Free Twilight at Mac's Place by Ross Thomas

down to forty-one degrees and looking like rain or snow in Washington), Pouncy asked, “You ever have a real slick article out there in homicide by the name of Granville Haynes?”
    “Haynes…Haynes,” said Sergeant Stroud. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
    “Claims he used to work for you people.”
    “And you need his home phone number, right?”
    “What the fuck I want with his phone number?”
    There was a brief silence until Stroud said, “Oh. You mean Granny Haynes. Sure. He used to work here. What’s he up to?”
    “Up to his ass in a homicide investigation, is what.”
    “Who bought it—somebody rich?”
    “Not hardly.”
    “Reason I asked is because Granny’s the one we liked to send when rich folks bought it. Real nice manners. Neat dresser. Spoke French, Italian and fair Spanish. Made some damn good cases, too. You’re lucky you—”
    Pouncy broke it off. “Hey. We’re not looking to hire him. We just wanta check him out. Claims he used to be a homicide cop but now he’s an actor.”
    “Ever see a low-budget slasher flick called Thirteen Hangingtree Lane ?” Stroud asked. “Came out two, three years back and Granny goes down into the basement of this big old house. The one in Hangingtree Lane. And there’s this fat sack of slime down there with an ax. Now, this is Granny’s first feature speaking role. So just before this guy with a face like a four-cheese pizza takes Granny’s head off with the ax, Granny gets to say, ‘Listen! Please! I’m here to help you!’ And then his head goes flying off and they cut to the corner of the basement and there’s Granny’s head, looking surprised as hell.”
    “Guess I missed it,” Pouncy said. “How much you figure he got paid for doing all that?”
    “Probably SAG minimum. Maybe four hundred bucks.”
    “What’s SAG?”
    “Screen Actors Guild.”
    “He was a cop then?”
    “Sure.”
    “Out there you let cops be actors?”
    “Lemme ask you something,” Stroud said. “If you’ve gotta moonlight, which’d you rather be—an actor or a liquor store security guard in some low-rent neighborhood?” Without waiting for an answer, Sergeant Stroud chuckled his good-bye and broke the connection.
     
    The driver of Tinker Burns’s hired limousine had chosen Park Road as the best route to Sixteenth Street. It was nearly 8 P.M . and they were somewhere in darkest Rock Creek Park when Burns ended the long silence in the backseat. “I’ll take care of Isabelle’s cremation and funeral and everything.”
    “They’ll have to do the autopsy first,” Haynes said.
    “I mean after that.”
    “Will the cops call Madeleine?” Haynes asked. Madeleine was Madeleine Gelinet, mother of the dead Isabelle and former mistress of Tinker Burns.
    “You think Sergeant Pouncy speaks French?”
    “Maybe Madeleine’s learned English.”
    “Never,” Burns said. “I figured I’d go back to the hotel, have a couple of drinks and then call her.”
    “Does she know about Steady?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You can tell her about him, too.”
    Burns shifted uneasily in the seat, not quite squirming. “Maybe you’d rather call her?” he asked without hope.
    “No thanks,” Haynes said. “She still in Nice?”
    “Where else? She’ll never part with that house.”
    There was another silence that lasted until they turned south down Sixteenth Street. It was then that Burns asked, “Who d’you think killed her?”
    “No idea.”
    “Guess.”
    “Maybe a guy prowling for a TV set. Maybe the neighborhood rapist. Maybe even some weirdo who followed her home and got off on tying her up and drowning her in the bathtub.”
    “They said there weren’t any signs of forced entry.”
    “Forced…. entry,” Haynes said, spacing the words as if to savor them. “Let’s say he rings the bell from downstairs. Isabelle asks ‘Who is it?’ over the intercom and he says it’s Federal Express. Well, Federal Express people are about as common as mailmen. I know