Mr. Mercedes (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #1)(62)

He stares at her, honestly amazed. Forty-four?

She bursts into laughter. “You know what? That look’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in a long, long time. And the most honest one. Just that stare. So I’m going to push it a little. How old did you think I was?”

“Maybe forty. At the outside. Which would make me a cradle-robber.”

“Oh, bullshit. If you were the one with the money instead of me, everyone would take the younger-woman thing for granted. In that case, people would take it for granted if you were sleeping with a twenty-five-year-old.” She pauses. “Although that would be cradle-robbing, in my humble opinion.”

“Still—”

“You’re old, but not that old, and you’re on the heavyweight side, but not that heavy. Although you will be if you keep on the way you’re going.” She points her fork at him. “That’s the kind of honesty a woman can only afford after she’s slept with a man and still likes him well enough to eat dinner with him. I said I haven’t had sex in two years. That’s true, but do you know when I last had sex with a man I actually liked?”

He shakes his head.

“Try junior college. And he wasn’t a man, he was a second-string tackle with a big red pimple on the end of his nose. He was very sweet, though. Clumsy and far too quick, but sweet. He actually cried on my shoulder afterward.”

“So this wasn’t just . . . I don’t know . . .”

“A thank-you f*ck? A mercy-f*ck? Give me a little credit. And here’s a promise.” She leans forward, the robe gaping to show the shadowed valley between her breasts. “Lose twenty pounds and I’ll risk you on top.”

He can’t help laughing.

“It was great, Bill. I have no regrets, and I have a thing for big guys. The tackle with the pimple on his nose went about two-forty. My ex was a beanpole, and I should have known no good could come of it the first time I saw him. Can we leave it at that?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling, and stands up. “Come on in the living room. It’s time for you to make your report.”





13


He tells her everything except for his long afternoons watching bad TV and flirting with his father’s old service revolver. She listens gravely, not interrupting, her eyes seldom leaving his face. When he’s done, she gets a bottle of wine out of the fridge and pours them each a glass. They are big glasses, and he looks at his doubtfully.

“Don’t know if I should, Janey. I’m driving.”

“Not tonight you’re not. You’re staying here. Unless you’ve got a dog or a cat?”

Hodges shakes his head.

“Not even a parrot? In one of those old movies, you’d at least have a parrot in your office that would say rude things to prospective clients.”

“Sure. And you’d be my receptionist. Lola instead of Janey.”

“Or Velma.”

He grins. There’s a wavelength, and they’re on it.

She leans forward, once again creating that enticing view. “Profile this guy for me.”

“That was never my job. We had guys who specialized in that. One on the force and two on call from the psych department at the state university.”

“Do it anyway. I Googled you, you know, and it looks to me like you were just about the best the police department had. Commendations up the wazoo.”

“I got lucky a few times.”

It comes out sounding falsely modest, but luck really is a big part of it. Luck, and being ready. Woody Allen was right: eighty percent of success is just showing up.

“Take a shot, okay? If you do a good job, maybe we’ll revisit the bedroom.” She wrinkles her nose at him. “Unless you’re too old for twosies.”

The way he feels right now, he might not be too old for threesies. There have been a lot of celibate nights, which gives him an account to draw on. Or so he hopes. Part of him—a large part—still can’t believe this isn’t an incredibly detailed dream.

He sips his wine, rolling it around in his mouth, giving himself time to think. The top of her robe is closed again, which helps him concentrate.

“Okay. He’s probably young, that’s the first thing. I’m guessing between twenty and thirty-five. That’s partly because of his computer savvy, but not entirely. When an older guy murders a bunch of people, the ones he mostly goes after are family, co-workers, or both. Then he finishes by putting the gun to his own head. You look, you find a reason. A motive. Wife kicked him out, then got a restraining order. Boss downsized him, then humiliated him by having a couple of security guys stand by while he cleaned out his office. Loans overdue. Credit cards maxed out. House underwater. Car repo’d.”

“But what about serial killers? Wasn’t that guy in Kansas a middle-aged man?”

“Dennis Rader, yeah. And he was middle-aged when they bagged him, but only thirty or so when he started. Also, those were sex killings. Mr. Mercedes isn’t a sex-killer, and he’s not a serial killer in the traditional sense. He started with a bunch, but since then he’s settled on individuals—first your sister, now me. And he didn’t come after either of us with a gun or a stolen car, did he?”

“Not yet, anyway,” Janey says.