‘Like Dexter Morgan on that TV show.’

Hodges knows the one she’s talking about and shakes his head emphatically. Not just because the show is fantasyland bullshit, either.

‘Dexter knows why he’s doing what he’s doing. Our guy doesn’t. He’s almost certainly unmarried. He doesn’t date. He may be impotent. There’s a good chance he’s still living at home. If so, it’s probably with a single parent. If it’s Father, the relationship is cold and distant – ships passing in the night. If it’s Mother, there’s a good chance Mr Mercedes is her surrogate husband.’ He sees her start to speak and raises his hand. ‘That doesn’t mean they’re having a sexual relationship.’

‘Maybe not, but I’ll tell you something, Bill. You don’t have to sleep with a guy to be having a sexual relationship with him. Sometimes it’s in the eye contact, or the clothes you wear when you know he’s going to be around, or what you do with your hands – touching, patting, caressing, hugging. Sex has got to be in this somewhere. I mean, that letter he sent you … the stuff about wearing a condom while he did it …’ She shivers in her white robe.

‘Ninety percent of that letter is white noise, but sure, sex is in it somewhere. Always is. Also anger, aggression, loneliness, feelings of inadequacy … but it doesn’t do to get lost in stuff like that. It’s not profiling, it’s analysis. Which was way above my pay-grade even when I had a pay-grade.’

‘Okay …’

‘He’s broken,’ Hodges says simply. ‘And evil. Like an apple that looks okay on the outside, but when you cut it open, it’s black and full of worms.’

‘Evil,’ she says, almost sighing the word. Then, to herself rather than him: ‘Of course he is. He battened on my sister like a vampire.’

‘He could have some kind of job where he meets the public, because he’s got a fair amount of surface charm. If so, it’s probably a low-paying job. He never advances because he’s unable to combine his above-average intelligence with long-term concentration. His actions suggest he’s a creature of impulse and opportunity. The City Center killings are a perfect example. I think he had his eye on your sister’s Mercedes, but I don’t think he knew what he was actually going to do with it until just a few days before the job fair. Maybe only a few hours. I just wish I could figure out how he stole it.’

He pauses, thinking that thanks to Jerome, he has a good idea about half of it: the spare key was very likely in the glove compartment all along.

‘I think ideas for murder flip through this guy’s head as fast as cards in a good dealer’s fast shuffle. He’s probably thought of blowing up airliners, setting fires, shooting up schoolbuses, poisoning the water system, maybe assassinating the governor or the president.’

‘Jesus, Bill!’

‘Right now he’s fixated on me, and that’s good. It will make him easier to catch. It’s good for another reason, too.’

‘Which is?’

‘I’d rather keep him thinking small. Keep him thinking one-on-one. The longer he keeps doing that, the longer it will be before he decides to try putting on another horror show like the one at City Center, maybe on an even grander scale. You know what creeps me out? He’s probably already got a list of potential targets.’

‘Didn’t he say in his letter that he had no urge to do it again?’

He grins. It lights up his whole face. ‘Yeah, he did. And you know how you tell when guys like this are lying? Their lips are moving. Only in the case of Mr Mercedes, he’s writing letters.’

‘Or communicating with his targets on the Blue Umbrella site. Like he did with Ollie.’

‘Yeah.’

‘If we assume he succeeded with her because she was psychologically fragile … forgive me, Bill, but does he have reason to believe he can succeed with you for the same reason?’

He looks at his glass of wine and sees it’s empty. He starts to pour himself another half a glass, thinks what that might do to his chances of a successful return engagement in the bedroom, and settles for a small puddle in the bottom instead.

‘Bill?’

‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘Since my retirement, I’ve been drifting. But I’m not as lost as your sister …’ Not anymore, at least. ‘… and that’s not the important thing. It’s not the take-away from the letters, and from the Blue Umbrella communications.’

‘Then what is?’

‘He’s been watching. That’s the take-away. It makes him vulnerable. Unfortunately, it also makes him dangerous to my known associates. I don’t think he knows I’ve been talking to you—’

‘Quite a bit more than talking,’ she says, giving her eyebrows a Groucho waggle.

‘—but he knows Olivia had a sister, and we have to assume he knows you’re in the city. You need to start being super-careful. Make sure your door is locked when you’re here—’

‘I always do.’

‘—and don’t believe what you hear on the lobby intercom. Anyone can say he’s from a package service and needs a signature. Visually identify all comers before you open your door. Be aware of your surroundings when you go out.’ He leans forward, the splash of wine untouched. He doesn’t want it anymore. ‘Big thing here, Janey. When you are out, keep an eye on traffic. Not just driving but when you’re on foot. Do you know the term BOLO?’

‘Cop-speak for be on the lookout.’

‘That’s it. When you’re out, you’re going to BOLO any vehicles that seem to keep reappearing in your immediate vicinity.’

‘Like that lady’s black SUVs,’ she says, smiling. ‘Mrs Whozewhatsit.’

Mrs Melbourne. Thinking of her tickles some obscure associational switch in the back of Hodges’s mind, but it’s gone before he can track it down, let alone scratch it.

Jerome’s got to be on the lookout, too. If Mr Mercedes is cruising Hodges’s place, he’ll have seen Jerome mowing the lawn, putting on the screens, cleaning out the gutters. Both Jerome and Janey are probably safe, but probably isn’t good enough. Mr Mercedes is a random bundle of homicide, and Hodges has set out on a course of deliberate provocation.

Janey reads his mind. ‘And yet you’re … what did you call it? Winding him up.’

‘Yeah. And very shortly I’m going to steal some time on your computer and wind him up a little more. I had a message all worked out, but I’m thinking of adding something. My partner got a big solve today, and there’s a way I can use that.’

‘What was it?’

There’s no reason not to tell her; it will be in the papers tomorrow, Sunday at the latest. ‘Turnpike Joe.’

‘The one who kills women at rest stops?’ And when he nods: ‘Does he fit your profile of Mr Mercedes?’

‘Not at all. But there’s no reason for our guy to know that.’

‘What do you mean to do?’

Hodges tells her.

14

They don’t have to wait for the morning paper; the news that Donald Davis, already under suspicion for the murder of his wife, has confessed to the Turnpike Joe killings leads the eleven P.M. news. Hodges and Janey watch it in bed. For Hodges, the return engagement has been strenuous but sublimely satisfactory. He’s still out of breath, he’s sweaty and in need of a shower, but it’s been a long, long time since he felt this happy. This complete.

When the newscaster moves on to a puppy stuck in a drainpipe, Janey uses the remote to kill the TV. ‘Okay. It could work. But God, is it risky.’

He shrugs. ‘With no police resources to call on, I see it as my best way forward.’ And it’s fine with him, because it’s the way he wants to go forward.

He thinks briefly of the makeshift but very effective weapon he keeps in his dresser drawer, the argyle sock filled with ball bearings. He imagines how satisfying it would be to use the Happy Slapper on the sonofabitch who ran one of the world’s heaviest passenger sedans into a crowd of defenseless people. That probably won’t happen, but it’s possible. In this best (and worst) of all worlds, most things are.