Mr. Mercedes

  "Loaded how?"

  "With the kinds of images that can get you arrested."

  "Kiddie porn, you mean."

  "Or torture porn. Ninety-nine percent of the whips-and-chains stuff is faked. The other one percent . . ." Jerome shrugs.

  "And you know this how?"

  Jerome gives him a look--straight, frank, and open. Not an act, just the way he is, and what Hodges likes most about the kid. His mother and father are the same way. Even his little sis.

  "Mr. Hodges, everybody knows. If they're under thirty, that is."

  "Back in the day, people used to say don't trust anyone over thirty."

  Jerome smiles. "I trust em, but when it comes to computers, an awful lot of em are clueless. They beat up their machines, then expect em to work. They open bareback email attachments. They go to websites like this, and all at once their computer goes HAL 9000 and starts downloading pictures of teenage escorts or terrorist videos that show people getting their heads chopped off."

  It was on the tip of Hodge's tongue to ask who Hal 9000 is--it sounds like a gangbanger tag to him--but the thing about terrorist videos diverts him. "That actually happens?"

  "It's been known to. And then . . ." Jerome makes a fist and raps his knuckles against the top of his head. "Knock-knock-knock, Homeland Security at your door." He unrolls his fist so he can point a finger at the couple under the blue umbrella. "On the other hand, this might be just what it claims to be, a chat site where shy people can be electronic pen-pals. You know, a lonelyhearts deal. Lots of people out there lookin for love, dude. Let's see."

  He reaches for the mouse but Hodges grabs his wrist. Jerome looks at him inquiringly.

  "Don't see on my computer," Hodges says. "See on yours."

  "If you'd asked me to bring my laptop--"

  "Do it tonight, that'll be fine. And if you happen to unleash a virus that swallows your cruncher whole, I'll stand you the price of a new one."

  Jerome shoots him a look of condescending amusement. "Mr. Hodges, I've got the best virus detection and prevention program money can buy, and the second best backing it up. Any bug trying to creep into my machines gets swatted pronto."

  "It might not be there to eat," Hodges says. He's thinking about Mrs. T.'s sister saying, It's as if the guy knew her. "It might be there to watch."

  Jerome doesn't look worried; he looks excited. "How did you get onto this site, Mr. Hodges? Are you coming out of retirement? Are you, like, on the case?"

  Hodges has never missed Pete Huntley so bitterly as he does at that moment: a tennis partner to volley with, only with theories and suppositions instead of fuzzy green balls. He has no doubt Jerome could fulfill that function, he has a good mind and a demonstrated talent for making all the right deductive leaps . . . but he's also a year from voting age, four from being able to buy a legal drink, and this could be dangerous.

  "Just peek into the site for me," Hodges says. "But before you do, hunt around on the Net. See what you can find out about it. What I want to know most of all is--"

  "If it has an actual history," Jerome cuts in, once more demonstrating that admirable deductive ability. "A whatdoyoucallit, backstory. You want to make sure it's not a straw man set up for you alone."

  "You know," Hodges says, "you should quit doing chores for me and get a job with one of those computer-doctor companies. You could probably make a lot more dough. Which reminds me, you need to give me a price for this job."

  Jerome is offended, but not by the offer of a fee. "Those companies are for geeks with bad social skills." He reaches behind him and scratches Odell's dark red fur. Odell thumps his tail appreciatively, although he would probably prefer a steak sandwich. "In fact there's one bunch that drives around in VW Beetles. You can't get much geekier than that. Discount Electronix . . . you know them?"

  "Sure," Hodges says, thinking of the advertising circular he got along with his poison-pen letter.

  "They must have liked the idea, because they have the same deal, only they call it the Cyber Patrol, and their VWs are green instead of black. Plus there are mucho independents. Look online, you can find two hundred right here in the city. I thinks I stick to chos, Massa Hodges."

  Jerome clicks away from Under Debbie's Blue Umbrella and back to Hodges's screensaver, which happens to be a picture of Allie, back when she was five and still thought her old man was God.

  "But since you're worried, I'll take precautions. I've got an old iMac in my closet with nothing on it but Atari Arcade and a few other moldy oldies. I'll use that one to check out the site."

  "Good idea."

  "Anything else I can do for you today?"

  Hodges starts to say no, but Mrs. T.'s stolen Mercedes is still bugging him. There is something very wrong there. He felt it then and feels it more strongly now--so strongly he almost sees it. But almost never won a kewpie doll at the county fair. The wrongness is a ball he wants to hit, and have someone hit back to him.

  "You could listen to a story," he says. In his mind he's already making up a piece of fiction that will touch on all the salient points. Who knows, maybe Jerome's fresh eye will spot something he himself has missed. Unlikely, but not impossible. "Would you be willing to do that?"

  "Sure."

  "Then clip Odell on his leash. We'll walk down to Big Licks. I've got my face fixed for a strawberry cone."

  "Maybe we'll see the Mr. Tastey truck before we get there," Jerome says. "That guy's been in the neighborhood all week, and he's got some awesome goodies."

  "So much the better," Hodges says, getting up. "Let's go."

  12

  They walk down the hill to the little shopping center at the intersection of Harper Road and Hanover Street with Odell padding between them on the slack leash. They can see the buildings of downtown two miles distant, City Center and the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex dominating the cluster of skyscrapers. The MAC is not one of I. M. Pei's finer creations, in Hodges's opinion. Not that his opinion has ever been solicited on the matter.

  "So what's the story, morning glory?" Jerome asks.

  "Well," Hodges says, "let's say there's this guy with a long-term lady friend who lives downtown. He himself lives in Parsonville." This is a municipality just beyond Sugar Heights, not as lux but far from shabby.

  "Some of my friends call Parsonville Whiteyville," Jerome says. "I heard my father say it once, and my mother told him to shut up with the racist talk."

  "Uh-huh." Jerome's friends, the black ones, probably call Sugar Heights Whiteyville, too, which makes Hodges think he's doing okay so far.

  Odell has stopped to check out Mrs. Melbourne's flowers. Jerome pulls him away before he can leave a doggy memo there.

  "So anyway," Hodges resumes, "the long-term lady friend has a condo apartment in the Branson Park area--Wieland Avenue, Branson Street, Lake Avenue, that part of town."

  "Also nice."

  "Yeah. He goes to see her three or four times a week. One or two nights a week he takes her to dinner or a movie and stays over. When he does that, he parks his car--a nice one, a Beemer--on the street, because it's a good area, well policed, plenty of those high-intensity arc-sodiums. Also, the parking's free from seven P.M. to eight A.M."

  "I had a Beemer, I'd put it in one of the garages down there and never mind the free parking," Jerome says, and tugs the leash again. "Stop it, Odell, nice dogs don't eat out of the gutter."

  Odell looks over his shoulder and rolls an eye as if to say You don't know what nice dogs do.

  "Well, rich people have some funny ideas about economy," Hodges says, thinking of Mrs. T.'s explanation for doing the same thing.

  "If you say so." They have almost reached the shopping center. On the way down the hill they've heard the jingling tune of the ice cream truck, once quite close, but it fades again as the Mr. Tastey guy heads for the housing developments north of Harper Road.

  "So one Thursday night this guy goes to visit his lady as usual. He parks as usual--all kinds of empty spaces down there
once the business day is over--and locks up his car as usual. He and his lady take a walk to a nearby restaurant, have a nice meal, then walk back. His car's right there, he sees it before they go in. He spends the night with his lady, and when he leaves the building in the morning--"

  "His Beemer's gone bye-bye." They are now standing outside the ice cream shop. There's a bicycle rack nearby. Jerome fastens Odell's leash to it. The dog lies down and puts his muzzle on one paw.

  "No," Hodges says, "it's there." He is thinking that this is a damned good variation on what actually happened. He almost believes it himself. "But it's facing the other way, because it's parked on the other side of the street."

  Jerome raises his eyebrows.

  "Yeah, I know. Weird, right? So the guy goes across to it. Car looks okay, it's locked up tight just the way he left it, it's just in a new place. So the first thing he does is check for his key, and yep, it's still in his pocket. So what the hell happened, Jerome?"

  "I don't know, Mr. H. It's like a Sherlock Holmes story, isn't it? A real three-pipe problem." There's a little smile on Jerome's face that Hodges can't quite parse and isn't sure he likes. It's a knowing smile.

  Hodges digs his wallet out of his Levi's (the suit was good, but it's a relief to be back in jeans and an Indians pullover again). He selects a five and hands it to Jerome. "Go get our ice cream cones. I'll dog-sit Odell."

  "You don't need to do that, he's fine."

  "I'm sure he is, but standing in line will give you time to consider my little problem. Think of yourself as Sherlock, maybe that'll help."

  "Okay." Tyrone Feelgood Delight pops out. "Only you is Sherlock! I is Doctah Watson!"

  13

  There's a pocket park on the far side of Hanover. They cross at the WALK light, grab a bench, and watch a bunch of shaggy-haired middle-school boys dare life and limb in the sunken concrete skateboarding area. Odell divides his time between watching the boys and the ice cream cones.

  "You ever try that?" Hodges asks, nodding at the daredevils.

  "No, suh!" Jerome gives him a wide-eyed stare. "I is black. I spends mah spare time shootin hoops and runnin on de cinder track at de high school. Us black fellas is mighty fast, as de whole worl' knows."

  "Thought I told you to leave Tyrone at home." Hodges uses his finger to swop some ice cream off his cone and extends the dripping finger to Odell, who cleans it with alacrity.

  "Sometimes dat boy jus' show up!" Jerome declares. Then Tyrone is gone, just like that. "There's no guy and no lady friend and no Beemer. You're talking about the Mercedes Killer."

  So much for fiction. "Say I am."

  "Are you investigating that on your own, Mr. Hodges?"

  Hodges thinks this over, very carefully, then repeats himself. "Say I am."

  "Does the Debbie's Blue Umbrella site have something to do with it?"

  "Say it does."

  A boy falls off his skateboard and stands up with road rash on both knees. One of his friends buzzes over, jeering. Road Rash Boy slides a hand across one oozing knee, flings a spray of red droplets at Jeering Boy, then rolls away, shouting "AIDS! AIDS!" Jeering Boy rolls after him, only now he's Laughing Boy.

  "Barbarians," Jerome mutters. He bends to scratch Odell behind the ears, then straightens up. "If you want to talk about it--"

  Embarrassed, Hodges says, "I don't think at this point--"

  "I understand," Jerome says. "But I did think about your problem while I was in line, and I've got a question."

  "Yes?"

  "Your make-believe Beemer guy, where was his spare key?"

  Hodges sits very still, thinking how very quick this kid is. Then he sees a line of pink ice cream trickling down the side of his waffle cone and licks it off.

  "Let's say he claims he never had one."

  "Like the woman who owned the Mercedes did."

  "Yes. Exactly like that."

  "Remember me telling you how my mom got pissed at my dad for calling Parsonville Whiteyville?"

  "Yeah."

  "Want to hear about a time when my dad got pissed at my mom? The only time I ever heard him say, That's just like a woman?"

  "If it bears on my little problem, shoot."

  "Mom's got a Chevy Malibu. Candy-apple red. You've seen it in the driveway."

  "Sure."

  "He bought it new three years ago and gave it to her for her birthday, provoking massive squeals of delight."

  Yes, Hodges thinks, Tyrone Feelgood has definitely taken a hike.

  "She drives it for a year. No problems. Then it's time to re-register. Dad said he'd do it for her on his way home from work. He goes out to get the paperwork, then comes back in from the driveway holding up a key. He's not mad, but he's irritated. He tells her that if she leaves her spare key in the car, someone could find it and drive her car away. She asks where it was. He says in a plastic Ziploc bag along with her registration, her insurance card, and the owner's manual, which she had never opened. Still had the paper band around it that says thanks for buying your new car at Lake Chevrolet."

  Another drip is trickling down Hodges's ice cream. This time he doesn't notice it even when it reaches his hand and pools there. "In the . . ."

  "Glove compartment, yes. My dad said it was careless, and my mom said . . ." Jerome leans forward, his brown eyes fixed on Hodges's gray ones. "She said she didn't even know it was there. That's when he said it was just like a woman. Which didn't make her happy."

  "Bet it didn't." In Hodges's brain, all sorts of gears are engaging.

  "Dad says, Honey, all you have to do is forget once and leave your car unlocked. Some crack addict comes along, sees the buttons up, and decides to toss it in case there's anything worth stealing. He checks the glove compartment for money, sees the key in the plastic bag, and away he goes to find out who wants to buy a low-mileage Malibu for cash."

  "What did your mother say to that?"

  Jerome grins. "First thing, she turned it around. No one does that any better than my moms. She says, You bought the car and you brought it home. You should have told me. I'm eating my breakfast while they're having this little discussion and thought of saying, If you'd ever checked the owner's manual, Mom, maybe just to see what all those cute little lights on the dashboard signify, but I kept my mouth shut. My mom and dad don't get into it often, but when they do, a wise person steers clear. Even the Barbster knows that, and she's only nine."

  It occurs to Hodges that when he and Corinne were married, this is something Alison also knew.

  "The other thing she said was that she never forgets to lock her car. Which, so far as I know, is true. Anyway, that key is now hanging on one of the hooks in our kitchen. Safe, sound, and ready to go if the primary ever gets lost."

  Hodges sits looking at the skateboarders but not seeing them. He's thinking that Jerome's mom had a point when she said her husband should have either presented her with the spare key or at least told her about it. You don't just assume people will do an inventory and find things by themselves. But Olivia Trelawney's case was different. She bought her own car, and should have known.

  Only the salesman had probably overloaded her with info about her expensive new purchase; they had a way of doing that. When to change the oil, how to use the cruise control, how to use the GPS, don't forget to put your spare key in a safe place, here's how you plug in your cell phone, here's the number to call roadside assistance if you need it, click the headlight switch all the way to the left to engage the twilight function.

  Hodges could remember buying his first new car and letting the guy's post-sales tutorial wash over him--uh-huh, yep, right, gotcha--just anxious to get his new purchase out on the road, to dig the rattle-free ride and inhale that incomparable new-car smell, which to the buyer is the aroma of money well spent. But Mrs. T. was obsessive-compulsive. He could believe she'd overlooked the spare key and left it in the glove compartment, but if she had taken her primary key that Thursday night, wouldn't she also have locked the car doors? She said
she did, had maintained that to the very end, and really, think about it--

  "Mr. Hodges?"

  "With the new smart keys, it's a simple three-step process, isn't it?" he says. "Step one, turn off the engine. Step two, remove the key from the ignition. If your mind's on something else and you forget step two, there's a chime to remind you. Step three, close the door and push the button stamped with the padlock icon. Why would you forget that, with the key right there in your hand? Theft-Proofing for Dummies."

  "True-dat, Mr. H., but some dummies forget, anyway."

  Hodges is too lost in thought for reticence. "She was no dummy. Nervous and twitchy but not stupid. If she took her key, I almost have to believe she locked her car. And the car wasn't broken into. So even if she did leave the spare in her glove compartment, how did the guy get to it?"

  "So it's a locked-car mystery instead of a locked room. Dis be a fo'-pipe problem!"

  Hodges doesn't reply. He's going over it and over it. That the spare might have been in the glove compartment now seems obvious, but did either he or Pete ever raise the possibility? He's pretty sure they didn't. Because they thought like men? Or because they were pissed at Mrs. T.'s carelessness and wanted to blame her? And she was to blame, wasn't she?

  Not if she really did lock her car, he thinks.

  "Mr. Hodges, what does that Blue Umbrella website have to do with the Mercedes Killer?"

  Hodges comes back out of his own head. He's been in deep, and it's a pretty long trudge. "I don't want to talk about that just now, Jerome."

  "But maybe I can help!"

  Has he ever seen Jerome this excited? Maybe once, when the debate team he captained his sophomore year won the citywide championship.

  "Find out about that website and you will be helping," Hodges says.

  "You don't want to tell me because I'm a kid. That's it, isn't it?"

  It is part of the reason, but Hodges has no intention of saying so. And as it happens, there's something else.