“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
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.”
