She was frowning when she looked at him again. “I can’t decide.”
“About Padillo?”
“About you. Sometimes you remind me of Mike, sometimes of Pop. But you really aren’t like either of them. And maybe that’s why I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“That you didn’t sleep much last night although I don’t understand why.”
“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.”
Chapter 38
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.