Текст книги "Finders Keepers"

Автор книги: Stephen Edwin King

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Also fine.

Morris leaves the courtyard as briskly as he came, pauses for a comforting look at the CLOSED sign hanging inside the bookshop door, and then strolls back to Lower Main, where he catches an uptown bus. Two changes later, he’s stepping off in front of the Valley Plaza Shopping Center, just two blocks from the late Andrew Halliday’s home.

He walks briskly again, no strolling now. As if he knows where he is, where he’s going, and has every right to be here. Coleridge Street is nearly deserted, which doesn’t surprise him. It’s quarter past nine (his fat fuck of a boss will by now be looking at Morris’s unoccupied desk and fuming). The kids are in school; the workadaddies and workamommies are off busting heavies to keep up with their credit card debt; most delivery and service people won’t start cruising the neighborhood until ten. The only better time would be the dozy hours of mid-afternoon, and he can’t afford to wait that long. Too many places to go, too many things to do. This is Morris Bellamy’s big day. His life has taken a long, long detour, but he’s almost back on the mainline.

15

Tina starts feeling sick around the time Morris is strolling up the late Drew Halliday’s driveway and seeing his old pal’s car parked inside his garage. Tina hardly slept at all last night because she’s so worried about how Pete will take the news that she ratted him out. Her breakfast is sitting in her belly like a lump, and all at once, while Mrs Sloan is performing ‘Annabelle Lee’ (Mrs Sloan never just reads), that lump of undigested food starts to crawl up her throat and toward the exit.

She raises her hand. It seems to weigh at least ten pounds, but she holds it up until Mrs Sloan raises her eyes. ‘Yes, Tina, what is it?’

She sounds annoyed, but Tina doesn’t care. She’s beyond caring. ‘I feel sick. I need to go to the girls’.’

‘Then go, by all means, but hurry back.’

Tina scuttles from the room. Some of the girls are giggling – at thirteen, unscheduled bathroom visits are always amusing – but Tina is too concerned with that rising lump to feel embarrassed. Once in the hall she breaks into a run, heading for the bathroom halfway down the hall as fast as she can, but the lump is faster and she doubles over before she can get there and vomits her breakfast all over her sneakers.

Mr Haggerty, the school’s head janitor, is just coming up the stairs. He sees her stagger backward from the steaming puddle of whoopsie and trots toward her, his toolbelt jingling.

‘Hey, girl, you okay?’

Tina gropes for the wall with an arm that feels made of plastic. The world is swimming. Part of that is because she has vomited hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, but not all. She wishes with all her heart that she hadn’t let Barbara persuade her into talking to Mr Hodges, that she had left Pete alone to work out whatever was wrong. What if he never speaks to her again?

‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry I made a m—’

But the swimming gets worse before she can finish. She doesn’t exactly faint, but the world pulls away from her, becomes something she’s looking at through a smudged window rather than something she’s actually in. She slides down the wall, amazed by the sight of her own knees, clad in green tights, coming up to meet her. That is when Mr Haggerty scoops her up and carries her downstairs to the school nurse’s office.

16

Andy’s little green Subaru is perfect, as far as Morris is concerned – not apt to attract a first glance, let alone a second. There are only thousands just like it. He backs down the driveway and sets off for the North Side, keeping an eye out for cops and obeying every speed limit.

At first it’s almost a replay of Friday night. He stops once more at the Bellows Avenue Mall and once more visits Home Depot. He goes to the tools section, where he picks out a screwdriver with a long blade and a chisel. Then he drives on to the square brick hulk that used to be the Birch Street Recreation Center and once more parks in the space marked RESERVED FOR REC DEPT. VEHICLES.

It’s a good spot in which to do dirty business. There’s a loading dock on one side and a high hedge on the other. He’s visible only from behind – the baseball field and crumbling basketball courts – but with school in session, those areas are deserted. Morris goes to the basement window he noticed before, squats, and rams the blade of his screwdriver into the crack at the top. It goes in easily, because the wood is rotten. He uses the chisel to widen the crack. The glass rattles in its frame but doesn’t break, because the putty is old and there’s plenty of give. The possibility that this hulk of a building has alarm protection is looking slimmer all the time.

Morris swaps the chisel for the screwdriver again. He chivvies it through the gap he’s made, catches the thumb-lock, and pushes. He looks around to make sure he’s still unobserved – it’s a good spot, yes, but breaking and entering in broad daylight is still a scary proposition – and sees nothing but a crow perched on a telephone pole. He inserts the chisel at the bottom of the window, beating it in as deep as it will go with the heel of his hand, then bears down on it. For a moment there’s nothing. Then the window slides up with a squall of wood and a shower of dirt. Bingo. He wipes sweat from his face as he peers in at the stored chairs, card tables, and boxes of junk, verifying that it will be easy to slide in and drop to the floor.

But not quite yet. Not while there’s the slightest possibility that a silent alarm is lighting up somewhere.

Morris takes his tools back to the little green Subaru, and drives away.

17

Linda Saubers is monitoring the mid-morning activity period at Northfield Elementary School when Peggy Moran comes in and tells her that her daughter has been taken sick at Dorton Middle, some three miles away.

‘She’s in the nurse’s office,’ Peggy says, keeping her voice low. ‘I understand she vomited and then sort of passed out for a few minutes.’

‘Oh my God,’ Linda says. ‘She looked pale at breakfast, but when I asked her if she was okay, she said she was.’

‘That’s the way they are,’ Peggy says, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s either melodrama or I’m fine, Mom, get a life. Go get her and take her home. I’ll cover this, and Mr Jablonski has already called a sub.’

‘You’re a saint.’ Linda is gathering up her books and putting them into her briefcase.

‘It’s probably a stomach thing,’ Peggy says, sliding into the seat Linda has just vacated. ‘I guess you could take her to the nearest Doc in the Box, but why bother spending thirty bucks? That stuff’s going around.’

‘I know,’ Linda says … but she wonders.

She and Tom have been slowly but surely digging themselves out of two pits: a money pit and a marriage pit. The year after Tom’s accident, they came perilously close to breaking up. Then the mystery cash started coming, a kind of miracle, and things started to turn around. They aren’t all the way out of either hole even yet, but Linda has come to believe they will get out.

With their parents focused on brute survival (and Tom, of course, had the additional challenge of recovering from his injuries), the kids have spent far too much time flying on autopilot. It’s only now, when she feels she finally has room to breathe and time to look around her, that Linda clearly senses something not right with Pete and Tina. They’re good kids, smart kids, and she doesn’t think either of them has gotten caught in the usual teenage traps – drink, drugs, shoplifting, sex – but there’s something, and she supposes she knows what it is. She has an idea Tom does, too.

God sent manna from heaven when the Israelites were starving, but cash drops from more prosaic sources: banks, friends, an inheritance, relatives who are in a position to help out. The mystery money didn’t come from any of those sources. Certainly not from relatives. Back in 2010, all their kinfolk were just as strapped as Tom and Linda themselves. Only kids are relatives, too, aren’t they? It’s easy to overlook that because they’re so close, but they are. It’s absurd to think the cash came from Tina, who’d only been nine years old when the envelopes started arriving, and who couldn’t have kept a secret like that, anyway.

Pete, though … he’s the closemouthed one. Linda remembers her mother saying when Pete was only five, ‘That one’s got a lock on his lips.’

Only where could a kid of thirteen have come by that kind of money?

As she drives to Dorton Middle to pick up her ailing daughter, Linda thinks, We never asked any questions, not really, because we were afraid to. No one who didn’t go through those terrible months after Tommy’s accident could get that, and I’m not going to apologize for it. We had reasons to be cowardly. Plenty of them. The two biggest were living right under our roof, and counting on us to support them. But it’s time to ask who was supporting whom. If it was Pete, if Tina found out and that’s what’s troubling her, I need to stop being a coward. I need to open my eyes.

I need some answers.

18

Mid-morning.

Hodges is in court, and on best behavior. Holly would be proud. He answers the questions posed by the Bald Beater’s attorney with crisp succinctness. The attorney gives him plenty of opportunity to be argumentative, and although this was a trap Hodges sometimes fell into during his detective days, he avoids it now.

Linda Saubers is driving her pale, silent daughter home from school, where she will give Tina a glass of ginger ale to settle her stomach and then put her to bed. She is finally ready to ask Tina what she knows about the mystery money, but not until the girl feels better. The afternoon will be time enough, and she should make Pete a part of that conversation when he gets home from school. It will be just the three of them, and probably that’s best. Tom and a group of his real estate clients are touring an office complex, recently vacated by IBM, fifty miles north of the city, and won’t be back until seven. Even later, if they stop for dinner on the return trip.

Pete is in period three Advanced Physics, and although his eyes are trained on Mr Norton, who is rhapsodizing about the Higgs boson and the CERN Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland, the mind behind those eyes is much closer to home. He is going over his script for this afternoon’s meeting yet again, and reminding himself that just because he has a script doesn’t mean Halliday will follow it. Halliday has been in this business a long time, and he’s probably been skirting the edges of the law for much of it. Pete is just a kid, and it absolutely will not do to forget that. He must be careful, and allow for his inexperience. He must think before he speaks, every time.

Above all, he must be brave.

He tells Halliday: Half a loaf is better than none, but in a world of want, even a single slice is better than none. I’m offering you three dozen slices. You need to think about that.

He tells Halliday: I’m not going to be anyone’s birthday fuck, you better think about that, too.

He tells Halliday: If you think I’m bluffing, go on and try me. But if you do, we both wind up with nothing.

He thinks, If I can hold my nerve, I can get out of this. And I will hold it. I will. I have to.

Morris Bellamy parks the stolen Subaru two blocks from Bugshit Manor and walks back. He lingers in the doorway of a secondhand store to make sure Ellis McFarland isn’t in the vicinity, then scurries to the miserable building and plods up the nine flights of stairs. Both elevators are busted today, which is par for the course. He scrambles random clothes into one of the Tuff Totes and then leaves his crappy room for the last time. All the way down to the first corner his back feels hot, his neck as stiff as an ironing board. He carries one Tuff Tote in each hand, and they seem to weigh a hundred pounds apiece. He keeps waiting for McFarland to call his name. To step out from beneath a shadowed awning and ask him why he’s not at work. To ask him where he thinks he’s going. To ask him what he’s got in those bags. And then to tell him he’s going back to prison: Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Morris doesn’t relax until Bugshit Manor is out of sight for good.

Tom Saubers is walking his little pack of real estate agents through the empty IBM facility, pointing out the various features and encouraging them to take pictures. They’re all excited by the possibilities. Come the end of the day, his surgically repaired legs and hips will ache like all the devils of hell, but for the time being, he’s feeling fine. This abandoned office and manufacturing complex could be a big deal for him. Life is finally turning around.

Jerome has popped into Hodges’s office to surprise Holly, who squeals with joy when she sees him, then with apprehension when he seizes her by the waist and swings her around as he likes to do with his little sister. They talk for an hour or more, catching up, and she gives him her views on the Saubers affair. She’s happy when Jerome takes her concerns about the Moleskine notebook seriously, and happier still to find out he has seen 22 Jump Street. They drop the subject of Pete Saubers and discuss the movie at great length, comparing it to others in Jonah Hill’s filmography. Then they move on to a discussion of various computer apps.

Andrew Halliday is the only one not occupied. First editions no longer matter to him, nor do young waiters in tight black pants. Oil and water are the same as wind and air to him now. He’s sleeping the big sleep in a patch of congealed blood, drawing flies.

19

Eleven o’clock. It’s eighty degrees in the city, and the radio says the mercury’s apt to touch ninety before subsiding. Got to be global warming, people tell each other.

Morris cruises past the Birch Street Rec twice, and is happy (though not really surprised) to see it’s as deserted as ever, just an empty brick box baking under the sun. No police; no security cars. Even the crow has departed for cooler environs. He circles the block, noting that there’s now a trim little Ford Focus parked in the driveway of his old house. Mr or Mrs Saubers has knocked off early. Hell, maybe both of them. It’s nothing to Morris. He heads back to the Rec and this time turns in, going around to the rear of the building and parking in what he’s now begun to think of as his spot.

He’s confident that he’s unobserved, but it’s still a good idea to do this quickly. He carries his bags to the window he’s forced up and drops them to the basement floor, where they land with a flat clap and twin puffs of dust. He takes a quick look around, then slides feet first through the window on his stomach.

A wave of dizziness runs through his head as he takes his first deep breath of the cool, musty air. He staggers a little, and puts his arms out for balance. It’s the heat, he thinks. You’ve been too busy to realize it, but you’re dripping with sweat. Also, you ate no breakfast.

Both true, but the main thing is simpler and self-evident: he’s not as young as he used to be, and it’s been years since the physical exertions of the dyehouse. He’s got to pace himself. Over by the furnace are a couple of good-sized cartons with KITCHEN SUPPLIES printed on the sides. Morris sits down on one of these until his heartbeat slows and the dizziness passes. Then he unzips the tote with Andy’s little automatic inside, tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back, and blouses his shirt over it. He takes a hundred dollars of Andy’s money, just in case he runs into any unforeseen expenses, and leaves the rest for later. He’ll be back here this evening, may even spend the night. It sort of depends on the kid who stole his notebooks, and what measures Morris needs to employ in order to get them back.

Whatever it takes, cocksucker, he thinks. Whatever it takes.

Right now it’s time to move on. As a younger man, he could have pulled himself out of that basement window easily, but not now. He drags over one of the KITCHEN SUPPLIES cartons – it’s surprisingly heavy, probably some old busted appliance inside – and uses it as a step. Five minutes later, he’s headed for Andrew Halliday Rare Editions, where he will park his old pal’s car in his old pal’s space and then spend the rest of the day soaking up the air-conditioning and waiting for the young notebook thief to arrive.

James Hawkins indeed, he thinks.

20

Quarter past two.

Hodges, Holly, and Jerome are on the move, headed for their positions around Northfield High: Hodges out front, Jerome on the corner of Westfield Street, Holly beyond the high school’s auditorium, on Garner Street. When they are in position, they’ll let Hodges know.

In the bookshop on Lacemaker Lane, Morris adjusts his tie, turns the hanging sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and unlocks the door. He goes back to the desk and sits down. If a customer should come in to browse – not terribly likely at such a slack time of the day, but possible – he will be happy to help. If there’s a customer here when the kid arrives, he’ll think of something. Improvise. His heart is beating hard, but his hands are steady. The shakes are gone. I am a wolf, he tells himself. I’ll bite if I have to.

Pete is in his creative writing class. The text is Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style, and today they are discussing the famous Rule 13: Omit needless words. They have been assigned Hemingway’s short story ‘The Killers,’ and it has provoked a lively class discussion. Many words are spoken on the subject of how Hemingway omits needless words. Pete barely hears any of them. He keeps looking at the clock, where the hands march steadily toward his appointment with Andrew Halliday. And he keeps going over his script.

At twenty-five past two, his phone vibrates against his leg. He slips it out and looks at the screen.

Mom: Come right home after school, we need to talk.

His stomach cramps and his heart kicks into a higher gear. It might be no more than some chore that needs doing, but Pete doesn’t believe it. We need to talk is Momspeak for Houston, we have a problem. It could be the money, and in fact that seems likely to him, because problems come in bunches. If it is, then Tina let the cat out of the bag.

All right. If that’s how it is, all right. He will go home, and they will talk, but he needs to resolve the Halliday business first. His parents aren’t responsible for the jam he’s in, and he won’t make them responsible. He won’t blame himself, either. He did what he had to do. If Halliday refuses to cut a deal, if he calls the police in spite of the reasons Pete can give him not to, then the less his parents know, the better. He doesn’t want them charged as accessories, or something.

He thinks about switching his phone off and decides not to. If she texts him again – or if Tina does – it’s better to know. He looks up at the clock and sees it’s twenty to three. Soon the bell will ring, and he’ll leave school.

Pete wonders if he’ll ever be back.

21

Hodges parks his Prius fifty feet or so down from the high school’s main entrance. He’s on a yellow curb, but he has an old POLICE CALL card in his glove compartment, which he saves for just such parking problems. He places it on the dashboard. When the bell rings, he gets out of the car and leans against the hood with his arms folded, watching the bank of doors. Engraved about the entrance is the school’s motto: EDUCATION IS THE LAMP OF LIFE. Hodges has his phone in one hand, ready to either make or receive a call, depending on who comes out or doesn’t.

The wait isn’t long, because Pete Hodges is among the first group of students to burst into the June day and come hurrying down the wide granite steps. Most of the kids are with friends. The Saubers boy is alone. Not the only one flying solo, of course, but there’s a set look to his face, as if he’s living in the future instead of the here and now. Hodges’s eyes are as good as they ever were, and he thinks that could be the face of a soldier going into battle.

Or maybe he’s just worried about finals.

Instead of heading toward the yellow buses parked beside the school on the left, he turns right, toward where Hodges is parked. Hodges ambles to meet him, speed-dialing Holly as he goes. ‘I’ve got him. Tell Jerome.’ He cuts the call without waiting for her to answer.

The boy angles to go around Hodges on the street side. Hodges steps in front of him. ‘Hey, Pete, got a minute?’

The kid’s eyes snap front and center. He’s good-looking, but his face is too thin and his forehead is spotted with acne. His lips are pressed so tightly together that his mouth is almost gone. ‘Who are you?’ he asks. Not Yes sir or Can I help you. Just Who are you. The voice as tight-wired as the face.

‘My name is Bill Hodges. I’d like to talk to you.’

Kids are passing them, chattering, elbowing, laughing, shooting the shit, adjusting backpacks. A few glance at Pete and the man with the thinning white hair, but none show any interest. They have places to go and things to do.

‘About what?’

‘In my car would be better. So we can have some privacy.’ He points at the Prius.

The boy repeats, ‘About what?’ He doesn’t move.

‘Here’s the deal, Pete. Your sister Tina is friends with Barbara Robinson. I’ve known the Robinson family for years, and Barb persuaded Tina to come and talk to me. She’s very worried about you.’

‘Why?’

‘If you’re asking why Barb suggested me, it’s because I used to be a police detective.’

Alarm flashes in the boy’s eyes.

‘If you’re asking why Tina’s worried, that’s something we’d really be better off not discussing on the street.’

Just like that the look of alarm is gone and the boy’s face is expressionless again. It’s the face of a good poker player. Hodges has questioned suspects who are able to wipe their faces like that, and they are usually the ones who are toughest to crack. If they crack at all.

‘I don’t know what Tina said to you, but she’s got nothing to worry about.’

‘If what she told me is true, she might.’ Hodges gives Pete his best smile. ‘Come on, Pete. I’m not going to kidnap you. Swear to God.’

Pete nods reluctantly. When they reach the Prius, the kid stops dead. He’s reading the yellow card on the dashboard. ‘Used to be a police detective, or still are?’

‘Used to be,’ Hodges says. ‘That card … call it a souvenir. Comes in handy sometimes. I’ve been off the force and collecting my pension for five years. Please get in so we can talk. I’m here as a friend. If we stand out here much longer, I’m going to melt.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Hodges shrugs. ‘Then you’re off.’

‘Okay, but only for a minute,’ Pete says. ‘I have to walk home today so I can stop at the drugstore for my father. He takes this stuff, Vioxx. Because he got hurt a few years ago.’

Hodges nods. ‘I know. City Center. That was my case.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

Pete opens the passenger door and gets into the Prius. He doesn’t seem nervous about being in a strange man’s car. Careful and cautious, but not nervous. Hodges, who has done roughly ten thousand suspect and witness interviews over the years, is pretty sure the boy has come to a decision, although he can’t tell if it’s to spill what’s on his mind or keep it to himself. Either way, it won’t take long to find out.

He goes around and gets in behind the wheel. Pete is okay with that, but when Hodges starts the engine, he tenses up and grabs the doorhandle.

‘Relax. I only want the air-conditioning. It’s damn hot, in case you didn’t notice. Especially for so early in the year. Probably global warm—’

‘Let’s get this over with so I can pick up my dad’s scrip and go home. What did my sister tell you? You know she’s only thirteen, right? I love her to death, but Mom calls her Tina the Drama Queen-a.’ And then, as if this explains everything, ‘She and her friend Ellen never miss Pretty Little Liars.’

Okay, so the initial decision is not to talk. Not all that surprising. The job now is to change his mind.

‘Tell me about the cash that came in the mail, Pete.’

No tensing up; no uh-oh look flashing across the kid’s face. He knew that was it, Hodges thinks. He knew as soon as his sister’s name came up. He might even have had advance warning. Tina could have had a change of heart and texted him.

‘You mean the mystery money,’ Pete says. ‘That’s what we call it.’

‘Yeah. That’s what I mean.’

‘It started coming four years ago, give or take. I was about the age Tina is now. There’d be an envelope addressed to my dad every month or so. Never any letter with it, just the money.’

‘Five hundred dollars.’

‘Once or twice it might have been a little less or a little more, I guess. I wasn’t always there when it came, and after the first couple of times, Mom and Dad didn’t talk about it very much.’

‘Like talking about it might jinx it?’

‘Yeah, like that. And at some point, Teens got the idea I was the one sending it. Like as if. Back then I didn’t even get an allowance.’

‘If you didn’t do it, who did?’

‘I don’t know.’

It seems he will stop there, but then he goes on. Hodges listens peacefully, hoping Pete will say too much. The boy is obviously intelligent, but sometimes even the intelligent ones say too much. If you let them.

‘You know how every Christmas they have stories on the news about some guy giving out hundred-dollar bills in Walmart or wherever?’

‘Sure.’

‘I think it was that type of deal. Some rich guy decided to play Secret Santa with one of the people who got hurt that day at City Center, and he picked my dad’s name out of a hat.’ He turns to face Hodges for the first time since they got in the car, eyes wide and earnest and totally untrustworthy. ‘For all I know, he’s sending money to some of the others, too. Probably the ones who got hurt the worst, and couldn’t work.’

Hodges thinks, That’s good, kiddo. It actually makes a degree of sense.

‘Giving out a thousand dollars to ten or twenty random shoppers at Christmas is one thing. Giving well over twenty grand to one family over four years is something else. If you add in other families, you’d be talking about a small fortune.’

‘He could be a hedge fund dude,’ Pete says. ‘You know, one of those guys who got rich while everyone else was getting poor and felt guilty about it.’

He’s not looking at Hodges anymore, now he’s looking straight out of the windshield. There’s an aroma coming off him, or so it seems to Hodges; not sweat but fatalism. Again he thinks of soldiers preparing to go into battle, knowing the chances are at least fifty-fifty that they’ll be killed or wounded.

‘Listen to me, Pete. I don’t care about the money.’

‘I didn’t send it!’

Hodges pushes on. It’s the thing he was always best at. ‘It was a windfall, and you used it to help your folks out of a tough spot. That’s not a bad thing, it’s an admirable thing.’

‘Lots of people might not think so,’ Pete says. ‘If it was true, that is.’

‘You’re wrong about that. Most people would think so. And I’ll tell you something you can take as a hundred percent dead-red certainty, because it’s based on forty years of experience as a cop. No prosecutor in this city, no prosecutor in the whole country, would try bringing charges against a kid who found some money and used it to help his family after his dad first lost his job and then got his legs crushed by a lunatic. The press would crucify a man or woman who tried to prosecute that shit.’

Pete is silent, but his throat is working, as if he’s holding back a sob. He wants to tell, but something is holding him back. Not the money, but related to the money. Has to be. Hodges is curious about where the cash in those monthly envelopes came from – anyone would be – but he’s far more curious about what’s going on with this kid now.

‘You sent them the money—’

‘For the last time, I didn’t!’

‘—and that went smooth as silk, but then you got into some kind of jackpot. Tell me what it is, Pete. let me help you fix it. Let me help you make it right.’

For a moment the boy trembles on the brink of revelation. Then his eyes shift to his left. Hodges follows them and sees the card he put on the dashboard. It’s yellow, the color of caution. The color of danger. POLICE CALL. He wishes to Christ he’d left it in the glove compartment and parked a hundred yards farther down the street. Jesus Christ, he walks every day. A hundred yards would have been easy.

‘There’s nothing wrong,’ Pete says. He now speaks as mechanically as the computer-generated voice that comes out of Hodges’s dashboard GPS, but there’s a pulse beating in his temples and his hands are clasped tightly in his lap and there’s sweat on his face in spite of the air-conditioning. ‘I didn’t send the money. I have to get my dad’s pills.’

‘Pete, listen. Even if I was still a cop, this conversation would be inadmissible in court. You’re a minor, and there’s no responsible adult present to counsel you. In addition I never gave you the words – the Miranda warning—’

Hodges sees the boy’s face slam shut like a bank vault door. All it took was two words: Miranda warning.

‘I appreciate your concern,’ Pete says in that same polite robot voice. He opens the car door. ‘But there’s nothing wrong. Really.’

‘There is, though,’ Hodges says. He takes one of his cards from his breast pocket and holds it out. ‘Take this. Call me if you change your mind. Whatever it is, I can hel—’

The door closes. Hodges watches Pete Saubers walk swiftly away, puts the card back in his pocket, and thinks, Fuck me, I blew it. Six years ago, maybe even two, I would have had him.

But blaming his age is too easy. A deeper part of him, more analytical and less emotional, knows he was never really close. Thinking he might have been was an illusion. Pete has geared himself up for battle so completely that he’s psychologically incapable of standing down.

The kid reaches City Drug, takes his father’s prescription out of his back pocket, and goes inside. Hodges speed-dials Jerome.

‘Bill! How did it go?’

‘Not so good. You know City Drug?’

‘Sure.’

‘He’s getting a scrip filled there. Haul ass around the block as fast as you can. He told me he’s going home, and maybe he is, but if he’s not, I want to know where he does go. Do you think you can tail him? He knows my car. He won’t know yours.’