Finders Keepers (34 page)

Andrew Halliday is the only one not occupied. First editions no longer matter to him, nor do young waiters in tight black pants. Oil and water are the same as wind and air to him now. He's sleeping the big sleep in a patch of congealed blood, drawing flies.

19

Eleven o'clock. It's eighty degrees in the city, and the radio says the mercury's apt to touch ninety before subsiding.
Got
to be global warming, people tell each other.

Morris cruises past the Birch Street Rec twice, and is happy (though not really surprised) to see it's as deserted as ever, just an empty brick box baking under the sun. No police; no security cars. Even the crow has departed for cooler environs. He circles the block, noting that there's now a trim little Ford Focus parked in the driveway of his old house. Mr. or Mrs. Saubers has knocked off early. Hell, maybe both of them. It's nothing to Morris. He heads back to the Rec and this time turns in, going around to the rear of the building and parking in what he's now begun to think of as his spot.

He's confident that he's unobserved, but it's still a good idea to do this quickly. He carries his bags to the window he's forced up and drops them to the basement floor, where they land with a flat clap and twin puffs of dust. He takes a quick look around, then slides feet first through the window on his stomach.

A wave of dizziness runs through his head as he takes his first deep breath of the cool, musty air. He staggers a little, and puts his arms out for balance. It's the heat, he thinks. You've been too
busy to realize it, but you're dripping with sweat. Also, you ate no breakfast.

Both true, but the main thing is simpler and self-evident: he's not as young as he used to be, and it's been years since the physical exertions of the dyehouse. He's got to pace himself. Over by the furnace are a couple of good-sized cartons with
KITCHEN SUPPLIES
printed on the sides. Morris sits down on one of these until his heartbeat slows and the dizziness passes. Then he unzips the tote with Andy's little automatic inside, tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back, and blouses his shirt over it. He takes a hundred dollars of Andy's money, just in case he runs into any unforeseen expenses, and leaves the rest for later. He'll be back here this evening, may even spend the night. It sort of depends on the kid who stole his notebooks, and what measures Morris needs to employ in order to get them back.

Whatever it takes, cocksucker, he thinks. Whatever it takes.

Right now it's time to move on. As a younger man, he could have pulled himself out of that basement window easily, but not now. He drags over one of the
KITCHEN SUPPLIES
cartons—it's surprisingly heavy, probably some old busted appliance inside—and uses it as a step. Five minutes later, he's headed for Andrew Halliday Rare Editions, where he will park his old pal's car in his old pal's space and then spend the rest of the day soaking up the air-conditioning and waiting for the young notebook thief to arrive.

James Hawkins indeed, he thinks.

20

Quarter past two.

Hodges, Holly, and Jerome are on the move, headed for their positions around Northfield High: Hodges out front, Jerome on
the corner of Westfield Street, Holly beyond the high school's auditorium, on Garner Street. When they are in position, they'll let Hodges know.

In the bookshop on Lacemaker Lane, Morris adjusts his tie, turns the hanging sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and unlocks the door. He goes back to the desk and sits down. If a customer should come in to browse—not terribly likely at such a slack time of the day, but possible—he will be happy to help. If there's a customer here when the kid arrives, he'll think of something. Improvise. His heart is beating hard, but his hands are steady. The shakes are gone. I am a wolf, he tells himself. I'll bite if I have to.

Pete is in his creative writing class. The text is Strunk and White's
The Elements of Style
, and today they are discussing the famous Rule 13:
Omit needless words
. They have been assigned Hemingway's short story “The Killers,” and it has provoked a lively class discussion. Many words are spoken on the subject of how Hemingway omits needless words. Pete barely hears any of them. He keeps looking at the clock, where the hands march steadily toward his appointment with Andrew Halliday. And he keeps going over his script.

At twenty-five past two, his phone vibrates against his leg. He slips it out and looks at the screen.

Mom: Come right home after school, we need to talk.

His stomach cramps and his heart kicks into a higher gear. It might be no more than some chore that needs doing, but Pete doesn't believe it.
We need to talk
is Momspeak for
Houston, we have a problem
. It could be the money, and in fact that seems likely to him, because problems come in bunches. If it is, then Tina let the cat out of the bag.

All right. If that's how it is, all right. He will go home, and they
will talk, but he needs to resolve the Halliday business first. His parents aren't responsible for the jam he's in, and he won't
make
them responsible. He won't blame himself, either. He did what he had to do. If Halliday refuses to cut a deal, if he calls the police in spite of the reasons Pete can give him not to, then the less his parents know, the better. He doesn't want them charged as accessories, or something.

He thinks about switching his phone off and decides not to. If she texts him again—or if Tina does—it's better to know. He looks up at the clock and sees it's twenty to three. Soon the bell will ring, and he'll leave school.

Pete wonders if he'll ever be back.

21

Hodges parks his Prius fifty feet or so down from the high school's main entrance. He's on a yellow curb, but he has an old POLICE CALL card in his glove compartment, which he saves for just such parking problems. He places it on the dashboard. When the bell rings, he gets out of the car and leans against the hood with his arms folded, watching the bank of doors. Engraved above the entrance is the school's motto: EDUCATION IS THE LAMP OF LIFE. Hodges has his phone in one hand, ready to either make or receive a call, depending on who comes out or doesn't.

The wait isn't long, because Pete Saubers is among the first group of students to burst into the June day and come hurrying down the wide granite steps. Most of the kids are with friends. The Saubers boy is alone. Not the only one flying solo, of course, but there's a set look to his face, as if he's living in the future instead of the here and now. Hodges's eyes are as good as they ever
were, and he thinks that could be the face of a soldier going into battle.

Or maybe he's just worried about finals.

Instead of heading toward the yellow buses parked beside the school on the left, he turns right, toward where Hodges is parked. Hodges ambles to meet him, speed-dialing Holly as he goes. “I've got him. Tell Jerome.” He cuts the call without waiting for her to answer.

The boy angles to go around Hodges on the street side. Hodges steps in front of him. “Hey, Pete, got a minute?”

The kid's eyes snap front and center. He's good-looking, but his face is too thin and his forehead is spotted with acne. His lips are pressed so tightly together that his mouth is almost gone. “Who are you?” he asks. Not
Yes sir
or
Can I help you
. Just
Who are you
. The voice as tight-wired as the face.

“My name is Bill Hodges. I'd like to talk to you.”

Kids are passing them, chattering, elbowing, laughing, shooting the shit, adjusting backpacks. A few glance at Pete and the man with the thinning white hair, but none show any interest. They have places to go and things to do.

“About what?”

“In my car would be better. So we can have some privacy.” He points at the Prius.

The boy repeats, “About what?” He doesn't move.

“Here's the deal, Pete. Your sister Tina is friends with Barbara Robinson. I've known the Robinson family for years, and Barb persuaded Tina to come and talk to me. She's very worried about you.”

“Why?”

“If you're asking why Barb suggested me, it's because I used to be a police detective.”

Alarm flashes in the boy's eyes.

“If you're asking why Tina's worried, that's something we'd really be better off not discussing on the street.”

Just like that the look of alarm is gone and the boy's face is expressionless again. It's the face of a good poker player. Hodges has questioned suspects who are able to wipe their faces like that, and they are usually the ones who are toughest to crack. If they crack at all.

“I don't know what Tina said to you, but she's got nothing to worry about.”

“If what she told me is true, she might.” Hodges gives Pete his best smile. “Come on, Pete. I'm not going to kidnap you. Swear to God.”

Pete nods reluctantly. When they reach the Prius, the kid stops dead. He's reading the yellow card on the dashboard. “
Used
to be a police detective, or still are?”

“Used to be,” Hodges says. “That card . . . call it a souvenir. Comes in handy sometimes. I've been off the force and collecting my pension for five years. Please get in so we can talk. I'm here as a friend. If we stand out here much longer, I'm going to melt.”

“And if I don't?”

Hodges shrugs. “Then you're off.”

“Okay, but only for a minute,” Pete says. “I have to walk home today so I can stop at the drugstore for my father. He takes this stuff, Vioxx. Because he got hurt a few years ago.”

Hodges nods. “I know. City Center. That was my case.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Pete opens the passenger door and gets into the Prius. He doesn't seem nervous about being in a strange man's car. Careful and cautious, but not nervous. Hodges, who has done roughly ten thousand suspect and witness interviews over the years, is pretty
sure the boy has come to a decision, although he can't tell if it's to spill what's on his mind or keep it to himself. Either way, it won't take long to find out.

He goes around and gets in behind the wheel. Pete is okay with that, but when Hodges starts the engine, he tenses up and grabs the doorhandle.

“Relax. I only want the air-conditioning. It's damn hot, in case you didn't notice. Especially for so early in the year. Probably global warm—”

“Let's get this over with so I can pick up my dad's scrip and go home. What did my sister tell you? You know she's only thirteen, right? I love her to death, but Mom calls her Tina the Drama Queen-a.” And then, as if this explains everything, “She and her friend Ellen never miss
Pretty Little Liars
.”

Okay, so the initial decision is not to talk. Not all that surprising. The job now is to change his mind.

“Tell me about the cash that came in the mail, Pete.”

No tensing up; no
uh-oh
look flashing across the kid's face. He knew that was it, Hodges thinks. He knew as soon as his sister's name came up. He might even have had advance warning. Tina could have had a change of heart and texted him.

“You mean the mystery money,” Pete says. “That's what we call it.”

“Yeah. That's what I mean.”

“It started coming four years ago, give or take. I was about the age Tina is now. There'd be an envelope addressed to my dad every month or so. Never any letter with it, just the money.”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“Once or twice it might have been a little less or a little more, I guess. I wasn't always there when it came, and after the first couple of times, Mom and Dad didn't talk about it very much.”

“Like talking about it might jinx it?”

“Yeah, like that. And at some point, Teens got the idea I was the one sending it. Like as if. Back then I didn't even get an allowance.”

“If you didn't do it, who did?”

“I don't know.”

It seems he will stop there, but then he goes on. Hodges listens peacefully, hoping Pete will say too much. The boy is obviously intelligent, but sometimes even the intelligent ones say too much. If you let them.

“You know how every Christmas they have stories on the news about some guy giving out hundred-dollar bills in Walmart or wherever?”

“Sure.”

“I think it was that type of deal. Some rich guy decided to play Secret Santa with one of the people who got hurt that day at City Center, and he picked my dad's name out of a hat.” He turns to face Hodges for the first time since they got in the car, eyes wide and earnest and totally untrustworthy. “For all I know, he's sending money to some of the others, too. Probably the ones who got hurt the worst, and couldn't work.”

Hodges thinks, That's good, kiddo. It actually makes a degree of sense.

“Giving out a thousand dollars to ten or twenty random shoppers at Christmas is one thing. Giving well over twenty grand to one family over four years is something else. If you add in other families, you'd be talking about a small fortune.”

“He could be a hedge fund dude,” Pete says. “You know, one of those guys who got rich while everyone else was getting poor and felt guilty about it.”

He's not looking at Hodges anymore, now he's looking straight out of the windshield. There's an aroma coming off him, or so it seems to Hodges; not sweat but fatalism. Again he thinks of sol
diers preparing to go into battle, knowing the chances are at least fifty-fifty that they'll be killed or wounded.

“Listen to me, Pete. I don't care about the money.”

“I didn't send it!”

Hodges pushes on. It's the thing he was always best at. “It was a windfall, and you used it to help your folks out of a tough spot. That's not a bad thing, it's an admirable thing.”