بخش 02 - فصل 12

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 byebye.” 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!”