Mr. Mercedes: A Novel (7 page)

“Still can’t persuade her to charge him?”

“No corpus delicious, no charge. The cops in Modesto knew Scott Peterson was guilty as sin and still didn’t charge him until they recovered the bodies of his wife and kid. You know that.”

Hodges does. He and Pete discussed Scott and Laci Peterson a lot during their investigation of Sheila Davis’s disappearance.

“But guess what? Blood’s turned up in their summer cabin by the lake.” Pete pauses for effect, then drops the other shoe. “It’s hers.”

Hodges leans forward, his food temporarily forgotten. “When was this?”

“Last month.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m telling you now. Because you’re asking now. The search out there is ongoing. The Victor County cops are in charge.”

“Did anyone see him in the area prior to Sheila’s disappearance?”

“Oh yeah. Two kids. Davis claimed he was mushroom hunting. Fucking Euell Gibbons, you know? When they find the body—if they find it—ole Donnie Davis can quit waiting for the seven years to be up so he can petition to have her declared dead and collect the insurance.” Pete smiles widely. “Think of the time he’ll save.”

“What about the Park Rapist?”

“It’s really just a matter of time. We know he’s white, we know he’s in his teens or twenties, and we know he just can’t get enough of that well-maintained matronly pussy.”

“You’re putting out decoys, right? Because he likes the warm weather.”

“We are, and we’ll get him.”

“It would be nice if you got him before he rapes another fiftysomething on her way home from work.”

“We’re doing our best.” Pete looks slightly annoyed, and when their waiter appears to ask if everything’s all right, Pete waves the guy away.

“I know,” Hodges says. Soothingly. “Pawnshop guy?”

Pete breaks into a broad grin. “Young Aaron Jefferson.”

“Huh?”

“That’s his actual name, although when he played football for City High, he called himself YA. You know, like YA Tittle. Although his girlfriend—also the mother of his three-year-old—tells us he calls the guy YA Titties. When I asked her if he was joking or serious, she said she didn’t have any idea.”

Here is another story Hodges knows, another so old it could have come from the Bible . . . and there’s probably a version of it in there someplace. “Let me guess. He racks up a dozen jobs—”

“It’s fourteen now. Waving that sawed-off around like Omar on
The Wire
.”

“—and keeps getting away with it because he has the luck of the devil. Then he cheats on baby mama. She gets pissed and rats him out.”

Pete points a finger-gun at his old partner. “Hole in one. And the next time Young Aaron walks into a pawnshop or a check-cashing emporium with his bellygun, we’ll know ahead of time, and it’s angel, angel, down we go.”

“Why wait?”

“DA again,” Pete says. “You bring Diana the Dope a steak, she says cook it for me, and if it isn’t medium-rare, I’ll send it back.”

“But you’ve got him.”

“I’ll bet you a new set of whitewalls that YA Titties is in County by the Fourth of July and in State by Christmas. Davis and the Park Rapist may take a little longer, but we’ll get them. You want dessert?”

“No. Yes.” To the waiter he says, “You still have that rum cake? The dark chocolate one?”

The waiter looks insulted. “Yes, sir. Always.”

“I’ll have a piece of that. And coffee. Pete?”

“I’ll settle for the last of the beer.” So saying, he pours it out of the pitcher. “You sure about that cake, Billy? You look like you’ve put on a few pounds since I saw you last.”

It’s true. Hodges eats heartily in retirement, but only for the last couple of days has food tasted good to him. “I’m thinking about Weight Watchers.”

Pete nods. “Yeah? I’m thinking about the priesthood.”

“Fuck you. What about the Mercedes Killer?”

“We’re still canvassing the Trelawney neighborhood—in fact, that’s where Isabelle is right now—but I’d be shocked if she or anyone else comes up with a live lead. Izzy’s not knocking on any doors that haven’t been knocked on half a dozen times before. The guy stole Trelawney’s luxury sled, drove out of the fog, did his thing, drove back into the fog, dumped it, and . . . nothing. Never mind Monsewer YA Titties, it’s the Mercedes guy who
really
had the luck of the devil. If he’d tried that stunt even an hour later, there would have been cops there. For crowd control.”

“I know.”

“Do you think
he
knew, Billy?”

Hodges tilts a hand back and forth to indicate it’s hard to say. Maybe, if he and Mr. Mercedes should strike up a conversation on that Blue Umbrella website, he’ll ask.

“The murdering prick could have lost control when he started hitting people and crashed, but he didn’t. German engineering, best in the world, that’s what Isabelle says. Someone could have jumped on the hood and blocked his vision, but no one did. One of the posts holding up the DO NOT CROSS tape could have bounced under the car and gotten hung up there, but that didn’t happen, either. And someone could have seen him when he parked behind that warehouse and got out with his mask off, but no one did.”

“It was five-twenty in the morning,” Hodges points out, “and even at noon that area would have been almost as deserted.”

“Because of the recession,” Pete Huntley says moodily. “Yeah, yeah. Probably half the people who used to work in those warehouses were at City Center, waiting for the frigging job fair to start. Have some irony, it’s good for your blood.”

“So you’ve got nothing.”

“Dead in the water.”

Hodges’s cake comes. It smells good and tastes better.

When the waiter’s gone, Pete leans across the table. “My nightmare is that he’ll do it again. That another fog will come rolling in off the lake and he’ll do it again.”

He says he won’t, Hodges thinks, conveying another forkload of the delicious cake into his mouth. He says he has
absolutely no urge
. He says
once was enough
.

“That or something else,” Hodges says.

“I got into a big fight with my daughter back in March,” Pete says. “
Monster
fight. I didn’t see her once in April. She skipped all her weekends.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. She wanted to go see a cheerleading competition. Bring the Funk, I think it was called. Practically every school in the state was in it. You remember how crazy Candy always was about cheerleaders?”

“Yeah,” Hodges says. He doesn’t.

“Had a little pleated skirt when she was four or six or something, we couldn’t get her out of it. Two of the moms said they’d take the girls. And I told Candy no. You know why?”

Sure he does.

“Because the competition was at City Center, that’s why. In my mind’s eye I could see about a thousand tweenyboppers and their moms milling around outside, waiting for the doors to open, dusk instead of dawn, but you know the fog comes in off the lake then, too. I could see that cocksucker running at them in another stolen Mercedes—or maybe a fucking Hummer this time—and the kids and the mommies just standing there, staring like deer in the headlights. So I said no. You should have heard her scream at me, Billy, but I still said no. She wouldn’t talk to me for a month, and she still wouldn’t be talking to me if Maureen hadn’t taken her. I told Mo absolutely no way, don’t you dare, and she said, That’s why I divorced you, Pete, because I got tired of listening to
no way
and
don’t you dare
. And of course nothing happened.”

He drinks the rest of the beer, then leans forward again.

“I hope there are plenty of people with me when we catch him. If I nail him alone, I’m apt to kill him just for putting me on the outs with my daughter.”

“Then why hope for plenty of people?”

Pete considers this, then smiles a slow smile. “You have a point there.”

“Do you ever wonder about Mrs. Trelawney?” Hodges asks the question casually, but he has been thinking about Olivia Trelawney a lot since the anonymous letter dropped through the mail slot. Even before then. On several occasions during the gray time since his retirement, he has actually dreamed about her. That long face—the face of a woeful horse. The kind of face that says
nobody understands
and
the whole world is against me
. All that money and still unable to count the blessings of her life, beginning with freedom from the paycheck. It had been years since Mrs. T. had had to balance her accounts or monitor her answering machine for calls from bill collectors, but she could only count the curses, totting up a long account of bad haircuts and rude service people. Mrs. Olivia Trelawney with her shapeless boatneck dresses, said boats always listed either to starboard or to port. The watery eyes that always seemed on the verge of tears. No one had liked her, and that included Detective First Grade Kermit William Hodges. No one had been surprised when she killed herself, including that selfsame Detective Hodges. The deaths of eight people—not to mention the injuries of many more—was a lot to carry on your conscience.

“Wonder about her how?” Pete asks.

“If she was telling the truth after all. About the key.”

Pete raises his eyebrows. “She thought she
was
telling it. You know that as well as I do. She talked herself into it so completely she could have passed a lie-detector test.”

It’s true, and Olivia Trelawney hadn’t been a surprise to either of them. God knows they had seen others like her. Career criminals acted guilty even when they hadn’t committed the crime or crimes they had been hauled in to discuss, because they knew damned well they were guilty of
something
. Solid citizens just couldn’t believe it, and when one of them wound up being questioned prior to charging, Hodges knows, it was hardly ever because a gun was involved. No, it was usually a car.
I thought it was a dog I ran over
, they’d say, and no matter what they might have seen in the rearview mirror after the awful double thump, they’d believe it.

Just a dog.

“I wonder, though,” Hodges says. Hoping he seems thoughtful rather than pushy.

“Come on, Bill. You saw what I saw, and any time you need a refresher course, you can come down to the station and look at the photos.”

“I suppose.”

The opening bars of “Night on Bald Mountain” sound from the pocket of Pete’s Men’s Wearhouse sportcoat. He digs out his phone, looks at it, and says, “I gotta take this.”

Hodges makes a be-my-guest gesture.

“Hello?” Pete listens. His eyes grow wide, and he stands up so fast his chair almost falls over.
“What?”

Other diners stop eating and look around. Hodges watches with interest.

“Yeah . . . yeah! I’ll be right there. What? Yeah, yeah, okay. Don’t wait, just go.”

He snaps the phone closed and sits down again. All his lights are suddenly on, and in that moment Hodges envies him bitterly.

“I should eat with you more often, Billy. You’re my lucky charm, always were. We talk about it, and it happens.”

“What?” Thinking, It’s Mr. Mercedes. The thought that follows is both ridiculous and forlorn: He was supposed to be mine.

“That was Izzy. She just got a call from a State Police colonel out in Victory County. A game warden spotted some bones in an old gravel pit about an hour ago. The pit’s less than two miles from Donnie Davis’s summer place on the lake, and guess what? The bones appear to be wearing the remains of a dress.”

He raises his hand over the table. Hodges high-fives it.

Pete returns the phone to its sagging pocket and brings out his wallet. Hodges shakes his head, not even kidding himself about what he feels: relief.
Enormous
relief. “No, this is my treat. You’re meeting Isabelle out there, right?”

“Right.”

“Then roll.”

“Okay. Thanks for lunch.”

“One other thing—hear anything about Turnpike Joe?”

“That’s State,” Pete says. “And the Feebles now. They’re welcome to it. What I hear is they’ve got nothing. Just waiting for him to do it again and hoping to get lucky.” He glances at his watch.

“Go, go.”

Pete starts out, stops, returns to the table, and puts a big kiss on Hodges’s forehead. “Great to see you, sweetheart.”

“Get lost,” Hodges tells him. “People will say we’re in love.”

Pete scrams with a big grin on his face, and Hodges thinks of what they sometimes used to call themselves: the Hounds of Heaven.

He wonders how sharp his own nose is these days.

13

The waiter returns to ask if there will be anything else. Hodges starts to say no, then orders another cup of coffee. He just wants to sit here awhile, savoring double happiness: it wasn’t Mr. Mercedes and it
was
Donnie Davis, the sanctimonious cocksucker who killed his wife and then had his lawyer set up a reward fund for information leading to her whereabouts. Because, oh Jesus, he loved her so much and all he wanted was for her to come home so they could start over.

He also wants to think about Olivia Trelawney, and Olivia Trelawney’s stolen Mercedes. That it
was
stolen no one doubts. But in spite of all her protests to the contrary, no one doubts that she enabled the thief.

Hodges remembers a case that Isabelle Jaynes, then freshly arrived from San Diego, told them about after they brought her up to speed on Mrs. Trelawney’s inadvertent part in the City Center Massacre. In Isabelle’s story it
was
a gun. She said she and her partner had been called to a home where a nine-year-old boy had shot and killed his four-year-old sister. They had been playing with an automatic pistol their father had left on his bureau.

“The father wasn’t charged, but he’ll carry that for the rest of his life,” she said. “This will turn out to be the same kind of thing, wait and see.”

That was a month before the Trelawney woman swallowed the pills, maybe less, and nobody on the Mercedes Killer case had given much of a shit. To them—and him—Mrs. T. had just been a self-pitying rich lady who refused to accept her part in what had happened.

The Mercedes SL was downtown when it was stolen, but Mrs. Trelawney, a widow who lost her wealthy husband to a heart attack, lived in Sugar Heights, a suburb as rich as its name where lots of gated drives led up to fourteen- and twenty-room McMansions. Hodges grew up in Atlanta, and whenever he drives through Sugar Heights he thinks of a ritzy Atlanta neighborhood called Buckhead.