Stephen King - Mr. Mercedes

“Here’s to you, Billy, and life after work.”

“Thanks.”

They click and drink. Pete asks about Allie and Hodges asks about Pete’s son and daughter. Their wives, both of the ex variety, are touched upon (as if to prove to each other—and themselves—that they are not afraid to talk about them) and then banished from the conversation. Food is ordered. By the time it comes, they have finished with Hodges’s two grandchildren and have analyzed the chances of the Cleveland Indians, which happens to be the closest major league team. Pete has ravioli, Hodges spaghetti with garlic and oil, what he has always ordered here.

Halfway through these calorie bombs, Pete takes a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and places it, with some ceremony, beside his plate.

“What’s that?” Hodges asks.

“Proof that my detective skills are as keenly honed as ever. I don’t see you since that horror show at Raintree Inn—my hangover lasted three days, by the way—and I talk to you, what, twice? Three times? Then, bang, you ask me to lunch. Am I surprised? No. Do I smell an ulterior motive? Yes. So let’s see if I’m right.”

Hodges gives a shrug. “I’m like the curious cat. You know what they say—satisfaction brought him back.”

Pete Huntley is grinning broadly, and when Hodges reaches for the folded slip of paper, Pete puts a hand over it. “No-no-no-no. You have to say it. Don’t be coy, Kermit .”

Hodges sighs and ticks four items off on his fingers. When he’s done, Pete pushes the folded piece of paper across the table. Hodges opens it and reads:

1. Davis

2. Park Rapist

3. Pawnshops

4. Mercedes Killer

Hodges pretends to be discomfited. “You got me, Sheriff. Don’t say a thing if you don’t want to.”

Pete grows serious. “Jesus, if you weren’t interested in the cases that were hanging fire when you hung up your jock, I’d be disappointed. I’ve been… a little worried about you.”

“I don’t want to horn in or anything.” Hodges is a trifle aghast at how smoothly this enormous whopper comes out.

“Your nose is growing, Pinocchio.”

“No, seriously. All I want is an update.”

“Happy to oblige. Let’s start with Donald Davis. You know the script. He fucked up every business he tried his hand at, most recently Davis Classic Cars. Guy’s so deep in debt he should change his name to Captain Nemo. Two or three pretty kitties on the side.”

“It was three when I called it a day,” Hodges says, going back to work on his pasta. It’s not Donald Davis he’s here about, or the City Park rapist, or the guy who’s been knocking over pawnshops and liquor stores for the last four years; they are just camouflage. But he can’t help being interested.

“Wife gets tired of the debt and the kitties. She’s prepping the divorce papers when she disappears. Oldest story in the world. He reports her missing and declares bankruptcy on the same day. Does TV interviews and squirts a bucket of alligator tears. We know he killed her, but with no body…” He shrugs. “You were in on the meetings with Diana the Dope.” He’s talking about the city’s district attorney.

“Still can’t persuade her to charge him?”

“No corpus delicious, no charge. The cops in Modesto knew Scott Peterson was guilty as sin and still didn’t charge him until they recovered the bodies of his wife and kid. You know that.”

Hodges does. He and Pete discussed Scott and Laci Peterson a lot during their investigation of Sheila Davis’s disappearance.

“But guess what? Blood’s turned up in their summer cabin by the lake.” Pete pauses for effect, then drops the other shoe. “It’s hers.”

Hodges leans forward, his food temporarily forgotten. “When was this?”

“Last month.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m telling you now. Because you’re asking now. The search out there is ongoing. The Victor County cops are in charge.”

“Did anyone see him in the area prior to Sheila’s disappearance?”

“Oh yeah. Two kids. Davis claimed he was mushroom hunting. Fucking Euell Gibbons, you know? When they find the body—if they find it—ole Donnie Davis can quit waiting for the seven years to be up so he can petition to have her declared dead and collect the insurance.” Pete smiles widely. “Think of the time he’ll save.”

“What about the Park Rapist?”

“It’s really just a matter of time. We know he’s white, we know he’s in his teens or twenties, and we know he just can’t get enough of that well-maintained matronly pussy.”

“You’re putting out decoys, right? Because he likes the warm weather.”

“We are, and we’ll get him.”

“It would be nice if you got him before he rapes another fiftysomething on her way home from work.”

“We’re doing our best.” Pete looks slightly annoyed, and when their waiter appears to ask if everything’s all right, Pete waves the guy away.

“I know,” Hodges says. Soothingly. “Pawnshop guy?”

Pete breaks into a broad grin. “Young Aaron Jefferson.”

“Huh?”

“That’s his actual name, although when he played football for City High, he called himself YA. You know, like YA Tittle. Although his girlfriend—also the mother of his three-year-old—tells us he calls the guy YA Titties. When I asked her if he was joking or serious, she said she didn’t have any idea.”

Here is another story Hodges knows, another so old it could have come from the Bible… and there’s probably a version of it in there someplace. “Let me guess. He racks up a dozen jobs—”

“It’s fourteen now. Waving that sawed-off around like Omar on The Wire .”

“—and keeps getting away with it because he has the luck of the devil. Then he cheats on baby mama. She gets pissed and rats him out.”

Pete points a finger-gun at his old partner. “Hole in one. And the next time Young Aaron walks into a pawnshop or a check-cashing emporium with his bellygun, we’ll know ahead of time, and it’s angel, angel, down we go.”

“Why wait?”

“DA again,” Pete says. “You bring Diana the Dope a steak, she says cook it for me, and if it isn’t medium-rare, I’ll send it back.”

“But you’ve got him.”

“I’ll bet you a new set of whitewalls that YA Titties is in County by the Fourth of July and in State by Christmas. Davis and the Park Rapist may take a little longer, but we’ll get them. You want dessert?”

“No. Yes.” To the waiter he says, “You still have that rum cake? The dark chocolate one?”

The waiter looks insulted. “Yes, sir. Always.”

“I’ll have a piece of that. And coffee. Pete?”

“I’ll settle for the last of the beer.” So saying, he pours it out of the pitcher. “You sure about that cake, Billy? You look like you’ve put on a few pounds since I saw you last.”

It’s true. Hodges eats heartily in retirement, but only for the last couple of days has food tasted good to him. “I’m thinking about Weight Watchers.”

Pete nods. “Yeah? I’m thinking about the priesthood.”

“Fuck you. What about the Mercedes Killer?”

“We’re still canvassing the Trelawney neighborhood—in fact, that’s where Isabelle is right now—but I’d be shocked if she or anyone else comes up with a live lead. Izzy’s not knocking on any doors that haven’t been knocked on half a dozen times before. The guy stole Trelawney’s luxury sled, drove out of the fog, did his thing, drove back into the fog, dumped it, and… nothing. Never mind Monsewer YA Titties, it’s the Mercedes guy who really had the luck of the devil. If he’d tried that stunt even an hour later, there would have been cops there. For crowd control.”