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Authors: Ross Thomas
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Haynes briefly, reached out, grasped the shower curtain and quickly pulled it back.
Isabelle Gelinet lay on her left side in the white tub. She was naked and her wrists were bound behind her with coat-hanger wire. Another coat hanger had been used to bind her ankles. Her left cheek rested on the bottom of the tub that was filled with water up to its overrun drain. Haynes knew Isabelle Gelinet was dead but wasn’t at all sure she had drowned.
Chapter 9
The forty-one-year-old homicide detective-sergeant from the Metropolitan Police Department was pretending he couldn’t keep all the players straight. It was a useful stratagem that Haynes himself had sometimes used and he thought Detective-Sergeant Darius Pouncy was carrying it off nicely.
Pouncy was also carrying ten or fifteen more pounds than he needed on a six-foot-even frame that was clothed in a salt-and-pepper tweed suit, white shirt and quiet tie. On his dark brown face he wore a look of almost utter detachment. It was the look of a man who asks questions for a living and expects nothing in return but lies and evasions. Haynes had known Los Angeles detectives who had perfected that same look but couldn’t recall any who’d worn salt-and-pepper tweed suits.
Pouncy had walked Haynes down to the end of the corridor to question him while another detective questioned Tinker Burns in the dead Isabelle Gelinet’s apartment. Pouncy stood with his back to the narrow casement window, letting what little light there was fall on Haynes’s face.
Looking up suddenly from notes he’d written on a small spiral pad, Pouncy said, “Granville Haynes. What do your friends call you? Granny?”
“Sometimes.”
“You say you all went to your dad’s funeral around noon today. You, Burns and Gelinet.”
“It wasn’t really a funeral. It was the interment.”
“Burial.”
“Yes.”
“You all the only ones there?”
“There were six soldiers who fired three volleys over the grave, a bugler and a color sergeant. I think they call them color sergeants.”
“But you all were the only mourners?”
“There was also a man from the CIA. A Mr. Undean.”
“First name?”
“Gilbert.”
Pouncy wrote the name down and said, “But that’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Your dad with the CIA?”
“You’ll have to ask them.”
“But he’d served in some branch of the service?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then how come they buried him in Arlington?”
“Miss Gelinet arranged it.”
“How?”
“You’ll have to ask the people at Arlington.”
“How long’d you known her?”
“As long as I can remember.”
“And Burns?”
“How long’ve I known him or how long has he known her?”
“Both.”
“I can’t remember when I didn’t know Tinker Burns and I’m sure he knew Miss Gelinet all her life.”
“Burns a good friend of your dad?”
“Yes.”
“Was Gelinet sleeping with him?”
“Who? Burns?”
“Your dad.”
“Two or three years ago she moved out to his farm near Berryville to help him write his autobiography. I don’t know whether she was sleeping with him. I didn’t ask; she didn’t say.”
“So after the funeral or whatever, the three of you go to lunch at, uh, Mac’s Place. Then you leave for an appointment with your dad’s lawyer. When you get back to Mac’s Place, Gelinet’s gone but Burns is still there. That right, Granny?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Then I talked with Mr. McCorkle in his office.”
“The owner?”
“One of them.”
“When you came out of his office was Burns still in the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Where’d you go then, Granny?”
“Mr. McCorkle’s daughter gave me a ride here but on the way we stopped for coffee.”
“What’s her name?”
“Erika McCorkle.”
“Where’d you have the coffee?”
“At the Odeon near Connecticut and R.”
“How long you in there?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“And she dropped you off here?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you
Isabelle Gelinet lay on her left side in the white tub. She was naked and her wrists were bound behind her with coat-hanger wire. Another coat hanger had been used to bind her ankles. Her left cheek rested on the bottom of the tub that was filled with water up to its overrun drain. Haynes knew Isabelle Gelinet was dead but wasn’t at all sure she had drowned.
Chapter 9
The forty-one-year-old homicide detective-sergeant from the Metropolitan Police Department was pretending he couldn’t keep all the players straight. It was a useful stratagem that Haynes himself had sometimes used and he thought Detective-Sergeant Darius Pouncy was carrying it off nicely.
Pouncy was also carrying ten or fifteen more pounds than he needed on a six-foot-even frame that was clothed in a salt-and-pepper tweed suit, white shirt and quiet tie. On his dark brown face he wore a look of almost utter detachment. It was the look of a man who asks questions for a living and expects nothing in return but lies and evasions. Haynes had known Los Angeles detectives who had perfected that same look but couldn’t recall any who’d worn salt-and-pepper tweed suits.
Pouncy had walked Haynes down to the end of the corridor to question him while another detective questioned Tinker Burns in the dead Isabelle Gelinet’s apartment. Pouncy stood with his back to the narrow casement window, letting what little light there was fall on Haynes’s face.
Looking up suddenly from notes he’d written on a small spiral pad, Pouncy said, “Granville Haynes. What do your friends call you? Granny?”
“Sometimes.”
“You say you all went to your dad’s funeral around noon today. You, Burns and Gelinet.”
“It wasn’t really a funeral. It was the interment.”
“Burial.”
“Yes.”
“You all the only ones there?”
“There were six soldiers who fired three volleys over the grave, a bugler and a color sergeant. I think they call them color sergeants.”
“But you all were the only mourners?”
“There was also a man from the CIA. A Mr. Undean.”
“First name?”
“Gilbert.”
Pouncy wrote the name down and said, “But that’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Your dad with the CIA?”
“You’ll have to ask them.”
“But he’d served in some branch of the service?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then how come they buried him in Arlington?”
“Miss Gelinet arranged it.”
“How?”
“You’ll have to ask the people at Arlington.”
“How long’d you known her?”
“As long as I can remember.”
“And Burns?”
“How long’ve I known him or how long has he known her?”
“Both.”
“I can’t remember when I didn’t know Tinker Burns and I’m sure he knew Miss Gelinet all her life.”
“Burns a good friend of your dad?”
“Yes.”
“Was Gelinet sleeping with him?”
“Who? Burns?”
“Your dad.”
“Two or three years ago she moved out to his farm near Berryville to help him write his autobiography. I don’t know whether she was sleeping with him. I didn’t ask; she didn’t say.”
“So after the funeral or whatever, the three of you go to lunch at, uh, Mac’s Place. Then you leave for an appointment with your dad’s lawyer. When you get back to Mac’s Place, Gelinet’s gone but Burns is still there. That right, Granny?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Then I talked with Mr. McCorkle in his office.”
“The owner?”
“One of them.”
“When you came out of his office was Burns still in the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Where’d you go then, Granny?”
“Mr. McCorkle’s daughter gave me a ride here but on the way we stopped for coffee.”
“What’s her name?”
“Erika McCorkle.”
“Where’d you have the coffee?”
“At the Odeon near Connecticut and R.”
“How long you in there?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“And she dropped you off here?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you
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