“I saw Isabelle for the first time in almost twenty years at my old man’s grave at Arlington. She said maybe fifteen or twenty words. Then she, Tinker Burns and I had lunch at Mac’s Place, where she said maybe another fifty or seventy-five words. If that.”
“Talked about a book, I believe.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“Talked about your daddy’s autobiography. Memoirs.”
“They were mentioned.”
“She either wrote the thing or helped write it.”
Haynes nodded.
“What kind of book you think it is?”
“The story of his life.”
“Well, shit, I know that. I mean is it one of those red-hot expose books? You know: Bill stole this. Tom stole that. But I didn’t steal nothing.”
“Some might think so.”
“Even worry about it?”
“Possibly.”
“Maybe even try to hush it up? Put a lid on it?”
“Who d’you have in mind?”
Pouncy shrugged. “The CIA. Who else?”
“Then ask them.”
“Your daddy worked for them, didn’t he?”
“A lot of people say he did, but you’ll have to ask the people out at Langley.”
“Already have,” Pouncy said. “At least, I got somebody to ask for me. Somebody with a little more clout than I got since mine’s right down there next to zero. Know what they told him, this deacon of mine with all the clout? Told him they got no trace of any Steadfast Haynes ever working for them.”
“I’m not surprised,” Haynes said.
“Not surprised at what? That they didn’t have any trace of him? Or that they’d lie about it?”
“Take your pick,” Haynes said.
After Sergeant Pouncy left to take his wife to church, Haynes checked with the concierge and found that he had eight messages. Six of them were from Mr. Burns. The other two were from Mr. McCorkle, who had called at 8:42 A.M., and Mr. Padillo, who had called at a quarter past nine.
Up in his room, Haynes called Tinker Burns first at the Madison Hotel and listened to the phone in room 427 ring nineteen times before the hotel operator suggested that Mr. Burns must not be in his room. Haynes agreed, thanked her, broke the connection and called McCorkle.
When his daughter answered the call, Haynes said, “Your dad left a message for me to call him. Is he apoplectic?”
“Apologetic,” she said.
“Why?”
“I’d better let him tell you.”
Although she obviously had covered the mouthpiece with her hands, Haynes could still hear the yell. “Pop. It’s Granville.”
There was the sound of an extension phone being picked up, followed by McCorkle’s voice. “Granville?”
“Yes.”
McCorkle was silent for a few seconds until he sighed and said, “Okay, Erika, hang it up.”
Once his daughter did so, McCorkle said, “I’ve got rotten news.”
“How rotten?”
“I was stuck up last night by a false frump with a dummy bomb and a silenced Sauer thirty-two.” He paused, sighed again and said, “She got Steady’s manuscript. I’m very sorry.”
There was a long pause that Haynes finally ended with, “A silenced Sauer is what a pro would use. But the dummy bomb’s a new touch. I’d like to hear about it after you answer one question.”
“What?”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Only my pride.”
“Then you must’ve done everything exactly right.”
“Padillo doesn’t think so.”
“She take both of you?”
