Read Online Mr. Mercedes: A Novel by Stephen King - Free Book Online

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