Twice, I thought. Twice!
And I had it. At first, just the simple misdirection gimmick that had fooled the police and everyone else in 1949. But once I had that much, I began to see the rest of it, too: the distortions and subterfuge and misconceptions that had befuddled me, the full circumstances of Crane's death, the significance of that letter carbon, the probable reason Angelo Bertolucci had died and the name of the person who had murdered him. All of it 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