exposed at last, dark and ugly, like those mildewing bones out on the rim of Tomales Bay.
I considered telling it to McFate, but that would have been like telling it to the wall. Besides, it wasn't his case; it was only peripherally related to Kiskadon's death. DeKalb was the man I wanted to tell it to. But not yet, not until I got some personal satisfaction first.
Before long McFate reappeared. I was still in the hallway, still twitchy because I wanted to be on my way. He showed me his scowl and said, “I thought I told you to wait in the kitchen.”
“I had to go to the toilet. What did Mrs. Kiskadon say?”
“… You were right,” he said in reluctant tones. He was looking, now, at the top button on my jacket. “She admitted it.”
“I thought she might. She isn't a very good liar.”
“No, she isn't.”
“She didn't murder him, did she?”
“An accident, she claims.”
“It probably was,” I said. “She's not the type to commit premeditated homicide.”
McFate said with heavy sarcasm, “Thank you for your expert opinion.”
“You're welcome. How did it happen?”
“Her husband spent the night in his den, just as she told you. She tried to talk him out this morning but he wouldn't come, not until about noon.”
“And he was waving the gun around when he finally showed.”
“Yes. He threatened to shoot himself and she told him to go ahead, she couldn't stand it any longer. Fed up, as she put it. He reentered the den and she followed him. She'd been about to go for a drive, just to get away for a while, which is why she was carrying her handbag.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Kiskadon sat at his desk. She tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't listen; he put the weapon to his temple and held it there with his finger on the trigger, saying he intended to fire.”
“Uh-huh,” I said again. “At which point she panicked and tried to take it away from him. They struggled, she dropped her handbag, and the gun went off.”
“So she alleges.”
“How did the gun get under his chair?”
“It fell on the desk after the discharge,” McFate said. “She must have swept it off onto the floor; she doesn't remember that part of it very clearly.”
I nodded. “Poor Kiskadon. If she'd left him alone, he probably wouldn't have gone through with it. Suicides don't make a production number out of what they're going to do, usually; they just do it.”
“Really? You're an accredited psychologist as well as an expert in criminal behavior, I suppose.”
“If you say so, Leo.”
The scowl again. “I don't like you, you know that?”
“That's too bad. I think you're the cat's nuts.”
“Are you trying to insult me?”
“Me? Heavens no. How's Mrs. Kiskadon?”
“Weepy,” McFate said, and grimaced. He didn't like women to be weepy; he liked them to be a) cooperative, b) generous, and c) naked. “Dwiggins is calling a matron and her doctor.”
“Are you going to book her?”
“Certainly.”
“You could go a little easy on her. She's no saint, but she has had a rough time of it.”
“You're trying to tell me my job again. I don't like that.”
“Sorry. Is it all right if I leave now?”
“You'll have to sign a statement.”
“I can do that later, down at the Hall.”
“What's your hurry? You seem impatient.”
“There's somebody I have to see.”
“Oh? And who would that be?”
“A lady friend. You can understand that, can't you?”
“The redhead I met once? What's her name?”
“Kerry Wade. Yes.”
“Attractive woman. I can't imagine what she sees in you.”
“Neither can I. Look, Leo, can I leave or not?”
“Leave. I'm tired of looking at you.” His superciliousness was back; he had resumed control of things. “Give my regards to Ms. Wade.”
“I'll do that,” I said. “She thinks you're the cat's nuts, too.”
But it wasn't Kerry I was planning to see. It was Thomas J. Yankowski, the retired shyster, the prize son of a bitch.
Yank-'Em-Out Yankowski-murderer.
TWENTY-ONE
There was nobody home at Yankowski's house except for the snarling brute that guarded the place. It came flying at the sound of the bell, just as it had the first time I'd been here, and slammed into the door and then stood there growling its fool head off. I went back up the stairs and over to the street-level garage door and peered through the mail slot. Dark-shadowed emptiness looked back at me from within.
But if I could help it I wasn't going to go away from here empty-handed. I set out to canvass the neighbors, and I would have tried every house in this section of St. Francis Wood if it had been necessary. But it wasn't. The second one I went to, diagonally across the street from Yankowski's, produced just the kind of occupant I was looking for: a fat woman in her fifties, with hennaed hair and rouged cheeks, who reminded other people's business along with her own and who didn't mind talking about it.
“Well, no, I don't know where Mr. Yankowski went today. Not exactly, that is.” She was also the type who speaks in italics; emphasis was very important to her, so you'd be sure to take her meaning. “But he might be out at Fort Funston.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I happen to know he goes there on weekends. He likes to watch those young people with their gliders. Hang gliders, they call them. That's a very dangerous sport, don't you think? Hang gliding?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“He likes to walk along the cliffs too, Mr. Yankowski does. He's quite spry for a man of his years. I wish my husband were half so energetic-”
“Excuse me, ma'am. Can you tell me what kind of car Mr. Yankowski drives?”
“Car? Why, it's a Cadillac. Yes, definitely a Cadillac.”
“Black, isn't it?”
“Oh yes. Black as a nigger's bottom,” she said, and gave me a perfectly guileless smile.
I went away from her without another word.
Fort Funston is at the far southwestern edge of the city, off Skyline Boulevard above and beyond Lake Merced-a fifteen-minute drive from St. Francis Wood. There isn't much there except for the launching and landing area for hang-glider enthusiasts and close to a mile of footpaths along the cliffs overlooking the sea. One of the more scenic but under-visited sections of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area.
It was after five when I rolled in there, less than an hour before sunset, and only a scattering of cars was still parked in the big lot. The only people I saw were a trio of muscular young guys furling a glider and tying it to a rack across the top of an old Mustang. I spotted the black Cadillac immediately, parked over by the restrooms-the only one in the lot. I pulled in alongside it and got out and looked at the license plate. One of the personalized ones: MR TJY. Yankowski's, all right. I went around to examine the driver's side.
