“That fella Dark? He like to talk my arm off.” Sheriff Shipp paused to let a small measure of concern creep into his tone. “He was supposed to pick it up, wasn’t he? Least, that’s what Mr. Mott called and told me.”
“That’s right, he was,” Haynes said. “But I’m wondering whether anyone ever said anything about wanting to buy it?”
“You fixin’ to sell it?”
“Maybe.”
“You know, Granville, a fella did drop by last week and say he was interested in buying it. Wasn’t more’n a day or two after Dark came and got it. I told him to call Mr. Mott or go talk to Dark. Even gave him the address of Dark’s garage in Falls Church. Tell the truth, I think this fella was more’n just interested. I think he was in love with that car.”
“He give you his name?”
“If he did, I forgot it.”
“Was his name Purchase by any chance?”
There was a long silence until the sheriff said, “Granville?”
“Yes.”
“Just what the fuck’re you up to? We may be way out here in the boonies but when somebody with the name of Purchase gets himself killed during a shoot-out in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, the name sort of sticks in the mind—know what I mean?”
“Probably a different Purchase,” Haynes said.
“I’m afraid I lied to you, Granville. The man who wanted to buy Steady’s car—his name was Horace Purchase. The man who got killed in the Willard—his name was also Horace Purchase, or so CNN claims. Soon as I heard his name mentioned on the TV I got on the phone and called Washington homicide. They put me onto a real smart colored fella—Detective-Sergeant Pouncy—and him and me got to talking and it turns out he’s just dying to have a word with you.”
“I’ll call him,” Haynes said.
“Might be a good idea because soon as we hang up I’m gonna call and tell him I just talked to you.” Shipp paused yet again. “Or I could have him call you if you’ll gimme the number you’re calling from.”
Haynes made up a number. Shipp repeated it, sounding dubious, and said, “Just a couple of more things, Granville. First of all, I’m sorry I had to lie to you about not remembering that fella Purchase’s name. And second, they came out early yesterday and got old Zip and I expect he’s doggie dinner by now.”
“Thanks very much, Sheriff,” Haynes said, ended the call and turned to look up at Erika, who was standing between the two beds. “You get most of that?”
“Your lies anyway.”
“Here’s the rest: Purchase found out the car was at Dark’s from the sheriff. The sheriff found out who Purchase was from CNN. He then talked to Sergeant Pouncy, who wants to talk to me more than ever.”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“When I have something to say, I will,” Haynes said, rose and started toward the door, patting the right pocket of his topcoat as if to make certain McCorkle’s pistol was still there.
Erika picked up her coat from the bed and asked, “Where’re we going?”
“To stash the car someplace. Maybe at Howard Mott’s.”
“Why there?”
“So I can take it apart.”
“Steady wouldn’t have hidden the manuscript in his car.”
“You might think that. And I might think that. But Horace Purchase sure as hell didn’t. And I’m fairly sure that whoever hired Purchase has by now talked to Ledell Dark, Prop. And Mr. Dark has probably told him all about my interest in Purchase and even what your overnight bag looks like. And I’d also bet that right now somebody is checking motel registers by phone and in person, asking about an attractive young couple in an old black Cadillac convertible—not exactly the world’s most anonymous car.”
“The manuscript could be in a safety-deposit box—or buried on Steady’s farm eight paces north of the sour apple tree.”
Haynes stared at her. “You’re convinced there is no manuscript, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Pretend there is. Just pretend. If you pretend that, then you know where the manuscript isn’t. You know it’s not in Steady’s farmhouse and wasn’t in the hotel room where he died. You know it wasn’t in Isabelle’s apartment and that Undean didn’t have it and neither did Tinker Burns.”
“Explain why I know all that.”
“Because the CIA and Mr. Anonymous, whoever he is, are still anxious to buy it.”
“What about all those fake manuscripts?” she said. “What the hell were they for if not to pull some kind of rip- off?”
“How should I know?” Haynes said. “Sure. It could’ve been a dodge of some sort—a con. Even a false trail. Or maybe Steady’d decided he wasn’t going to split fifty-fifty with Isabelle after all. You’ve got to remember that Steady wasn’t expecting to die. And that manuscript, if there is one—or even if there isn’t—was to be his annuity. His fuck-you money. And he could’ve decided it would fetch just enough for one but not nearly enough for two. So he hid the real manuscript where nobody would look and then salted the obvious hiding places with fake
