بخش 05 - فصل 26

26 Hodges gets snared in rushhour traffic and doesn’t arrive back on the North Side until shortly after six P.M. Jerome and Holly are still with him; they both want to see this

through, regardless of the consequences, and since they seem to understand what those consequences may be, Hodges has decided he can’t refuse them. Not that he has much of a choice; Holly won’t divulge what she knows. Or thinks she knows. Hank Beeson is out of his house and crossing the street before Hodges can bring Olivia

Trelawney’s Mercedes to a stop in the Hartsfield driveway. Hodges sighs and powers down the driver’s-side window. “I sure would like to know what’s going on,” Mr. Beeson says. “Does it have anything to do with all that mess down in Lowtown?” “Mr. Beeson,” Hodges says, “I appreciate your concern, but

you need to go back to your house and–” “No, wait,” Holly says. She’s leaning across the center console of Olivia Trelawney’s Mercedes so she can look up at Beeson’s face. “Tell me how Mr. Hartsfield sounds. I need to know how his voice sounds.” Beeson looks perplexed. “Like anyone, I guess. Why?”

“Is it low? You know, baritone?” “You mean like one of those fat opera singers?” Beeson laughs. “Hell, no. What kind of question is that?” “Not high and squeaky, either?” To Hodges, Beeson says, “Is your partner crazy?” Only a little, Hodges thinks. “Just answer the

question, sir.” “Not low, not high and squeaky. Regular! What’s going on?” “No accent?” Holly persists. “Like . . . um . . . Southern? Or New England? Or Brooklyn, maybe?” “No, I said. He sounds like anybody.” Holly sits back, apparently satisfied.

Hodges says, “Go back inside, Mr. Beeson. Please.” Beeson snorts but backs off. He pauses at the foot of his steps to cast a glare over his shoulder. It’s one Hodges has seen many times before, the I pay your salary, asshole glare. Then he goes inside, slamming the door behind him to make sure they get the point. Soon he appears once more at the

window with his arms folded over his chest. “What if he calls the cop shop to ask what we’re doing here?” Jerome asks from the back seat. Hodges smiles. It’s wintry but genuine. “Good luck with that tonight. Come on.” As he leads them single-file along the narrow path between the house and the garage, he

checks his watch. Quarter past six. He thinks, How the time flies when you’re having fun. They enter the kitchen. Hodges opens the basement door and reaches for the light switch. “No,” Holly says. “Leave it off.” He looks at her questioningly, but Holly has turned to Jerome.

“You have to do it. Mr. Hodges is too old and I’m a woman.” For a moment Jerome doesn’t get it, then he does. “Control equals lights?” She nods. Her face is tense and drawn. “It should work if your voice is anywhere close to his.” Jerome steps into the doorway, clears his throat self-

consciously, and says, “Control.” The basement remains dark. Hodges says, “You’ve got a naturally low voice. Not baritone, but low. It’s why you sound older than you really are when you’re on the phone. See if you can raise it up a little.” Jerome repeats the word, and the lights in the basement come on. Holly Gibney, whose

life has not exactly been a sitcom, laughs and claps her hands.