the ignition, he and Pete did a piss-poor job. It’s easy—too easy—to either disbelieve or disregard someone you dislike. “We were blinded by certain preconceptions, and for that I’m sorry.”