بخش 04 - فصل 01

CALL FOR THE DEAD

1 On Monday, two days after Elizabeth Wharton’s death, Hodges is once more seated in DeMasio’s Italian Ristorante. The last time he was here, it was for lunch with his old partner. This time it’s dinner.

His companions are Jerome Robinson and Janelle Patterson. Janey compliments him on his suit, which already fits better even though he’s only lost a few pounds (and the Glock he’s wearing on his hip hardly shows at all). It’s the new hat Jerome likes, a brown fedora Janey bought Hodges on impulse that very day, and

presented to him with some ceremony. Because he’s a private detective now, she said, and every private dick should have a fedora he can pull down to one eyebrow. Jerome tries it on and gives it that exact tilt. “What do you think? Do I look like Bogie?” “I hate to disappoint you,” Hodges says, “but Bogie was Caucasian.”

“So Caucasian he practically shimmered,” Janey adds. “Forgot that.” Jerome tosses the hat back to Hodges, who places it under his chair, reminding himself not to forget it when he leaves. Or step on it. He’s pleased when his two dinner guests take to each other at once. Jerome–an old head on top of a young body,

Hodges often thinks–does the right thing as soon as the icebreaking foolishness of the hat is finished, taking one of Janey’s hands in both of his and telling her he’s sorry for her loss. “Both of them,” he says. “I know you lost your sister, too. If I lost mine, I’d be the saddest guy on earth. Barb’s a pain, but I love her to death.”

She thanks him with a smile. Because Jerome’s still too young for a legal glass of wine, they all order iced tea. Janey asks him about his college plans, and when Jerome mentions the possibility of Harvard, she rolls her eyes and says, “A Hah-vad man. Oh my Gawd.” “Massa Hodges goan have to find hisself a new lawnboy!”

Jerome exclaims, and Janey laughs so hard she has to spit a bite of shrimp into her napkin. It makes her blush, but Hodges is glad to hear that laugh. Her carefully applied makeup can’t completely hide the pallor of her cheeks, or the dark circles under her eyes. When he asks her how Aunt Charlotte, Uncle Henry, and Holly the Mumbler are

enjoying the big house in Sugar Heights, Janey grabs the sides of her head as if afflicted with a monster headache. “Aunt Charlotte called six times today. I’m not exaggerating. Six. The first time was to tell me that Holly woke up in the middle of the night, didn’t know where she was, and had a panic attack. Auntie C said she was on the

verge of calling an ambulance when Uncle Henry finally got her settled down by talking to her about NASCAR. She’s crazy about stock car racing. Never misses it on TV, I understand. Jeff Gordon is her idol.” Janey shrugs. “Go figure.” “How old is this Holly?” Jerome asks.

“About my age, but she suffers from a certain amount of . . . emotional retardation, I guess you’d say.” Jerome considers this silently, then says: “She probably needs to reconsider Kyle Busch.” “Who?” “Never mind.” Janey says Aunt Charlotte has also called to marvel over

the monthly electrical bill, which must be huge; to confide that the neighbors seem very standoffish; to announce there is an awfully large number of pictures and all that modern art is not to her taste; to point out (although it sounds like another announcement) that if Olivia thought all those lamps were carnival glass, she had

almost certainly been taken to the cleaners. The last call, received just before Janey left for the restaurant, had been the most aggravating. Uncle Henry wanted Janey to know, her aunt said, that he had looked into the matter and it still wasn’t too late to change her mind about the cremation. She said the idea made her brother very upset–he called

it “a Viking funeral”–and Holly wouldn’t even discuss it, because it gave her the horrors. “Their Thursday departure is confirmed,” Janey says, “and I’m already counting the minutes.” She squeezes Hodges’s hand, and says, “There’s one bit of good news, though. Auntie C says that Holly was very taken with you.”

Hodges smiles. “Must be my resemblance to Jeff Gordon.” Janey and Jerome order dessert. Hodges, feeling virtuous, does not. Then, over coffee, he gets down to business. He has brought two folders with him, and hands one to each of his dinner companions.

“All my notes. I’ve organized them as well as I can. I want you to have them in case anything happens to me.” Janey looks alarmed. “What else has he said to you on that site?” “Nothing at all,” Hodges says. The lie comes out smoothly and convincingly. “It’s just a precaution.”

“You sure of that?” Jerome

asks.

“Absolutely.

There’s

nothing definitive in the notes,

but that doesn’t mean we

haven’t made progress. I see a

path of investigation that

might–I repeat might–take

us to this guy. In the

meantime, it’s important that

you both remain very aware of

what’s going on around you at all times.” “BOLO our asses off,” Janey says. “Right.” He turns to Jerome. “And what, specifically, are you going to be on the lookout for?” The reply is quick and sure. “Repeat vehicles, especially those driven by males on the younger side, say between the

ages of twenty-five and forty. Although I think forty’s pretty old. Which makes you practically ancient, Bill.” “Nobody loves a smartass,” Hodges says. “Experience will teach you that in time, young man.” Elaine, the hostess, drifts over to ask how everything was. They tell her everything

was fine, and Hodges asks for more coffee all around. “Right away,” she says. “You’re looking much better than the last time you were here, Mr. Hodges. If you don’t mind me saying so.” Hodges doesn’t mind. He feels better than the last time he was here. Lighter than the loss of seven or eight pounds can account for.

When Elaine’s gone and the waiter has poured more coffee, Janey leans over the table with her eyes fixed on his. “What path? Tell us.” He finds himself thinking of Donald Davis, who has confessed to killing not only his wife but five other women at rest stops along the highways of the Midwest. Soon the handsome Mr. Davis will

be in State, where he will no doubt spend the rest of his life. Hodges has seen it all before. He’s not so naïve as to believe that every homicide is solved, but more often than not, murder does out. Something (a certain wifely body in a certain abandoned gravel pit, for instance) comes to light. It’s as if there’s a

fumble-fingered but powerful universal force at work, always trying to put wrong things right. The detectives assigned to a murder case read reports, interview witnesses, work the phones, study forensic evidence . . . and wait for that force to do its job. When it does (if it does), a path appears. It often leads straight to the doer, the sort of person Mr.

Mercedes refers to in his letters as a perk. Hodges asks his dinner companions, “What if Olivia Trelawney actually did hear ghosts?”