“The IRS, the State Department, the Social Security folks, the Department of Motor Vehicles, the bank, the doctor, the dentist, my wife, two or three close friends and probably any reasonably clever thief who was hell-bent on opening it up.”
Haynes nodded, as though satisfied, and asked, “Where can I find Isabelle?”
“You try the Hay-Adams?”
“She checked out.”
“What about the farm in Berryville?”
“No answer although I’m not sure she’s had time to get there yet.”
“Is that where she was going?”
“I don’t know.”
McCorkle returned to the desk, sat down, picked up the telephone and tapped out a number from memory. Haynes guessed the call was answered two and a half rings later.
“It’s McCorkle, Sid. I need our D.C. billing address for Gelinet, Isabelle.”
He put the cigarette out in an ashtray, took a ballpoint pen and a scrap of paper from the middle drawer of the partners desk and wrote down the address.
“Phone number?”
McCorkle also wrote that down; thanked Sid, the accountant; hung up the telephone and handed the scrap of paper to Haynes. “Connecticut Avenue.”
Haynes looked up from the address. “Thirty-eight hundred block?”
“You remember Washington?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Remember Taft Bridge on Connecticut—the one with the lions?”
Haynes nodded.
“It’s a little more than a mile north of the lions on the right. Anything else?”
“I need a hotel.”
“Cheap, moderate, expensive, what?”
“Different.”
“Go to the Willard. You’ll find it completely restored in brand-new Second Empire style with just a touch of Potomac baroque thrown in. There’re also some old ladies sitting in its lobby who I’d swear were sitting there when I first came through Washington in nineteen fifty.”
“I already like it,” Haynes said.
“Want me to make you a reservation?”
“You’re sure it’s no trouble?”
“No trouble at all,” McCorkle said, again picking up the telephone.
He was just putting it down a few minutes later when someone knocked twice at the door. Before McCorkle could say “Come in” or “Who’s there?” the door opened and a yellow-haired woman of twenty-one or twenty-two swept in, wearing a belted camel’s-hair polo coat and a smile that, for some reason, reminded Haynes of California sunshine on a smog-free day.
Her smile was aimed at McCorkle but vanished at the sight of Haynes. She frowned, gasped slightly—or pretended to—and said, “My God. The ghost of Steady Haynes.”
“The son,” Haynes said.
“I was very fond of Steady.”
“As he must’ve been of you, whoever you are.”
McCorkle sighed. “My daughter, Erika; Granville Haynes.”
In only two long strides she was in front of Haynes, her right hand extended. Haynes discovered that the right hand of Erika McCorkle felt strong and dextrous, as if it could change a tire or sew a fine seam with equal proficiency. She was only a few inches shorter than Haynes, and her eyes, he noticed, were a far, far lighter blue than his own. They were, indeed, almost gray.
She held onto his hand just long enough to say, “I’m so very sorry about Steady and, God, you do look like him.”
“You’re very kind,” Haynes said.
“I left at seven this morning,” she said, turning to McCorkle. “I wanted to say good-bye to Steady at Arlington. But that piece of GM junk broke down again and by the time I got it fixed it was too late for Steady and too late to pick you up at Dulles. How’s Mutti bearing up under all the relatives?”
“Nobly,” McCorkle said. “How’s school?”
“It’s over. Done with.”
“You quit?”
“Graduated.”
