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!’

13

There’s a pocket park on the far side of Hanover. They cross at the WALK light, grab a bench, and watch a bunch of shaggy-haired middle-school boys dare life and limb in the sunken concrete skateboarding area. Odell divides his time between watching the boys and the ice cream cones.

‘You ever try that?’ Hodges asks, nodding at the daredevils.

‘No, suh!’ Jerome gives him a wide-eyed stare. ‘I is black. I spends mah spare time shootin hoops and runnin on de cinder track at de high school. Us black fellas is mighty fast, as de whole worl’ knows.’

‘Thought I told you to leave Tyrone at home.’ Hodges uses his finger to swop some ice cream off his cone and extends the dripping finger to Odell, who cleans it with alacrity.

‘Sometimes dat boy jus’ show up!’ Jerome declares. Then Tyrone is gone, just like that. ‘There’s no guy and no lady friend and no Beemer. You’re talking about the Mercedes Killer.’

So much for fiction. ‘Say I am.’

‘Are you investigating that on your own, Mr Hodges?’

Hodges thinks this over, very carefully, then repeats himself. ‘Say I am.’

‘Does the Debbie’s Blue Umbrella site have something to do with it?’

‘Say it does.’

A boy falls off his skateboard and stands up with road rash on both knees. One of his friends buzzes over, jeering. Road Rash Boy slides a hand across one oozing knee, flings a spray of red droplets at Jeering Boy, then rolls away, shouting ‘AIDS! AIDS!’ Jeering Boy rolls after him, only now he’s Laughing Boy.

‘Barbarians,’ Jerome mutters. He bends to scratch Odell behind the ears, then straightens up. ‘If you want to talk about it—’

Embarrassed, Hodges says, ‘I don’t think at this point—’

‘I understand,’ Jerome says. ‘But I did think about your problem while I was in line, and I’ve got a question.’

‘Yes?’

‘Your make-believe Beemer guy, where was his spare key?’

Hodges sits very still, thinking how very quick this kid is. Then he sees a line of pink ice cream trickling down the side of his waffle cone and licks it off.

‘Let’s say he claims he never had one.’

‘Like the woman who owned the Mercedes did.’

‘Yes. Exactly like that.’

‘Remember me telling you how my mom got pissed at my dad for calling Parsonville Whiteyville?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Want to hear about a time when my dad got pissed at my mom? The only time I ever heard him say, That’s just like a woman?’

‘If it bears on my little problem, shoot.’

‘Mom’s got a Chevy Malibu. Candy-apple red. You’ve seen it in the driveway.’

‘Sure.’

‘He bought it new three years ago and gave it to her for her birthday, provoking massive squeals of delight.’

Yes, Hodges thinks, Tyrone Feelgood has definitely taken a hike.

‘She drives it for a year. No problems. Then it’s time to re-register. Dad said he’d do it for her on his way home from work. He goes out to get the paperwork, then comes back in from the driveway holding up a key. He’s not mad, but he’s irritated. He tells her that if she leaves her spare key in the car, someone could find it and drive her car away. She asks where it was. He says in a plastic Ziploc bag along with her registration, her insurance card, and the owner’s manual, which she had never opened. Still had the paper band around it that says thanks for buying your new car at Lake Chevrolet.’

Another drip is trickling down Hodges’s ice cream. This time he doesn’t notice it even when it reaches his hand and pools there. ‘In the …’

‘Glove compartment, yes. My dad said it was careless, and my mom said …’ Jerome leans forward, his brown eyes fixed on Hodges’s gray ones. ‘She said she didn’t even know it was there. That’s when he said it was just like a woman. Which didn’t make her happy.’

‘Bet it didn’t.’ In Hodges’s brain, all sorts of gears are engaging.

‘Dad says, Honey, all you have to do is forget once and leave your car unlocked. Some crack addict comes along, sees the buttons up, and decides to toss it in case there’s anything worth stealing. He checks the glove compartment for money, sees the key in the plastic bag, and away he goes to find out who wants to buy a low-mileage Malibu for cash.’

‘What did your mother say to that?’

Jerome grins. ‘First thing, she turned it around. No one does that any better than my moms. She says, You bought the car and you brought it home. You should have told me. I’m eating my breakfast while they’re having this little discussion and thought of saying, If you’d ever checked the owner’s manual, Mom, maybe just to see what all those cute little lights on the dashboard signify, but I kept my mouth shut. My mom and dad don’t get into it often, but when they do, a wise person steers clear. Even the Barbster knows that, and she’s only nine.’

It occurs to Hodges that when he and Corinne were married, this is something Alison also knew.

‘The other thing she said was that she never forgets to lock her car. Which, so far as I know, is true. Anyway, that key is now hanging on one of the hooks in our kitchen. Safe, sound, and ready to go if the primary ever gets lost.’

Hodges sits looking at the skateboarders but not seeing them. He’s thinking that Jerome’s mom had a point when she said her husband should have either presented her with the spare key or at least told her about it. You don’t just assume people will do an inventory and find things by themselves. But Olivia Trelawney’s case was different. She bought her own car, and should have known.

Only the salesman had probably overloaded her with info about her expensive new purchase; they had a way of doing that. When to change the oil, how to use the cruise control, how to use the GPS, don’t forget to put your spare key in a safe place, here’s how you plug in your cell phone, here’s the number to call roadside assistance if you need it, click the headlight switch all the way to the left to engage the twilight function.

Hodges could remember buying his first new car and letting the guy’s post-sales tutorial wash over him – uh-huh, yep, right, gotcha – just anxious to get his new purchase out on the road, to dig the rattle-free ride and inhale that incomparable new-car smell, which to the buyer is the aroma of money well spent. But Mrs T. was obsessive-compulsive. He could believe she’d overlooked the spare key and left it in the glove compartment, but if she had taken her primary key that Thursday night, wouldn’t she also have locked the car doors? She said she did, had maintained that to the very end, and really, think about it—

‘Mr Hodges?’

‘With the new smart keys, it’s a simple three-step process, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Step one, turn off the engine. Step two, remove the key from the ignition. If your mind’s on something else and you forget step two, there’s a chime to remind you. Step three, close the door and push the button stamped with the padlock icon. Why would you forget that, with the key right there in your hand? Theft-Proofing for Dummies.’