Twilight at Mac's Place (23 page)

“You’re fishing.”

“I wasn’t aware of it.”

“Okay. Here it is. I’ve decided I don’t want to care about you too much. But that’s not something I can switch on and off. And that’s why I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for this time?”

“For all my faults,” Haynes said.

The wall telephone in the kitchen rang. Erika reached up and back, brought it down to her left ear and said hello. She listened, said, “Hold on,” and handed the phone to Haynes. “It’s Padillo.”

After Haynes said hello, Padillo said, “You’d better stay where you are till I get there.”

“Why?”

“Tinker Burns. They found him shot dead in Rock Creek Park.”

Even dead, Tinker Burns wore his dove-gray Borsalino homburg at a slightly
rakish angle. He sat on a wooden picnic bench, facing out, his back propped against the edge of the tabletop. There were two small black holes in the left lapel of his double-breasted gray suit—the one with the faint chalk stripe.

A civilian Metropolitan Police Department photographer squatted in front of the dead man for a close-up of the bullet holes. Burns’s topcoat was folded neatly on the bench beside him. His hands lay palms-up in his lap. His eyes were closed; his mouth slightly open. His lined face had lost little, if any, of its old tropical tan.

The picnic area, only yards from Rock Creek itself, had been cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape. Plainclothes detectives and technicians poked about, muttering to each other. Uniformed police directed traffic on the park’s asphalt roadway, hurrying the motorized gawkers along. Some walkers and joggers stood behind the yellow tape, waiting to see what happened next.

Darius Pouncy, with McCorkle in tow, arrived shortly before the ambulance and just after an assistant coroner. Pouncy left McCorkle behind the yellow tape, ducked under it, went over to Tinker Burns and stared down at him for almost a minute. He then talked to the assistant coroner briefly; listened to what two senior detectives had to say; asked a few questions and walked back to McCorkle, who was still on the other side of the yellow tape.

“Looks like he got shot twice,” Pouncy said. “Close-up.”

“Who found him?”

“A couple of kids,” Pouncy said, again looking at the dead Tinker Burns. He turned back to McCorkle with a bleak look and added, “Black kids. Fourteen and fifteen. Dropouts. Wallet was still in his inside breast pocket. Seven hundred dollars in it.” Pouncy looked down at the ground, then up at McCorkle. “I figure the kids took a hundred apiece. Maybe more. Maybe less.”

“Tinker won’t care,” McCorkle said.

Pouncy nodded glumly.

“How d’you read it?” McCorkle said.

“You mean how’d he get here?”

“That’s a good place to start.”

“I don’t know,” Pouncy said. “Cab most likely. Sun must’ve been out then because he took his topcoat off and folded it up all nice and neat. Sat there on the bench, face up to the sun maybe, waiting for whoever he was gonna meet. Party drives up in a car, gets out, goes over, says, ‘Nice day,’ does the business, does it twice in fact, gets back in the car and goes home or maybe into some bar for a little bracer.”

“And Tinker just lets it happen?” McCorkle said.

Pouncy jabbed his finger into McCorkle’s chest. “Take about that long to do it. Two seconds. Three tops.”

“If it was somebody Tinker knew.”

“Didn’t have to be somebody he knew. Just had to be somebody he was expecting.”

“You think this same somebody killed Isabelle and Undean.”

“That a question?” Pouncy said. “Sure as hell didn’t sound like a question.”

“Let’s make it one.”

“Then, yeah, I think it’s the same somebody. But thinking it’s not proving it. All I got for sure is this: there were four people out at Arlington on Friday and by Monday three of ’em are homicide cases. The last one left of the four is the son of the guy they buried Friday. And the only reason he’s still alive is because Horse Purchase fucked up somehow.” Pouncy turned to watch Tinker Burns being zipped into a bodybag. “Got any notion of where Granville is?”

“Probably at my place,” McCorkle said.

Pouncy turned back quickly. “Thought you said he might be at another hotel or with his lawyer or a friend.”

“He’s with my daughter. She’s the friend.”

“She watching out for him?” Pouncy asked, not bothering to soften the sarcasm.

“My partner’s on the way.”

“The Mr. Padillo you called from the Willard?”

McCorkle nodded.

“He know how to do?”

“He knows.”

“Course, it’s not like Granville’s exactly helpless—him being an ex-homicide cop out there in L.A. and all.”

“Far from helpless.”

“Young, too. Younger’n your partner, I expect.”

“Much.”

“What’d your partner say when you called and told him Tinker Burns was dead?”

“He said, ‘That’s too bad.’ ”

Hamilton Keyes, the future ambassador, was behind the desk in his library when he heard the faint hum of the electric motor that raised the garage door. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was 1:16
P.M
.

Muriel Keyes entered the library minutes later and sank into a chair with an exasperated sigh.

“That was a short lunch,” Keyes said.

“She cancelled at the last moment,” Muriel Keyes said. “Can you imagine? I spent the entire morning—well, an hour or two anyway—out at Neiman’s, then drove all the way to the Hill to that awful restaurant she likes and got there at exactly twelve-thirty. She calls at twelve thirty-five. ‘Sorry, sweetie, but the congressman has to go to New York and I’m driving him to catch the shuttle. It’s my only chance to talk with him.’ ”

It was a perfect imitation and Keyes smiled.

“Goddamn all amateur lobbyists,” Muriel Keyes said.

“You must be hungry.”

“Not very. Did you go out?”

“For a while. When I got back there was a message from Senator Mushmouth.”

“And?”

“He’s talked to young Haynes’s lawyer, Howard Mott—d’you know him?”

“I know his wife and her sister. His wife was Lydia Stallings and her sister, Joanna, is married to Neal Hineline at State.”

“The noted thinker and car wax heir,” Keyes said.

“He is a bit dim, isn’t he? But Joanna’s nice. I haven’t seen Lydia Mott in years.”

“Well, her husband wants to hold the—what? the auction?—in the senator’s office. I told Mott it would be okay.”

“Who cares where it’s held as long as you get it over with?” she said.

“It’ll start at ten Wednesday morning and I see no reason why it should last more than an hour, if that.”

“Who’ll be there?”

“The senator, of course. Howard Mott. Young Haynes. And I.”

“Really? I thought it was to be only Haynes and the lawyers.”

“It was, but I suspect Howard Mott decided he wanted to be a bit closer to the source of the Federal money.”

“Who can blame him?” she said. “Is he a good lawyer?”

“He’s a superb criminal defense attorney. One of the best.”

“Well, let’s hope we never need him.”

“Why would we?” Keyes said.

His wife rose with a smile. “Who knows?” She began to say something else, changed her mind and asked. “How does a bacon and egg sandwich sound?”

“Tempting,” said Hamilton Keyes.

After an hour the repetition began, as it usually does, and Howard Mott decided he had heard enough—or at least everything that was pertinent. He turned to Granville Haynes and said, “Go bury yourself somewhere until ten o’clock Wednesday morning.”

The five of them were gathered in McCorkle’s living room. Padillo had been there for nearly two hours. Mott for an hour and fifteen minutes. McCorkle had been the last to arrive, dropped off an hour before by Darius Pouncy with a stern reminder that the detective still wanted to talk to Granville Haynes.

Mott sat in one of the four cane-backed chairs that looked as if they should be drawn up to a bridge table, which they sometimes were. Erika McCorkle and Haynes sat side by side on a couch that wore a faded chintz slipcover. McCorkle was on the bench in front of the Steinway baby grand that his wife, Fredl, played beautifully and he played rather badly by ear. His best, if not his favorite, piece remained “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

The living room faced south and east. The east windows overlooked Connecticut Avenue. The south windows provided a view of the building next door. It was a large and pleasant room that offered what once had been a wood-burning fireplace. Six years ago, McCorkle had substituted gas logs for real ones. His stated reason had been that gas logs cut down on pollution. His true reason was that real logs were just too much bother.

The two McCorkles, Padillo and Mott stared at Haynes, waiting to see how he would respond to the suggestion that he go bury himself somewhere.

“A motel would be best,” Haynes said.

“Consider Maryland,” Mott said. “Or even West Virginia out near Harpers Ferry.”

Haynes nodded his agreement and said, “I’ll have to rent a car.”

“Better you borrow one,” McCorkle said.

Erika turned to Haynes. “You can have mine.”

“Too many people know about you and Granville,” Padillo said.

“Know what?” she snapped.

Padillo smiled and made a small defensive gesture with both palms. “That you’ve been hauling him around in your car—that’s all.”

Mott cleared his throat and said, “I think I have a solution. He took out his wallet, found a card and used a pen to write something on it. When finished, he rose, went over to Haynes and handed him the card.

“It’s the garage in Falls Church where Steady’s old Cadillac is,” Mott said. “I’ll call the owner and tell him somebody’s picking it up.”

Padillo liked the idea. “Take a cab out there,” he urged Haynes. “You have any cash?”

“A few hundred.”

Padillo took out a wallet, looked inside, then handed Haynes a sheaf of tens and twenties. “Here’s a couple of hundred more.” He looked at McCorkle, who was already examining the contents of his own billfold. “How much’ve you got?” Padillo asked.

“Three hundred,” McCorkle said, rose and handed the bills to Haynes.

Mott took a small roll from a pants pocket, removed five $100 bills and gave them to Haynes. “A contribution from Tinker Burns.”

Haynes grinned his father’s grin. “Tinker pay you his retainer in cash?”

“He tried to.”

“You know the routine,” Padillo said.

Haynes nodded as he put the money away in a pants pocket. “Cash in advance. Use a phony name to register. I’ve always liked ‘Clarkson’ because it’s not too common and not too rare. On the registration form, give the car’s make but shift the model year up or down a year or two. Invent a license number. If they ask for a driver’s license, walk.”

“I’ll go with you,” Erika said. “That way you can register as Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Clarkson.”

There was a brief silence before Haynes said, “I like the name,” and turned to look at McCorkle. Padillo and Mott also looked at him. Erika didn’t.

McCorkle was busy removing the childproof wrapping from a piece of Nicorette gum. Haynes noticed it was taking him much longer than usual. McCorkle finally got the piece out, popped it into his mouth and gave it seven or eight ruminative chews as he studied the ceiling.

He then looked at his daughter, whose back was still to him, and said, “That’s not such a bad idea, Erika.”

The private room on the third floor of Sibley Hospital in far northwest Washington
was guarded by Mr. Pabst and Mr. Schlitz. When Pabst noticed Padillo and McCorkle coming out of an elevator, he nudged Schlitz, and the two big men rose from folding metal chairs to plant themselves in front of the room’s door.

“No visitors,” Pabst warned when McCorkle and Padillo were close enough to hear him.

The would-be visitors came to a stop. Padillo stared at Pabst for several seconds, then said, “Tell him we’re here.”

“I just told you. No visitors.”

“Tell him,” said Padillo, somehow managing to turn the two softly spoken words into pure menace.

Pabst studied the fire extinguisher to Padillo’s right. “If he don’t wanta see you, you don’t go in.”

Padillo, still staring at Pabst, said nothing. McCorkle gave Schlitz a friendly grin and a nod, which weren’t returned. Pabst shot a furtive glance at Padillo, then darted into the hospital room and came out less than fifteen seconds later to announce: “Harry says it’s okay.”

Inside the room, McCorkle and Padillo found Harry Warnock lying in bed on his back. An intravenous drip solution had been inserted into a vein in his left arm.

McCorkle said, “You look like hell.”

“But far better than Horse Purchase,” Warnock said. “The fucker nicked my liver and the quacks say I best lay off the booze for a few months. And ’tis this sad news that’s causing me to look so dismal.”

“Sad news indeed,” McCorkle said.

Warnock turned his head to look at Padillo, who had moved around to the other side of the bed. “You should’ve seen him, Michael.”

“Who?”

“McCorkle.”

“I heard.”

“One had to be there. Especially when he took his high hop to the right. I thought he’d never come down. A regular fucking Nureyev, he was.” Warnock paused, looked back at McCorkle and said, “How’s the client?”

“Fine.”

“All safe and sound?”

McCorkle nodded.

“I fucked up,” Warnock said. “I didn’t figure on the likes of Purchase and when he came through those elevator doors, he surprised the shit out of me. I thought he might be working a twofer—you
and
the client. All I could do was make him notice me first.” He paused, took a deep breath, winced, let it out slowly and said, “If I’d even suspected it was Purchase who’d be coming, I’d’ve been up in the room with two helpers and the client locked in the bath.” He looked at Padillo again. “Did Horse make a move on him?”

Padillo said he had.

“What made him miss?”

“The client,” Padillo said. “He’s something of a mimic.”

Warnock grinned. “Voices, right? Two voices talking behind the hotel room door. By God, I like that.”

“Tell us about Purchase, Harry,” Padillo said.

“You never heard of him?”

“Never.”

“I’d call that passing strange, Michael, except you’ve been out of it for years—or so they say.”

“They’re right.”

“Well, young Horse Purchase joined the Army at eighteen in nineteen sixty-three and after they measured his IQ, which was way up there, and noticed his fine eyesight, reflexes and coordination, they shipped him off to Special Forces—poor Mr. Kennedy’s pet outfit. Horse did six years, most of it in Vietnam, and enjoyed his work. He enjoyed it so much the Army thought it’d best get rid of him. And that it did in ’sixty-nine. Horse never married. Never drank. Never did dope. But he had his trade and his trade was his life so be decided to hire himself out.”

“Who to, Harry?” Padillo asked.

“Well, he sure as shit didn’t run any ad in
Soldier of Fortune
, did he? But the word got around as it always does and he was choosy. Horse’d only work for those who could come up with twenty-five thousand cash.”

“I heard fifty,” McCorkle said.

“That was later. Twenty years ago when Horse was just starting out, twenty-five thousand was worth what seventy-five is today.”

“You can hire a semi-pro in this town or Baltimore for two thousand,” Padillo said. “If it’s toward the end of the month and the rent’s due, the price drops to seventeen fifty. New York’s about the same, although I heard it’s slightly higher west of the Rockies.”

“And for those prices it’s careless work you’ll be getting, too,” Warnock said. “Horse was a pro, a dedicated craftsman, and ’tis very, very lucky I am to be alive today.”

McCorkle looked concerned. “Does it hurt much when your Irish starts hemorrhaging like that, Harry?”

Warnock grinned up at him, then looked at Padillo. “So it’s who hired Horse that you want to know, is it? Well, you should be asking yourself this, Michael: Who can lay out fifty or seventy-five thousand cash for the services the late Horse Purchase was so willing and even anxious to provide?”

“Major dope dealers,” Padillo said.

“To be sure. But who else?”

“The rich—private or corporate.”

“And three?”

“Governments.”

“Ah!”

“How’d you know Purchase, Harry?” McCorkle said.

“We met but once—late in my former life.”

“Your IRA days,” Padillo said.

Warnock ignored him and went on talking to McCorkle. “He and I once held some exploratory talks that went nowhere.”

“Why not?”

“Because Horse felt the risk too great and the reward too small. But we parted amicably.”

“You mentioned governments, Harry,” Padillo said.

“
You
mentioned them, Michael. Not I.”

“Which governments?”

“How would I be knowing a wicked thing like that?”

“It’s your stock-in-trade.”

“Well, far be it from me to spread rumors—even about the likes of such a shit as Horse Purchase, God rest his soul. But I have heard a whisper or two about how he once did bits of piecework for the lads out at Langley.” Warnock paused to paint a coat of piety across his face. “But I don’t believe that for a minute, do you, Michael?”

“Not even for a second,” Padillo said.

Dark’s Garage in Falls Church, Virginia, had a sign inside that read: “Foreign & Domestic, The Older the Better. Ledell Dark, Prop.” Erika McCorkle read the sign aloud with obvious approval. As she read, Granville Haynes looked around the long narrow garage and noticed a Packard from the 1940s, an Avanti, a 1948 Buick Roadmaster, an ancient Citroën sedan (the getaway model), a Humber Super Snipe and a TR-3 that looked almost new.

The Cadillac that Steadfast Haynes had bequeathed to his son was being driven from the rear of the garage at a stately 2 mph by Ledell Dark, Prop. It was a 1976 Eldorado convertible, the last one made, with a glossy black finish, a black canvas top that looked new, black leather seats and what Haynes guessed to be a thousand pounds of glittering chrome. It also looked a block long.

It came to a slow stop the way a large boat might. Ledell Dark got out and removed the 6-foot-long, 2
¹
/2-foot-wide strip of reddish paper, ripped from a butcher’s roll, that had protected the driver’s seat. After discarding the paper, Dark stripped off his immaculate white cotton gardening gloves and stuffed them into a pocket.

A contented-looking man in his forties, Dark wore a studious, almost pedantic air and a pair of white coveralls with “The Older the Better” stitched across the back in red letters. He had the build of the average man in his forties who shuns exercise. There was a slight stoop. A bit of a paunch. And a face that Haynes classified as American-mild—except for the blazing green eyes that could only belong to a fanatic.

The green eyes were now half closed and the head was slightly tilted as Dark listened to the idling Cadillac engine. He smiled and nodded approvingly, then walked over to Erika and Haynes. “Know what I’d do if she was mine?” he asked. “I’d buy her a set of gangster whites.”

When Erika looked puzzled, Dark explained, “Big wide white sidewall tires like they had in the thirties and forties—but mostly the thirties.”

“You’re saying it needs new tires?”

“Well, it’s not exactly a matter of need,” Dark said, “although those four’ve got a few too many miles on ’em. It’s more a case of, well, you know—”

“Esthetics,” Haynes suggested as he opened the Cadillac passenger door for Erika.

“Yeah, right,” Dark said. “Esthetics.”

Once Erika was inside. Haynes closed the door and said, “I’ll tell Mr. Mott.”

“You also oughta tell him that some guy wandered in here late last Saturday, took one look and offered me twenty thousand cash for the Caddie. That means he’ll go twenty-five. You can always tell how high they’ll go by how much they slobber. I call it the drool factor.” Dark paused. “I got his name and number if you want it.”

“Okay,” Haynes agreed.

“Said his name was Horace Purchase.”

Haynes turned quickly toward the TR-3 to hide the surprise that he suspected was rearranging his face. Still staring at the old Triumph roadster, he said, “Purchase wants to purchase it, huh?”

Dark grinned, obviously amused. “Know something? That’s exactly how I remembered his name. Purchase wants to purchase it.”

Haynes turned back and said, “These old cars must be worth a lot of money.”

“That Packard behind you?” Dark said.

Haynes again turned to look.

“That’s a nineteen forty convertible with a Darrin body and a frame-off restoration. Probably fetch a hundred, maybe even a hundred and twenty thousand.”

“Then you must have one hell of a security problem.”

“But I also got me a state-of-the-art security system,” Dark said with a proud smile that a frown suddenly erased. “When that Purchase fella was here, he wanted that old Caddie so bad I thought he might bang me over the head and drive off in it. So I sort of discouraged him.”

“How?” Haynes asked.

Dark stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Haynes heard them coming a second or two later, their claws clicking on the concrete floor, their growls punctuated by angry barks. He turned to find three rott-weilers racing toward him, fangs bared and eyes blazing. Haynes also found there was no time to run or hide and just barely enough to wonder how much it would hurt.

Dark whistled again. The dogs stopped abruptly, skidding a little, then sat down on their haunches. One of them yawned and scratched his right ear with a hind foot. The other two seemed to grin at Haynes.

“Three of them,” he said.

“They fight over who’s boss. Keeps ’em mean. With two, you get buddies. With three, rivals.”

“What did Purchase do when you whistled them up?”

“He sort of froze just like you did. Just like everybody does. Still want his phone number?”

“I don’t,” Haynes said. “But Mr. Mott might.”