"Tell him to get in touch with the dealership and check something," Hodges said. "Then have him call me on my cell."
The traffic was snarled downtown, partly because of the rain, partly because Marlborough Street had been blocked off at City Center. They had made only four blocks when Hodges's cell rang. It was Howard McGrory, the mechanic.
"Did you have someone at the dealership check on what I was curious about?" Hodges asked him.
"No need," McGrory said. "I've worked at Ross since 1987. Must have seen a thousand Mercs go out the door since then, and I can tell you they all go out with two keys."
"Thanks," Hodges said. "We'll be there soon. Got some more questions for you."
"I'll be here. This is terrible. Terrible."
Hodges ended the call and passed on what McGrory had said.
"Are you surprised?" Pete asked. Ahead was an orange DETOUR sign that would vector them around City Center . . . unless they wanted to light their blues, that was, and neither did. What they needed now was to talk.
"Nope," Hodges said. "It's standard operating procedure. Like the Brits say, an heir and a spare. They give you two keys when you buy your new car--"
"--and tell you to put one in a safe place, so you can lay hands on it if you lose the one you carry around. Some people, if they need the spare a year or two later, they've forgotten where they put it. Women who carry big purses--like that suitcase the Trelawney woman had--are apt to dump both keys into it and forget all about the extra one. If she's telling the truth about not putting it on a fob, she was probably using them interchangeably."
"Yeah," Hodges said. "She gets to her mother's, she's preoccupied with the thought of spending another night dealing with Mom's pain, she's juggling the boxes and her purse . . ."
"And left the key in the ignition. She doesn't want to admit it--not to us and not to herself--but that's what she did."
"Although the warning chime . . ." Hodges said doubtfully.
"Maybe a big noisy truck was going by as she was getting out and she didn't hear the chime. Or a police car, winding its siren. Or maybe she was just so deep in her own thoughts she ignored it."
It made sense then and even more later when McGrory told them the deathcar hadn't been jimmied to gain entry or hotwired to start. What troubled Hodges--the only thing that troubled him, really--was how much he wanted it to make sense. Neither of them had liked Mrs. Trelawney, she of the boatneck tops, perfectly plucked brows, and squeaky widder-titter. Mrs. Trelawney who hadn't asked for any news of the dead and injured, not so much as a single detail. She wasn't the doer--no way was she--but it would be good to stick her with some of the blame. Give her something to think about besides veggie dinners from B'hai.
"Don't complicate what's simple," his partner repeated. The traffic snarl had cleared and he put the pedal down. "She was given two keys. She claims she only had one. And now it's the truth. The bastard who killed those people probably threw the one she left in the ignition down a handy sewer when he walked away. The one she showed us was the spare."
That had to be the answer. When you heard hoofbeats, you didn't think zebras.
PHOTO BY JIMMY MALECKI
STEPHEN KING is the author of more than fifty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. Among his most recent are Hearts in Atlantis, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, Bag of Bones, the screenplay Storm of the Century, and The Green Mile. His acclaimed nonfiction book, On Writing, was also a bestseller. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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