بخش 03 - فصل 45

45

Things are not golden after the rotary. Instead of open street, they see backed-up traffic and two orange signs. One says FLAGGER AHEAD. The other says ROAD CONSTRUCTION. There’s a line of cars waiting while the flagger lets downtown traffic go through. After three minutes of sitting, each one feeling an hour long, Hodges tells Jerome to use the side streets.

‘I wish I could, but we’re blocked in.’ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, where the line of cars behind them is now backed up almost to the rotary.

Holly has been bent over her iPad, whacking away. Now she looks up. ‘Use the sidewalk,’ she says, then goes back to her magic tablet.

‘There are mailboxes, Hollyberry,’ Jerome says. ‘Also a chainlink fence up ahead. I don’t think there’s room.’

She takes another brief look. ‘Yeah, there is. You may scrape a little, but it won’t be the first time for this car. Go on.’

‘Who pays the fine if I get arrested on a charge of driving while black? You?’

Holly rolls her eyes. Jerome turns to Hodges, who sighs and nods. ‘She’s right. There’s room. I’ll pay your fucking fine.’

Jerome swings right. The Mercedes clips the fender of the car stopped ahead of them, then bumps up onto the sidewalk. Here comes the first mailbox. Jerome swings even farther to the right, now entirely off the street. There’s a thud as the driver’s side knocks the mailbox off its post, then a drawn-out squall as the passenger side caresses the chainlink fence. A woman in shorts and a halter top is mowing her lawn. She shouts at them as the passenger side of Holly’s German U-boat peels away a sign reading NO TRESPASSING NO SOLICITING NO DOOR TO DOOR SALESMEN. She rushes for her driveway, still shouting. Then she just peers, shading her eyes and squinting. Hodges can see her lips moving.

‘Oh, goody,’ Jerome says. ‘She’s getting your plate number.’

‘Just drive,’ Holly says. ‘Drive drive drive.’ And with no pause: ‘Red Lips is Morris Bellamy. That’s his name.’

It’s the flagger yelling at them now. The construction workers, who have been uncovering a sewer pipe running beneath the street, are staring. Some are laughing. One of them winks at Jerome and makes a bottle-tipping gesture. Then they are past. The Mercedes thumps back down to the street. With traffic bound for the North Side bottlenecked behind them, the street ahead is blessedly empty.

‘I checked the city tax records,’ Holly says. ‘At the time John Rothstein was murdered in 1978, the taxes on 23 Sycamore Street were being paid by Anita Elaine Bellamy. I did a Google search for her name and came up with over fifty hits, she’s sort of a famous academic, but only one hit that matters. Her son was tried and convicted of aggravated rape late that same year. Right here in the city. He got a life sentence. There’s a picture of him in one of the news stories. Look.’ She hands the iPad to Hodges.

Morris Bellamy has been snapped coming down the steps of a courthouse Hodges remembers well, although it was replaced by the concrete monstrosity in Government Square fifteen years ago. Bellamy is flanked by a pair of detectives. Hodges recalls one of them, Paul Emerson. Good police, long retired. He’s wearing a suit. So is the other detective, but that one has draped his coat over Bellamy’s hands to hide the handcuffs he’s wearing. Bellamy is also in a suit, which means the picture was taken either while the trial was ongoing, or just after the verdict was rendered. It’s a black-and-white photo, which only makes the contrast between Bellamy’s pale complexion and dark mouth more striking. He almost looks like he’s wearing lipstick.

‘That’s got to be him,’ Holly says. ‘If you call the state prison, I’ll bet you six thousand bucks that he’s out.’

‘No bet,’ Hodges says. ‘How long to Sycamore Street, Jerome?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘Firm or optimistic?’

Reluctantly, Jerome replies, ‘Well … maybe a tad optimistic.’

‘Just do the best you can and try not to run anybody ov—’

Hodge’s cell rings. It’s Pete. He sounds out of breath.

‘Have you called the police, Mr Hodges?’

‘No.’ Although they’ll probably have the license plate of Holly’s car by now, but he sees no reason to tell Pete that. The boy sounds more upset than ever. Almost crazed.

‘You can’t. No matter what. He’s got my sister. He says if he doesn’t get the notebooks, he’ll kill her. I’m going to give them to him.’

‘Pete, don’t—’

But he’s talking to no one. Pete has broken the connection.