KISSES ON THE MIDWAY
1
Hodges is up at six A.M. on Thursday morning and makes himself a big breakfast: two eggs, four slices of bacon, four slices of toast. He doesn’t want it, but he forces himself to eat every bite, telling himself it’s body gasoline. He might get a chance to eat again today, but he might not. Both in the shower and as he chews his way resolutely through his big breakfast (no one to watch his weight for now), a thought keeps recurring to him, the same one he went to sleep with the night before. It’s like a haunting.
Just how much explosive?
This leads to other unpleasant considerations. Like how the guy—the perk—means to use it. And when.
He comes to a decision: today is the last day. He wants to track Mr. Mercedes down himself, and confront him. Kill him? No, not that (probably not that), but beating the shit out of him would be excellent. For Olivia. For Janey. For Janice and Patricia Cray. For all the other people Mr. Mercedes killed and maimed at City Center the year before. People so desperate for jobs they got up in the middle of the night and stood waiting in a dank fog for the doors to open. Lost lives. Lost hopes. Lost souls.
So yes, he wants the sonofabitch. But if he can’t nail him today, he’ll turn the whole thing over to Pete Huntley and Izzy Jaynes and take the consequences . . . which, he knows, may well lead to some jail time. It doesn’t matter. He’s got plenty on his conscience already, but he guesses it can bear a little more weight. Not another mass killing, though. That would destroy what little of him there is left.
He decides to give himself until eight o’clock tonight; that’s the line in the sand. He can do as much in those thirteen hours as Pete and Izzy. Probably more, because he’s not constrained by routine or procedure. Today he will carry his father’s M&P .38. And the Happy Slapper—that, too.
The Slapper goes in the right front pocket of his sportcoat, the revolver under his left arm. In his study, he grabs his Mr. Mercedes file—it’s quite fat now—and takes it back to the kitchen. While he reads through it again, he uses the remote to fire up the TV on the counter and tunes in Morning at Seven on Channel Six. He’s almost relieved to see that a crane has toppled over down by the lakeshore, half-sinking a barge filled with chemicals. He doesn’t want the lake any more polluted than it already is (assuming that’s possible), but the spill has pushed the car-bomb story back to second place. That’s the good news. The bad is that he’s identified as the detective, now retired, who was the lead investigator of the City Center Massacre task force, and the woman killed in the car-bombing is identified as Olivia Trelawney’s sister. There’s a still photo of him and Janey standing outside the Soames Funeral Home, taken by God knows who.
“Police are not saying if there’s a connection to last year’s mass killing at City Center,” the newscaster says gravely, “but it’s worth noting that the perpetrator of that crime has as yet not been caught. In other crime news, Donald Davis is expected to be arraigned . . .”
Hodges no longer gives Shit One about Donald Davis. He kills the TV and returns to the notes on his yellow legal pad. He’s still going through them when his phone rings—not the cell (although today he’s carrying it), but the one on the wall. It’s Pete Huntley.
“You’re up with the birdies,” Pete says.
“Good detective work. How can I help you?”
“We had an interesting interview yesterday with Henry Sirois and Charlotte Gibney. You know, Janelle Patterson’s aunt and uncle?”
Hodges waits for it.
“The aunt was especially fascinating. She thinks Izzy was right, and you and Patterson were a lot more than just acquaintances. She thinks you were very good friends.”
“Say what you mean, Pete.”
“Making the beast with two backs. Laying some pipe. Slicing the cake. Hiding the salami. Doing the horizontal b—”
“I think I get it. Let me tell you something about Aunt Charlotte, okay? If she saw a photo of Justin Bieber talking to Queen Elizabeth, she’d tell you the Beeb was tapping her. ‘Just look at their eyes,’ she’d say.”
“So you weren’t.”
“No.”
“I’ll take that on a try-out basis—mostly for old times’ sake—but I still want to know what you’re hiding. Because this stinks.”
“Read my lips: not . . . hiding . . . anything.”
Silence from the other end. Pete is waiting for Hodges to grow uncomfortable and break it, for the moment forgetting who taught him that trick.
At last he gives up. “I think you’re digging yourself a hole, Billy. My advice is to drop the shovel before you’re in too deep to climb out.”
“Thanks, partner. Always good to get life-lessons at quarter past seven in the morning.”
“I want to interview you again this afternoon. And this time I may have to read you the words.”
The Miranda warning is what he means.
“Happy to make that work. Call me on my cell.”
“Really? Since you retired, you never carry it.”
“I’m carrying it today.” Yes indeed. Because for the next twelve or fourteen hours, he’s totally unretired.
He ends the call and goes back to his notes, wetting the tip of his index finger each time he turns a page. He circles a name: Radney Peeples. The Vigilant Guard Service guy he talked to out in Sugar Heights. If Peeples is even halfway doing his job, he may hold the key to Mr. Mercedes. But there’s no chance he won’t remember Hodges, not after Hodges first braced him for his company ID and then questioned him. And he’ll know that today Hodges is big news. There’s time to think about how to solve the problem; Hodges doesn’t want to call Vigilant until regular business hours. Because the call has to look like ordinary routine.
The next call he receives—on his cell this time—is from Aunt Charlotte. Hodges isn’t surprised to hear from her, but that doesn’t mean he’s pleased.
“I don’t know what to do!” she cries. “You have to help me, Mr. Hodges!”
“Don’t know what to do about what?”
“The body! Janelle’s body! I don’t even know where it is!”
Hodges gets a beep and checks the incoming number.
“Mrs. Gibney, I have another call and I have to take it.”
“I don’t see why you can’t—”
“Janey’s not going anywhere, so just stand by. I’ll call you back.”
He cuts her off in the middle of a protesting squawk and goes to Jerome.
“I thought you might need a chauffeur today,” Jerome says. “Considering your current situation.”
For a moment Hodges doesn’t know what the kid is talking about, then remembers that his Toyota has been reduced to charred fragments. What remains of it is now in the custody of the PD’s Forensics Department, where later today men in white coats will be going over it to determine what kind of explosive was used to blow it up. He got home last night in a taxi. He will need a ride. And, he realizes, Jerome may be useful in another way.
“That would be good,” he says, “but what about school?”
“I’m carrying a 3.9 average,” Jerome says patiently. “I’m also working for Citizens United and team-teaching a computer class for disadvantaged kids. I can afford to skip a day. And I already cleared it with my mom and dad. They just asked me to ask you if anyone else was going to try to blow you up.”
“Actually, that’s not out of the question.”
“Hang on a second.” Faintly, Hodges hears Jerome calling: “He says no one will.”
In spite of everything, Hodges has to smile.
“I’ll be there double-quick,” Jerome says.
“Don’t break any speed laws. Nine o’clock will be fine. Use the time to practice your thespian skills.”
“Really? What role am I thesping?”
“Law office paralegal,” Hodges says. “And thanks, Jerome.”
He breaks the connection, goes into his study, boots up his computer, and searches for a local lawyer named Schron. It’s an unusual name and he finds it with no trouble. He notes down the firm and Schron’s first name, which happens to be George. Then he returns to the kitchen and calls Aunt Charlotte.
“Hodges,” he says. “Back atcha.”
“I don’t appreciate being hung up on, Mr. Hodges.”
“No more than I appreciate you telling my old partner that I was f*cking your niece.”
He hears a shocked gasp, followed by silence. He almost hopes she’ll hang up. When she doesn’t, he tells her what she needs to know.
“Janey’s remains will be at the Huron County Morgue. You won’t be able to take possession today. Probably not tomorrow, either. There’ll have to be an autopsy, which is absurd given the cause of death, but it’s protocol.”
“You don’t understand! I have plane reservations!”
Hodges looks out his kitchen window and counts slowly to five.
“Mr. Hodges? Are you still there?”
“As I see it, you have two choices, Mrs. Gibney. One is to stay here and do the right thing. The other is to use your reservation, fly home, and let the city do it.”
Aunt Charlotte begins to snivel. “I saw the way you were looking at her, and the way she was looking at you. All I did was answer the woman cop’s questions.”
“And with great alacrity, I have no doubt.”
“With what?”
He sighs. “Let’s drop it. I suggest you and your brother visit the County Morgue in person. Don’t call ahead, let them see your faces. Talk to Dr. Galworthy. If Galworthy’s not there, talk to Dr. Patel. If you ask them in person to expedite matters—and if you can manage to be nice about it—they’ll give you as much help as they can. Use my name. I go back to the early nineties with both of them.”
“We’d have to leave Holly again,” Aunt Charlotte says. “She’s locked herself in her room. She’s clicking away on her laptop and won’t come out.”
Hodges discovers he’s pulling his hair and makes himself stop. “How old is your daughter?”
A long pause. “Forty-five.”
“Then you can probably get away with not hiring a sitter.” He tries to suppress what comes next, and can’t quite manage it. “Think of the money you’ll save.”
“I can hardly expect you to understand Holly’s situation, Mr. Hodges. As well as being mentally unstable, my daughter is very sensitive.”
Hodges thinks: That must make you especially difficult for her. This time he manages not to say it.
“Mr. Hodges?”
“Still here.”
“You don’t happen to know if Janelle left a will, do you?”
He hangs up.
2
Brady spends a long time in the motel shower with the lights off. He likes the womblike warmth and the steady drumming sound. He also likes the darkness, and it’s good that he does because soon he’ll have all he ever wanted. He’d like to believe there’s going to be a tender mother-and-child reunion —perhaps even one of the mother-and-lover type—but in his heart he doesn’t. He can pretend, but . . . no.
Just darkness.
He’s not worried about God, or about spending eternity being slow-roasted for his crimes. There’s no heaven and no hell. Anyone with half a brain knows those things don’t exist. How cruel would a supreme being have to be to make a world as f*cked-up as this one? Even if the vengeful God of the televangelists and child-molesting blackrobes did exist, how could that thunderbolt-thrower possibly blame Brady for the things he’s done? Did Brady Hartsfield grab his father’s hand and wrap it around the live power line that electrocuted him? No. Did he shove that apple slice down Frankie’s throat? No. Was he the one who talked on and on about how the money was going to run out and they’d end up living in a homeless shelter? No. Did he cook up a poisoned hamburger and say, Eat this, Ma, it’s delicious?
Can he be blamed for striking out at the world that has made him what he is?
Brady thinks not.
He muses on the terrorists who brought down the World Trade Center (he muses on them often). Those clowns actually thought they were going to paradise, where they’d live in a kind of eternal luxury hotel being serviced by gorgeous young virgins. Pretty funny, and the best part? The joke was on them . . . not that they knew it. What they got was a momentary view of all those windows and a final flash of light. After that, they and their thousands of victims were just gone. Poof. Seeya later, alligator. Off you go, killers and killed alike, off you go into the universal null set that surrounds one lonely blue planet and all its mindlessly bustling denizens. Every religion lies. Every moral precept is a delusion. Even the stars are a mirage. The truth is darkness, and the only thing that matters is making a statement before one enters it. Cutting the skin of the world and leaving a scar. That’s all history is, after all: scar tissue.
3
Brady dresses and drives to a twenty-four-hour drugstore near the airport. He’s seen in the bathroom mirror that his mother’s electric razor left a lot to be desired; his skull needs more maintenance. He gets disposable razors and shaving cream. He grabs more batteries, because you can never have enough. He also picks up a pair of clear glass spectacles from a spinner rack. He chooses hornrims because they give him a studently look. Or so it seems to him.
On his way to the checkout, he stops at a cardboard stand-up display featuring the four clean-cut boys in ’Round Here. The copy reads GET YOUR GEAR ON FOR THE BIG SHOW JUNE 3RD! Only someone has crossed out JUNE 3RD and written 2NITE below it.
Although Brady usually takes an M tee-shirt—he’s always been slim—he picks out an XL and adds it to the rest of his swag. No need to stand in line; this early he’s the only customer.
“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-huhs and okays and I sees. 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.