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