“How was she? You never said.”
“Dilly?” Muriel Keyes shrugged. “Well, Dilly’s depressed and Dilly’s despondent. Maybe even suicidal. She’s finally realized he isn’t coming back this time.”
“Can’t blame him,” Keyes said. “But I wish he would so you could resign as her chief hand-holder.”
“Poor Dilly,” she said. “And poor Mr. Undean. Did he have a family?”
“No.”
“He lived alone?”
“In Reston.”
“How very sad.”
It was the forty-three-year-old sheriff of Fairfax County himself who briefed Hamilton Keyes in a small conference room in the Reston Library. A three-man team of CIA specialists was still prowling through Undean’s house, hunting for possibly classified material and ignoring the gibes of the county homicide investigators.
Keyes and the sheriff sat at the six-foot-long conference table, the sheriff at one end, Keyes at the other. The sheriff wore a dark blue suit, white shirt and a red and blue tie. Keyes suspected him of having attended church that morning. Keyes, who hadn’t attended church in twenty years, wore what he often wore on Sundays: a gray tweed jacket, a very old and frayed pink shirt with a button-down collar, gray wide-wale corduroy pants, rather new, and a pair of gleaming fifteen-year-old cordovan loafers that had been resoled three times. The sheriff had given the pink shirt a dubious glance.
“You want it from the beginning, I expect,” the sheriff said, producing a long notebook that Keyes thought resembled those used by newspaper reporters.
“If you would, please.”
After placing the notebook on the table, the sheriff removed his gold-rimmed glasses, held them up to the ceiling’s fluorescent lights for a cleanliness inspection and resettled them over gentle brown eyes that Keyes thought were possibly a disguise.
The glasses rested on jug-handle ears and a born-to-pry nose. The ears were partially camouflaged by a mass of auburn hair that had been shaped by an artist. Below the glasses and nose was a wide thick-lipped mouth, curiously pale, that reigned over a smallish chin. From six feet away, Keyes thought he caught a faint whiff of Canoe after-shave.
The sheriff opened the notebook, studied it for a few moments, frowning, and then used a bass drone to describe how a male Caucasian, identifying himself as Tinker Burns, had used 911 to report the death of Gilbert Undean, 67. After two deputies arrived at the house of the deceased, they determined that Mr. Undean was indeed dead, apparently from a single gunshot wound in the forehead. A quick search revealed no weapon, virtually ruling out suicide.
Mr. Burns refused to give the investigating deputies any information other than his name, age (66) and place of permanent residence (Paris, France) until he talked with his lawyer. The lawyer arrived fifty-seven minutes later and conferred with his client. Mr. Burns then agreed to make a statement.
“Who’s the lawyer?” Keyes asked.
“Howard Mott himself.”
“Well, now.”
Again consulting his notebook, the sheriff said Mr. Burns claimed to have met the deceased for the first time two days before at the funeral of a mutual friend, a certain Steadfast Haynes. This morning, on impulse, Mr. Burns decided to visit the deceased to reminisce about their friend. When Mr. Burns reached Reston, he hesitated to drive down the steeply sloping street to Mr. Undean’s house because of the deep snow. Instead, he had walked. It was while walking to the deceased’s house that Mr. Burns saw someone come out of it, shoulder a pair of skis and start up the street toward him.
As the sheriff paused to turn a page, Keyes said, “Then what?”
“Mr. Burns asked the person with the skis which house was Mr. Undean’s. But the person replied with a headshake and continued up the street.”
“Person?” said Keyes.
“Mr. Burns claims he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman because the person was wearing sunglasses, ski mask, knitted cap, parka, ski pants, gloves and, of course, ski boots.”
“Tall, short, what?”
“Medium.”
Keyes sighed and gave the sheriff a go-ahead nod. Resuming his report, the sheriff said Tinker Burns rang the deceased’s doorbell repeatedly. When there was no response, Mr. Burns tried the door, found it unlocked and entered the house, discovering the victim’s body on the third floor in a small bedroom converted into a study. Upon questioning, Mr. Burns admitted making five calls from the dead man’s telephone. These calls were confirmed by the telephone company. The first call was to the Willard Hotel. The second and third calls were to numbers in the District of Columbia. The fourth call was to 911 and the final call was to the home of the lawyer, Howard Mott, also in the District.
“Who got the second and third calls?” Keyes asked.
Again, the notes were consulted. “The second call was to an establishment called Mac’s Place and the third, was to a Mr. Michael Padillo,” the sheriff said, rhyming Padillo with Brillo. “Know him?”
“I believe he owns half of Mac’s Place,” Keyes said. “A saloon.”
The sheriff made a careful note of that before disclosing that a subsequent investigation turned up two observant housewives who independently confirmed what Burns had said about encountering the ski person.
“The neighborhood watch and ward society?” Keyes said.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Keyes said. “Where’s Burns now?”
“We let him walk.”
“You check him out with D.C. homicide?”
The sheriff, not taking his eyes off Keyes, closed his notebook and carefully stored it away in a breast pocket. “Should I?”
“Merely a suggestion,” said Keyes and went on to outline how the Federal government trusted that Fairfax County would handle the body of Gilbert Undean, his effects and any publicity concerning his death.
In a Wendy’s on the Leesburg Pike, Howard Mott sipped coffee and reading upside down, watched Tinker Burns write a check for 2,000 pounds on a Knightsbridge branch of Barclays’ Bank in London.
“I prefer dollars,” Mott said.
Burns finished signing Tinker to the check and looked up. “Why the fuck didn’t you say so? Cash okay?” He reached into a pants pocket of his gray suit and brought out an impressive roll of hundred-dollar bills.
“Cash is definitely not okay,” Mott said. “I’ll take the pounds instead.”
“What’s wrong with cash?” Burns asked as he added his surname to the check.
“Cash is becoming virtually illegal in this country,” Mott said. “Dope has tainted cash and inflation has debased it. A one-hundred-dollar bill is now worth what three tens were fifteen years ago, but nobody likes to accept hundreds because it’s claimed that ninety percent of them bear a faint residue of cocaine. That may well be bullshit, of course. But it may also be true, especially when you consider that our five percent of the world’s population snorts, smokes or injects eighty percent of the world’s dope.”
Burns grinned, tore out the check and handed it to Mott. “Sounds like the IRS is auditing your ass.”
Mott folded the check and stuck it into his shirt pocket. “The cost of a continuous IRS audit is factored into the fees we charge our clients, who, for the most part, are alleged embezzlers, con men, mountebanks, swindlers and malefactors of great and medium wealth. My firm’s task is to keep them out of jail or, failing that, secure them the most lenient sentences possible. Grateful clients often wish to pay in cash. But we insist upon certified checks drawn on reputable domestic banks.”
Burns’s grin grew wider. “What’s my uncertified check for two thousand quid buy me?”
“Bought, not buy,” Mott said. “It bought you temporary release from the clutches of the Fairfax County sheriff, who’ll be anxious to ask you a few hundred more questions once he finds out you discovered the body of Isabelle Gelinet.”
“When that happens, I want you representing me.”