Mr. Mercedes (32 page)

MOTHER OF OLIVIA TRELAWNEY DIES, the headline reads. Below it:
Protested Daughter's “Unfair Treatment,” Claimed Press Coverage “Destroyed Her Life.”

What follows is a two-paragraph squib, really just an excuse to get last year's tragedy (If you want to use that word, Brady thinks—rather snidely) back on the front page of a newspaper that's slowly being strangled to death by the Internet. Readers are referred to the obituary on page twenty-six, and Brady, now sitting at the kitchen table, turns there double-quick. The cloud of dazed gloom that has surrounded him ever since his mother's death has been swept away in an instant. His mind is ticking over rapidly, ideas coming together, flying apart, then coming together again like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. He's familiar with this process and knows it will continue until they connect with a click of finality and a clear picture appears.

ELIZABETH SIROIS WHARTON, 87, passed away peacefully on May 29, 2010, at Warsaw County Memorial Hospital. She was born on January 19, 1923, the son of Marcel and Catherine Sirois. She is survived by her brother, Henry Sirois, her sister, Charlotte Gibney, her niece, Holly Gibney, and her daughter, Janelle Patterson. Elizabeth was predeceased by her husband, Alvin Wharton, and her beloved daughter, Olivia. Private visitation will be held from 10 AM to 1 PM at Soames Funeral Home on Tuesday, June 1, followed by a 10 AM memorial service at Soames Funeral Home on Wednesday, June 2. After the service, a reception for close friends and family members will take place at 729 Lilac Drive, in Sugar Heights. The family requests no flowers, but suggests contributions to either the American Red Cross or the Salvation Army, Mrs. Wharton's favorite charities.

Brady reads all this carefully, with several related questions in mind. Will the fat ex-cop be at the visitation? At the Wednesday memorial service? At the reception? Brady's betting on all three. Looking for the perk. Looking for
him
. Because that's what cops do.

He remembers the last message he sent to Hodges, the good old Det-Ret. Now he smiles and says it out loud: “You won't see me coming.”

“Make sure he doesn't,” Deborah Ann Hartsfield says.

He knows she's not really there, but he can almost see her sitting across the table from him, wearing a black pencil-skirt and the blue blouse he especially likes, the one that's so filmy you can see the ghost of her underwear through it.

“Because he'll be looking for you.”

“I know,” Brady says. “Don't worry.”

“Of course I'll worry,” she says. “I have to. You're my honeyboy.”

He goes back downstairs and gets into his sleeping bag. The leaky air mattress wheezes. The last thing he does before killing the lights via voice-command is to set his iPhone alarm for six-thirty. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.

Except for the tiny red lights marking his sleeping computer equipment, the basement control room is completely dark. From beneath the stairs, his mother speaks.

“I'm waiting for you, honeyboy, but don't make me wait too long.”

“I'll be there soon, Mom.” Smiling, Brady closes his eyes. Two minutes later, he's snoring.

7

Janey doesn't come out of the bedroom until just after eight the following morning. She's wearing her pantsuit from the night before. Hodges, still in his boxers, is on the phone. He waves one finger to her, a gesture that says both
good morning
and
give me a minute
.

“It's not a big deal,” he's saying, “just one of those things that nibble at you. If you could check, I'd really appreciate it.” He listens. “Nah, I don't want to bother Pete with it, and don't you, either. He's got all he can handle with the Donald Davis case.”

He listens some more. Janey perches on the arm of the sofa, points at her watch, and mouths,
The viewing!
Hodges nods.

“That's right,” he says into the phone. “Let's say between the summer of 2007 and the spring of 2009. In the Lake Avenue area downtown, where all those new ritzy condos are.” He winks at Janey. “Thanks, Marlo, you're a doll. And I promise I'm not going to turn into an uncle, okay?” Listens, nodding. “Okay. Yeah. I have to run, but give my best to Phil and the kids. We'll get together soon. Lunch. Of
course
on me. Right. Bye.”

He hangs up.

“You need to get dressed in a hurry,” she says, “then take me back to the apartment so I can put on my damn makeup before we go over to the funeral home. It might also be fun to change my underwear. How fast can you hop into your suit?”

“Fast. And you don't really need the makeup.”

She rolls her eyes. “Tell that to Aunt Charlotte. She's totally on crow's-feet patrol. Now get going, and bring a razor. You can shave at my place.” She re-checks her watch. “I haven't slept this late in five years.”

He heads for the bedroom to get dressed. She catches him at the door, turns him toward her, puts her palms on his cheeks, and kisses his mouth. “Good sex is the best sleeping pill. I guess I forgot that.”

He lifts her high off her feet in a hug. He doesn't know how long this will last, but while it does, he means to ride it like a pony.

“And wear your hat,” she says, looking down into his face and smiling. “I did right when I bought it. That hat is
you
.”

8

They're too happy with each other and too intent on getting to the funeral parlor ahead of the relatives from hell to BOLO, but even on red alert they almost certainly wouldn't have seen anything that rang warning bells. There are already more than two dozen cars parked in the little strip mall at the intersection of Harper Road and Hanover Street, and Brady Hartsfield's mud-colored Subaru is the most unobtrusive of the lot. He has picked his spot carefully so that the fat ex-cop's street is squarely in the middle of his rearview. If Hodges is going to the old lady's viewing, he'll come down the hill and make a left on Hanover.

And here he comes, at just past eight-thirty—quite a bit earlier than Brady expected, since the viewing's not until ten and the funeral parlor's only twenty minutes or so away. As the car makes its left turn, Brady is further surprised to see the fat ex-cop is not alone. His passenger is a woman, and although Brady only gets a quick glimpse, it's enough for him to ID Olivia Trelawney's sister. She's got the visor down so she can look into the mirror as she brushes her hair. The obvious deduction is that she spent the night in the fat ex-cop's bachelor bungalow.

Brady is thunderstruck. Why in God's name would she do that? Hodges is
old
, he's
fat
, he's
ugly
. She can't really be having sex with him, can she? The idea is beyond belief. Then he thinks of how his mother relieved his worst headaches, and realizes—reluctantly—that when it comes to sex, no pairing is beyond belief. But the idea of Hodges doing it with Olivia Trelawney's sister is infuriating (not in the least because you could say it was Brady himself who brought them together). Hodges is supposed to be sitting in front of his television and contemplating suicide. He has no right to enjoy a jar of Vaseline and his own right hand, let alone a good-looking blonde.

Brady thinks, She probably took the bed while he slept on the sofa.

This idea at least approaches logic, and makes him feel better. He supposes Hodges could have sex with a good-looking blonde if he really wanted to . . . but he'd have to pay for it. The whore would probably want a weight surcharge, too, he thinks, and laughs as he starts his car.

Before pulling out, he opens the glove compartment, takes out Thing Two, and places it on the passenger seat. He hasn't used it since last year, but he's going to use it today. Probably not at the funeral parlor, though, because he doubts they will be going there right away. It's too early. Brady thinks they'll be stopping at the Lake Avenue condo first, and it's not necessary that he beat them there, only that he be there when they come back out. He knows just how he's going to do it.

It will be like old times.

At a stoplight downtown, he calls Tones Frobisher at Discount Electronix and tells him he won't be in today. Probably not all week. Pinching his nostrils shut with his knuckles to give his voice a nasal honk, he informs Tones that he has the flu. He thinks of the 'Round Here concert at the MAC on Thursday night, and the suicide vest, and imagines adding
Next week I won't have the flu, I'll just be dead
. He breaks the connection, drops his phone onto the seat next to Thing Two, and begins laughing. He sees a woman in the next lane, all gussied up for work, staring at him. Brady, now laughing so hard tears are streaming down his cheeks and snot is running out of his nose, gives her the finger.

9

“You were talking to your friend in the Records Department?” Janey asks.

“Marlo Everett, yeah. She's always in early. Pete Huntley, my old partner, used to swear that was because she never left.”

“What fairy tale did you feed her, pray tell?”

“That some of my neighbors have mentioned a guy trying cars to see if they were unlocked. I said I seemed to recall a spate of car burglaries downtown a couple of years back, the doer never apprehended.”

“Uh-huh, and that thing you said about not turning into an uncle, what was that about?”

“Uncles are retired cops who can't let go of the job. They call in wanting Marlo to run the plate numbers of cars that strike them as hinky for one reason or another. Or maybe they brace some guy who looks wrong, go all cop-faced on his ass and ask for ID. Then they call in and have Marlo run the name for wants and warrants.”

“Does she mind?”

“Oh, she bitches about it for form's sake, but I don't really think so. An old geezer named Kenny Shays called in a six-five a few years ago—that's suspicious behavior, a new code since 9/11. The guy he pegged wasn't a terrorist, just a fugitive who killed his whole family in Kansas back in 1987.”

“Wow. Did he get a medal?”

“Nothing but an attaboy, which was all he wanted. He died six months or so later.” Ate his gun is what Kenny Shays did, pulling the trigger before the lung cancer could get traction.

Hodges's cell phone rings. It's muffled, because he's once more left it in the glove compartment. Janey fishes it out and hands it over with a slightly ironic smile.

“Hey, Marlo, that was quick. What did you find out? Anything?” He listens, nodding along with whatever he's hearing and saying uh-huh and never missing a beat in the heavy flow of morning traffic. He thanks her and hangs up, but when he attempts to hand the Nokia back to Janey, she shakes her head.

“Put it in your pocket. Someone else might call you. I know it's a strange concept, but try to get your head around it. What did you find out?”

“Starting in September of 2007, there were over a dozen car break-ins downtown. Marlo says there could have been even more, because people who don't lose anything of value have a tendency not to report car burglaries. Some don't even realize it happened. The last report was logged in March of 2009, less than three weeks before the City Center Massacre. It was our guy, Janey. I'm sure of it. We're crossing his backtrail now, and that means we're getting closer.”

“Good.”

“I think we're going to find him. If we do, your lawyer—Schron—goes downtown to fill in Pete Huntley. He does the rest. We still see eye to eye on that, don't we?”

“Yes. But until then, he's
ours
. We still see eye to eye on
that
, right?”

“Absolutely.”

He's cruising down Lake Avenue now, and there's a spot right in front of the late Mrs. Wharton's building. When your luck is running, it's running. Hodges backs in, wondering how many times Olivia Trelawney used this same spot.

Janey looks anxiously at her watch as Hodges feeds the meter.

“Relax,” he says. “We've got plenty of time.”

As she heads for the door, Hodges pushes the LOCK button on his key-fob. He doesn't think about it, Mr. Mercedes is what he's thinking about, but habit is habit. He pockets his keys and hurries to catch up with Janey so he can hold the door for her.

He thinks, I'm turning into a sap.

Then he thinks, So what?

10

Five minutes later, a mud-colored Subaru cruises down Lake Avenue. It slows almost to a stop when it comes abreast of Hodges's Toyota, then Brady puts on his left-turn blinker and pulls into the parking garage across the street.

There are plenty of vacant spots on the first and second levels, but they're all on the inside and no use to him. He finds what he wants on the nearly deserted third level: a spot on the east side of the garage, directly overlooking Lake Avenue. He parks, walks to the concrete bumper, and peers across the street and down at Hodges's Toyota. He puts the distance at about sixty yards. With nothing in the way to block the signal, that's a piece of cake for Thing Two.

With time to kill, Brady gets back into his car, fires up his iPad, and investigates the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex website. Mingo Auditorium is the biggest part of the facility. That figures, Brady thinks, because it's probably the only part of the MAC that makes money. The city's symphony orchestra plays there in the winter, plus there are ballets and lectures and arty-farty shit like that, but from June to August the Mingo is almost exclusively dedicated to pop music. According to the website, 'Round Here will be followed by an all-star Summer Cavalcade of Song including the Eagles, Sting, John Mellencamp, Alan Jackson, Paul Simon, and Bruce Springsteen. Sounds good, but Brady thinks the people who bought All-Concert Passes are going to be disappointed. There's only going to be one show in the Mingo this summer, a short one ending with a punk ditty called “Die, You Useless Motherfuckers.”