Twilight at Mac’s Place

Thirty-eight

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. “Closeup.”

“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 linker 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.”