really not much interested in Steady’s mementos.”
“You’re right. I’m not.”
“What you’re really hoping to find is a true copy of his memoirs tucked away someplace.”
“Or even in plain sight.”
“And I also suspect you think Isabelle’s death is an indication, if not evidence, that such a copy might actually exist.”
“That’s occurred to me.”
“Me, too,” Mott said, nodded again, this time more to himself than to Haynes, swiveled around to face the desk, studied the pigeonholes for a moment, reached into one of them and took out a key that was attached by wire to a cardboard tag.
He swiveled around to toss Haynes the key. “It unlocks the front door,” Mott said as he again turned back to his desk, picked up a ballpoint pen and began drawing something on a yellow legal pad. “I’ll draw you a map of how to find the place after you get to Berryville.”
Haynes looked at the tag that was wired to the key with a paper clip. Hand lettering on the tag read, “S. Haynes farm, front door.” He decided to give Howard Mott an A-plus for efficiency.
Mott rose, went over to Haynes and handed him the sheet of ruled yellow paper. “Berryville has two traffic lights,” he said. “When you get to the second one, turn south, go exactly one mile, turn west, go exactly another mile and you’re there.”
Haynes examined the map for a moment or two, looked up and said, “Maybe I’ll take along a guide.”
“You don’t like my map?”
“A guide could also be a witness.”
“To what?”
“To whatever might happen.”
“You have a guide in mind?”
“Erika McCorkle.”
“Ah.”
“What’s ‘ah’ mean?”
“It means you’ll be taking along someone who knew Steady rather well, which might prove useful, and who is also attractive enough to make a pleasant drive even more pleasant.” He paused. “That’s what ‘ah’ means.”
Haynes ignored the explanation and said, “I’d like to retain you as my attorney.”
“I cost too much.”
“This would be strictly on an ‘in case’ basis.”
“In case you land in the shit.”
“Exactly.”
“That’d cost less but still too much. Go pillage some government agency for a few million, then give me a call.”
“What kind of shape is Steady’s ’seventy-six Cadillac convertible in?”
“You’re changing the subject again,” Mott said, his tone suddenly wary.
“Am I?”
“It’s in perfect shape,” Mott said. “Steady babied that car, even nurtured it.”
“Where is it?”
“I had a mechanic in Falls Church go pick it up. He’s the same one who’s serviced it for the past seven years.”
“What’s it worth?”
“It’s the last convertible Cadillac made—until they started making those fifty-thousand-dollar jobs in Italy nobody’ll buy. I guess Steady’s would bring at least ten or fifteen thousand. Maybe twenty.”
“You ever ride in it?”
“Twice, and salivated both times.”
“It’s your retainer.”
“You always strike at the most vulnerable spot?”
“Always.”
Mott sighed. “Okay. You have yourself a lawyer. Anything else?”
“What’s Mr. McCorkle’s home number?”
Mott reeled it off from memory.
“May I use your phone?”
Mott nodded at the phone on his desk, then asked, “Want me to leave?”
“What for?” Haynes said as he rose, went to the desk, picked up the phone and tapped out the number. It rang three times before it was answered with a woman’s hello.
“Erika?” Haynes said.
“Yes.”
“Granville Haynes. Do you know the way to Berryville?”
Chapter 14
After the taxi stopped in front of Mac’s Place, Haynes paid off the driver, got out and held the door open for a fiftyish U.S. senator from one of the western states—either Idaho or Montana, he thought—who was accompanied by a pretty woman in her late twenties.
The senator read, classified and dismissed Haynes with a practiced glance and a nod of thanks. But the woman noticed him the way
“You’re right. I’m not.”
“What you’re really hoping to find is a true copy of his memoirs tucked away someplace.”
“Or even in plain sight.”
“And I also suspect you think Isabelle’s death is an indication, if not evidence, that such a copy might actually exist.”
“That’s occurred to me.”
“Me, too,” Mott said, nodded again, this time more to himself than to Haynes, swiveled around to face the desk, studied the pigeonholes for a moment, reached into one of them and took out a key that was attached by wire to a cardboard tag.
He swiveled around to toss Haynes the key. “It unlocks the front door,” Mott said as he again turned back to his desk, picked up a ballpoint pen and began drawing something on a yellow legal pad. “I’ll draw you a map of how to find the place after you get to Berryville.”
Haynes looked at the tag that was wired to the key with a paper clip. Hand lettering on the tag read, “S. Haynes farm, front door.” He decided to give Howard Mott an A-plus for efficiency.
Mott rose, went over to Haynes and handed him the sheet of ruled yellow paper. “Berryville has two traffic lights,” he said. “When you get to the second one, turn south, go exactly one mile, turn west, go exactly another mile and you’re there.”
Haynes examined the map for a moment or two, looked up and said, “Maybe I’ll take along a guide.”
“You don’t like my map?”
“A guide could also be a witness.”
“To what?”
“To whatever might happen.”
“You have a guide in mind?”
“Erika McCorkle.”
“Ah.”
“What’s ‘ah’ mean?”
“It means you’ll be taking along someone who knew Steady rather well, which might prove useful, and who is also attractive enough to make a pleasant drive even more pleasant.” He paused. “That’s what ‘ah’ means.”
Haynes ignored the explanation and said, “I’d like to retain you as my attorney.”
“I cost too much.”
“This would be strictly on an ‘in case’ basis.”
“In case you land in the shit.”
“Exactly.”
“That’d cost less but still too much. Go pillage some government agency for a few million, then give me a call.”
“What kind of shape is Steady’s ’seventy-six Cadillac convertible in?”
“You’re changing the subject again,” Mott said, his tone suddenly wary.
“Am I?”
“It’s in perfect shape,” Mott said. “Steady babied that car, even nurtured it.”
“Where is it?”
“I had a mechanic in Falls Church go pick it up. He’s the same one who’s serviced it for the past seven years.”
“What’s it worth?”
“It’s the last convertible Cadillac made—until they started making those fifty-thousand-dollar jobs in Italy nobody’ll buy. I guess Steady’s would bring at least ten or fifteen thousand. Maybe twenty.”
“You ever ride in it?”
“Twice, and salivated both times.”
“It’s your retainer.”
“You always strike at the most vulnerable spot?”
“Always.”
Mott sighed. “Okay. You have yourself a lawyer. Anything else?”
“What’s Mr. McCorkle’s home number?”
Mott reeled it off from memory.
“May I use your phone?”
Mott nodded at the phone on his desk, then asked, “Want me to leave?”
“What for?” Haynes said as he rose, went to the desk, picked up the phone and tapped out the number. It rang three times before it was answered with a woman’s hello.
“Erika?” Haynes said.
“Yes.”
“Granville Haynes. Do you know the way to Berryville?”
Chapter 14
After the taxi stopped in front of Mac’s Place, Haynes paid off the driver, got out and held the door open for a fiftyish U.S. senator from one of the western states—either Idaho or Montana, he thought—who was accompanied by a pretty woman in her late twenties.
The senator read, classified and dismissed Haynes with a practiced glance and a nod of thanks. But the woman noticed him the way
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