“And who’s Warnock?”
“The guy Padillo and I hired to look after us while we mind you till the auction’s over.”
“How’d it play out?”
“Purchase shot Warnock in the side. Then Warnock killed him.”
“Where were you?”
“After he shot Warnock. Purchase made a dash for the front entrance. I tripped him, stomped his gun hand and kicked his piece away.”
“Then turned your back on him, right?”
McCorkle nodded. “To see about Warnock.”
“Dumb move,” Haynes said. “You should’ve kicked his face in first.”
“I thought I had.”
“What were you doing in the lobby?”
“Making sure Harry was on the job.”
“He’s an ex-cop?”
“Ex-IRA. The Kuwaitis are said to dote on him.”
“But he got shot.”
“Right.”
“And let this guy Purchase make it up to my room.”
“When Harry gets better, maybe he’ll send you a nice little note of apology.”
“How hurt is he?”
“That’s what I have to find out,” McCorkle said. “But there’s no need to drag you into it.” He reached into a pants pocket, brought out a key case, removed a key and handed it to Haynes. “Know where I live?”
Haynes nodded.
“The key’ll get you in. You’d better get dressed, get out of here and find a cab not too close by. Once you’re inside my apartment, go down the hall to the last bedroom on the left. In the chiffonier, third drawer down underneath some sweaters, you’ll find a Chief’s Special.”
“Loaded?”
McCorkle looked at Haynes curiously. “Of course.”
“Handy, too,” Haynes said. “Third drawer down underneath the sweaters.”
“Forget it then.”
“I’ll think about it,” Haynes said. “Will Erika be there?”
“Probably.”
“What do I tell her?”
“Tell her you’re sorry.”
“For what?”
“For all your faults,” McCorkle said.
Chapter 37
Darius Pouncy, the homicide detective-sergeant, didn’t get around to McCorkle until after the body of the man identified as Horace Purchase was removed from the lobby of the Willard Hotel. By then it was 11:33 A.M. and Pouncy, after announcing he was hungry, invited McCorkle to join him for what the detective promised to be “a little light lunch.”
In the hotel’s glittering Expresso Cafe, Pouncy ordered a large bowl of lentil soup and what turned out to be an enormous ham sandwich. McCorkle confined himself to a Beck’s beer and a cup of the soup, which he found to be quite good.
Pouncy apparently didn’t like to let conversation interfere with his food. He ate silently and quickly with precise movements and frequent, even delicate use of his napkin. McCorkle thought the detective had the best table manners he had seen in years. When Pouncy finished his ham sandwich, he called the waitress over, ordered a cappuccino for dessert and urged McCorkle to join him. McCorkle said he would have another bottle of Beck’s instead.
After the cappuccino came, Pouncy took a sip, leaned back in the booth and examined McCorkle. “Mac’s Place, huh?”
McCorkle nodded.
“Ate there a couple of times. Had us some real fine rack of lamb for two and, the second time, a hell of a roasted rolled pork.”
“I hope you’ll come again.”
Pouncy nodded, as if he would have to think about it, and sipped his cappuccino. After putting the cup down, he
