Mr. Mercedes (40 page)

“Going to the show tonight?” the checkout girl asks.

Brady gives her a big grin. “I sure am.”

On his way back to the motel, Brady starts to think about his car. To
worry
about his car. The Ralph Jones alias is all very fine, but the Subaru is registered to Brady Hartsfield. If the Det-Ret discovers his name and tells five-oh, that could be a problem. The motel is safe enough—they no longer ask for plate numbers, just a driver's license—but the car is not.

The Det-Ret's not close, Brady tells himself. He was just trying to freak you out.

Except maybe not. This particular Det solved a lot of cases before he was Ret, and some of those skills still seem to be there.

Instead of going directly back to the Motel 6, Brady swings into the airport, takes a ticket, and leaves the Subaru in long-term parking. He'll need it tonight, but for now it's fine where it is.

He glances at his watch. Ten to nine. Eleven hours until the showtime, he thinks. Maybe twelve hours until the darkness. Could be less; could be more. But not
much
more.

He puts on his new glasses and carries his purchases the half-mile back to the motel, whistling.

4

When Hodges opens his front door, the first thing Jerome keys on is the .38 in the shoulder rig. “You're not going to shoot anyone with that, are you?”

“I doubt it. Think of it as a good luck charm. It was my father's. And I have a permit to carry concealed, if that was on your mind.”

“What's on my mind,” Jerome says, “is whether or not it's loaded.”

“Of course it is. What did you think I was going to do if I did have to use it? Throw it?”

Jerome sighs and ruffles his cap of dark hair. “This is getting heavy.”

“Want out? If you do, you're taillights. Right this minute. I can still rent a car.”

“No, I'm good. It's you I'm wondering about. Those aren't bags under your eyes, they're suitcases.”

“I'll be okay. Today is it for me, anyway. If I can't track this guy down by nightfall, I'm going to see my old partner and tell him everything.”

“How much trouble will you be in?”

“Don't know and don't much care.”

“How much trouble will
I
be in?”

“None. If I couldn't guarantee that, you'd be in period one algebra right now.”

Jerome gives him a pitying look. “Algebra was four years ago. Tell me what I can do.”

Hodges does so. Jerome is willing but doubtful.

“Last month—you can't ever tell my folks this—a bunch of us tried to get into Punch and Judy, that new dance club downtown? The guy at the door didn't even look at my beautiful fake ID, just waved me out of the line and told me to go get a milkshake.”

Hodges says, “I'm not surprised. Your face is seventeen, but fortunately for me, your voice is at least twenty-five.” He slides Jerome a piece of paper with a phone number written on it. “Make the call.”

Jerome tells the Vigilant Guard Service receptionist who answers that he is Martin Lounsbury, a paralegal at the firm of Canton, Silver, Makepeace, and Jackson. He says he's currently working with George Schron, a junior partner assigned to tie up a few loose ends concerning the estate of the late Olivia Trelawney. One of those loose ends has to do with Mrs. Trelawney's computer. His job for the day is to locate the I-T specialist who worked on the machine, and it seems possible that one of the Vigilant employees in the Sugar Heights area may be able to help him locate the gentleman.

Hodges makes a thumb-and-forefinger circle to indicate Jerome is doing well, and passes him a note.

Jerome reads it and says, “One of Mrs. Trelawney's neighbors, Mrs. Helen Wilcox, mentioned a Rodney Peeples?” He listens, then nods. “
Radney
, I see. What an interesting name. Perhaps he could call me, if it's not too much trouble? My boss is a bit of a tyrant, and I'm really under the gun here.” He listens. “Yes? Oh, that's great. Thanks so much.” He gives the receptionist the numbers of his cell and Hodges's landline, then hangs up and wipes make-believe sweat from his forehead. “I'm glad that's over. Whoo!”

“You did fine,” Hodges assures him.

“What if she calls Canton, Silver, and Whoozis to check? And finds out they never heard of Martin Lounsbury?”

“Her job is to pass messages on, not investigate them.”

“What if the Peeples guy checks?”

Hodges doesn't think he will. He thinks the name Helen Wilcox will stop him. When he talked to Peeples that day outside the Sugar Heights mansion, Hodges caught a strong vibe that Peeples's relationship with Helen Wilcox was more than just platonic. Maybe a little more, maybe a lot. He thinks Peeples will give Martin Lounsbury what he wants so he'll go away.

“What do we do now?” Jerome asks.

What they do is something Hodges spent at least half his career doing. “Wait.”

“How long?”

“Until Peeples or some other security grunt calls.” Because right now Vigilant Guard Service is looking like his best lead. If it doesn't pan out, they'll have to go out to Sugar Heights and start interviewing neighbors. Not a prospect he relishes, given his current news-cycle celebrity.

In the meantime, he finds himself thinking again of Mr. Bowfinger, and Mrs. Melbourne, the slightly crackers woman who lives across the street from him. With her talk about mysterious black SUVs and her interest in flying saucers, Mrs. Melbourne could have been a quirky supporting character in an old Alfred Hitchcock movie.

She thinks they walk among us
, Bowfinger had said, giving his eyebrows a satirical wiggle, and why in God's name should that keep bouncing around in Hodges's head?

It's ten of ten when Jerome's cell rings. The little snatch of AC/DC's “Hells Bells” makes them both jump. Jerome grabs it.

“It says CALL BLOCKED. What should I do, Bill?”

“Take it. It's him. And remember who you are.”

Jerome opens the line and says, “Hello, this is Martin Louns­bury.” Listens. “Oh, hello, Mr. Peeples. Thanks so much for getting back to me.”

Hodges scribbles a fresh note and pushes it across the table. Jerome scans it quickly.

“Uh-huh . . . yes . . . Mrs. Wilcox speaks very highly of you. Very highly, indeed. But my job has to do with the late Mrs. Trelawney. We can't finish clearing her estate until we can inventory her computer, and . . . yes, I know it's been over six months. Terrible how slowly these things move, isn't it? We had a client last year who actually had to apply for food stamps, even though he had a seventy-thousand-dollar bequest pending.”

Don't over-butter the muffin, Jerome, Hodges thinks. His heart is hammering in his chest.

“No, it's nothing like that. I just need the name of the fellow who worked on it for her. The rest is up to my boss.” Jerome listens, eyebrows pulling together. “You can't? Oh, that's a sha—”

But Peeples is talking again. The sweat on Jerome's brow is no longer imaginary. He reaches across the table, grabs Hodges's pen, and begins to scribble. While he writes, he keeps up a steady stream of
uh-huh
s and
okay
s and
I see
s. Finally:

“Hey, that's great. Totally great. I'm sure Mr. Schron can roll with this. You've been a big help, Mr. Peeples. So I'll just . . .” He listens some more. “Yes, it's a terrible thing. I believe Mr. Schron is dealing with some . . . uh . . . some aspects of that even as we speak, but I really don't know anythi . . . you did? Wow! Mr. Peeples, you've been great. Yes, I'll mention that. I certainly will. Thanks, Mr. Peeples.”

He breaks the connection and puts the heels of his hands to his temples, as if to quell a headache.

“Man, that was
intense
. He wanted to talk about what happened yesterday. And to say that I should tell Janey's relatives that Vigilant stands ready to help in any way they can.”

“That's great, I'm sure he'll get an attaboy in his file, but—”

“He also said he talked to the guy whose car got blown up. He saw your picture on the news this morning.”

Hodges isn't surprised and at this minute doesn't care. “Did you get a name? Tell me you got a name.”

“Not of the I-T guy, but I did get the name of the company he works for. It's called Cyber Patrol. Peeples says they drive around in green VW Beetles. He says they're in Sugar Heights all the time, and you can't miss them. He's seen a woman and a man driving them, both probably in their twenties. He called the woman ‘kinda dykey.'”

Hodges has never even considered the idea that Mr. Mercedes might actually be Ms. Mercedes. He supposes it's technically possible, and it would make a neat solution for an Agatha Christie novel, but this is real life.

“Did he say what the guy looked like?”

Jerome shakes his head.

“Come on in my study. You can drive the computer while I co-pilot.”

In less than a minute they are looking at a rank of three green VW Beetles with CYBER PATROL printed on the sides. It's not an independent company, but part of a chain called Discount Electronix with one big-box store in the city. It's located in the Birch Hill Mall.

“Man, I've shopped there,” Jerome says. “I've shopped there
lots
of times. Bought video games, computer components, a bunch of chop-sockey DVDs on sale.”

Below the photo of the Beetles is a line reading MEET THE EXPERTS. Hodges reaches over Jerome's shoulder and clicks on it. Three photos appear. One is of a narrow-faced girl with dirty-blond hair. Number two is a chubby guy wearing John Lennon specs and looking serious. Number three is a generically handsome fellow with neatly combed brown hair and a bland say-cheese smile. The names beneath are FREDDI LINKLATTER, ANTHONY FROBISHER, and BRADY HARTSFIELD.

“What now?” Jerome asks.

“Now we take a ride. I just have to grab something first.”

Hodges goes into his bedroom and punches the combo of the small safe in the closet. Inside, along with a couple of insurance policies and a few other financial papers, is a rubber-banded stack of laminated cards like the one he currently carries in his wallet. City cops are issued new IDs every two years, and each time he got a new one, he stored the old one in here. The crucial difference is that none of the old ones have RETIRED stamped across them in red. He takes out the one that expired in December of 2008, removes his final ID from his wallet, and replaces it with the one from his safe. Of course flashing it is another crime—State Law 190.25, impersonating a police officer, a Class E felony punishable by a $25,000 fine, five years in jail, or both—but he's far beyond worrying about such things.

He tucks his wallet away in his back pocket, starts to close the safe, then re-thinks. There's something else in there he might want: a small flat leather case that looks like the sort of thing a frequent flier might keep his passport in. This was also his father's.

Hodges slips it into his pocket with the Happy Slapper.

5

After cleansing the stubble on his skull and donning his new plain glass specs, Brady strolls down to the Motel 6 office and pays for another night. Then he returns to his room and unfolds the wheelchair he bought on Wednesday. It was pricey, but what the hell. Money is no longer an issue for him.

He puts the explosives-laden ASS PARKING cushion on the seat of the chair, then slits the lining of the pocket on the back and inserts several more blocks of his homemade plastic explosive. Each block has been fitted with a lead azide blasting plug. He gathers the connecting wires together with a metal clip. Their ends are stripped down to the bare copper, and this afternoon he'll braid them into a single master wire.

The actual detonator will be Thing Two.

One by one, he tapes Baggies filled with ball bearings beneath the wheelchair's seat, using crisscrossings of filament tape to hold them in place. When he's done, he sits on the end of the bed, looking solemnly at his handiwork. He really has no idea if he'll be able to get this rolling bomb into the Mingo Auditorium . . . but he had no idea if he'd be able to escape from City Center after the deed was done, either. That worked out; maybe this will, too. After all, this time he won't have to escape, and that's half the battle. Even if they get wise and try to grab him, the hallway will be crammed with concertgoers, and his score will be a lot higher than eight.

Out with a bang, Brady thinks. Out with a bang, and fuck you, Detective Hodges. Fuck you very much.

He lies down on the bed and thinks about masturbating. Probably he should while he's still got a prick to masturbate with. But before he can even unsnap his Levi's, he's fallen asleep.

On the night table beside him stands a framed picture. Frankie smiles from it, holding Sammy the Fire Truck in his lap.

6

It's nearly eleven
A.M.
when Hodges and Jerome arrive at Birch Hill Mall. There's plenty of parking, and Jerome pulls his Wrangler into a spot directly in front of Discount Electronix, where all the windows are sporting big SALE signs. A teenage girl is sitting on the curb in front of the store, knees together and feet apart, bent studiously over an iPad. A cigarette smolders between the fingers of her left hand. It's only as they approach that Hodges sees there's gray in the teenager's hair. His heart sinks.

“Holly?” Jerome says, at the same time Hodges says, “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“I was pretty sure you'd figure it out,” she says, butting her butt and standing up, “but I was starting to worry. I was going to call you if you weren't here by eleven-thirty. I'm taking my Lexapro, Mr. Hodges.”

“So you said, and I'm glad to hear it. Now answer my question and tell me what you're doing here.”

Her lips tremble, and although she managed eye contact to begin with, her gaze now sinks to her loafers. Hodges isn't surprised he took her for a teenager at first, because in many ways she still is one, her growth stunted by insecurities and by the strain of keeping her balance on the emotional highwire she's been walking all her life.