“I thought you’d be starting Chapter Three by now,” she said, placing the food on the desk.
“I didn’t open it.”
“Why not?”
“I wanted a witness.”
“Now that you have one, what do we do first—eat or open it?”
“Let’s open it,” he said, put the revolver back in his topcoat pocket and reached for the twelve-by-fourteen-inch envelope. After weighing the envelope and its contents by hefting it in the palm of his right hand, Haynes said, “Around three hundred and seventy-five pages.”
“How d’you know?”
“Because it weighs about three times as much as a screenplay for a feature and they usually run one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty pages.”
“Open it, for God’s sake.”
Haynes used a forefinger to rip the envelope’s flap. He removed a 2½-inch-thick manuscript, quickly flipped through it and looked up at Erika. “No blank pages,” he said.
“I noticed.”
He turned to the last page. “Three hundred and seventy-four.”
“You were close.”
“So I was.”
“How d’you want to work it?” she asked.
“Work what?”
“Do we eat first, read first or do both at the same time?”
“Let’s eat first,” he said. “Then I’ll start reading and hand you each page when I’m done.”
“You read fast?”
“Very.”
“Good,” she said. “So do I.”
Chapter 41
At 8:32 P.M. that Monday, just as Granville Haynes and Erika McCorkle reached page 102 of Mercenary Calling by the late Steadfast Haynes, a procession of invisible dignitaries was being led by Herr Horst through the twilight at Mac’s Place.
After the stately, if imaginary, procession came to a halt, Herr Horst gave two newly arrived diners one of his whiplash nods and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Pouncy. How nice. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of your company since June of last year. June fourteenth, I think it was.”
A flattered Detective-Sergeant Darius Pouncy used gruffness to conceal pleasure. “Didn’t make a reservation.”
Herr Horst smiled. “We’ve just had a cancellation. Will a booth be satisfactory?”
“Yeah, that’ll do.”
“Please,” Herr Horst said and led them slowly across the dining room that was unusually crowded for a Monday night. At the booth, a choice one, Herr Horst helped the Pouncys out of their coats, which he deposited in the waiting arms of a busboy. As he handed them menus, Herr Horst complimented Mrs. Pouncy on her dress, causing her to beam, and asked whether they would care for something from the bar.
Pouncy quickly ordered an extra-dry martini straight up, but not quickly enough to avoid his wife’s disapproving glare. She asked for a lime-flavored Perrier, if such were available. Herr Horst assured her it was.
At the bar, Herr Horst handed the drinks order to a waiter, picked up the bar phone and tapped two numbers. When McCorkle answered, Herr Horst said, “Sergeant and Mrs. Pouncy. No reservation. I gave them the number three booth.”
“Comp their drinks and take their orders yourself,” McCorkle said. “He likes his food, by the way.”
“I know,” Herr Horst said a little stiffly. “And if he should ask for you?”
“I’m available.”
“And Padillo?”
“Also.”
“Very good,” Herr Horst said, ending the call.
After a thoughtful and detailed discussion of the menu with Herr Horst, Sergeant Pouncy ordered grilled squab on a nest of green beans for himself and fettuccine with strips of Norwegian salmon, tomatoes and blanched garlic for Mrs. Pouncy. By the time the food was selected, Mrs. Pouncy and Herr Horst were such friends that he even convinced her to have a glass of wine with her fettuccine. Sergeant Pouncy announced that he didn’t usually drink wine either, but maybe Herr Horst could recommend a glass of something to go with the squab. Herr Horst said he was confident that he could.
By 9:36 P.M. the Pouncys had finished their dinner, turned down dessert and were waiting for their coffee. In the Bellevue Motel, Erika McCorkle and Granville Haynes had just reached page 233 of Mercenary Calling. Neither had spoken for almost two hours except when Haynes occasionally said, “Here,” when he handed her a new page.
McCorkle and the Pouncys’ coffee arrived together. After being introduced to Mrs. Pouncy, McCorkle agreed to join them for an espresso. He found Ozella Pouncy to be an unusually handsome woman still a few years shy of forty. She wore a beige silk dress that complemented her olive-brown skin, whose shade, McCorkle thought, was almost that of true sepia. He noticed that she also had enormous gentle-looking eyes and a wide, surprisingly stern mouth. McCorkle decided that if she wasn’t exactly formidable, she was at least stalwart and obviously her husband’s self-appointed protector, although he couldn’t help but wonder why she thought Pouncy needed one.
After the espresso arrived, Pouncy said, “That was one of the ten best meals I’ve had in a year.”
“Then I’m not only pleased but flattered,” McCorkle said.
“If you hadn’t dropped by, I was fixing to ask for you.”
“Any special reason?”
“That partner of yours around?”
McCorkle nodded. “Somewhere.”
“Then maybe you oughta invite him to join us because what I’ve gotta say concerns the two of you and he might as well hear it firsthand.”
When McCorkle hesitated, Pouncy said, “Don’t worry about Ozella here. I tell her everything.” He gave his wife a fond look. “Well, damn near everything. Helps keep my head on straight.”
“I can imagine,” McCorkle said, called a waiter over and asked him to relay an invitation to Padillo.
By the time Padillo arrived, McCorkle had learned that Ozella Pouncy taught music and art in a District junior high school, was an assistant choir director at her church and that there were two Pouncy children, Graham, fifteen, and Amelia, twelve.
Once the introductions were made, Padillo sat down next to Sergeant Pouncy. When Ozella Pouncy asked if he would like some coffee, Padillo smiled and said he had already reached his limit for the evening.
Pouncy leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table and dropped his voice into a conspiratorial murmur. “I could’ve called you guys with what I’m gonna say, but I figured they might’ve tapped your phones by now.”
He ended the statement with a glance at Padillo. If Pouncy was expecting a reaction, all he received was a polite nod. Pouncy nodded back thoughtfully and turned to McCorkle. “We closed the file on Horace Purchase early this evening. In fact, it was just after I dropped you off at your house with a message for Granville Haynes. He ever get my message?”
“He got it,” McCorkle said.
“Haven’t heard from him.”
“He has a lot on his mind.”
“Who closed the file on Purchase?” Padillo asked.
“Maybe you oughta be asking why, not who.”
“All right. Why?”
“Because we were told to.”
“Who told you?”
“The mayor told the chief and the chief told the captain who told the lieutenant who told me. I didn’t have nobody left to tell so I started closing it out. You’ll have to guess who told the mayor because juicy stuff like that never quite dribbles down to my level.”
“What’re you closing it out as?” McCorkle asked.
“Either self-defense or justifiable homicide,” Pouncy said. “They were still arguing about it when I got up and left.”
“It was both,” McCorkle said.
“Well, you were there and I wasn’t so I won’t argue. Besides, we got plenty of eyewitnesses who back you up. But that ain’t the point.”
“What is?” Padillo said.