Both windows had been latched, fine films of dust on their sills hadn't been disturbed, and nobody could have got in or out that way in any case because the office was on the second floor and there was nothing outside either window to hang onto; a ladder was out of the question because down below was a garden, it had rained heavily that afternoon, and there were no indentations or footprints or other marks in the muddy ground.
The office door had definitely been locked from the inside. The key was still in the latch when Yankowski and Adam Porter broke in, a fact corroborated by both men; the door fit tightly into its frame, making it a physical impossibility for anyone to turn the key from outside by means of string or some other device; and even though the bolt-plate had been torn from the jamb by the forced entry, and both it and the bolt had been damaged, neither had been tampered with beforehand. As far as I could see, the only way it could have been murder was through collusion between Yankowski and Porter-a set-piece carefully arranged before the police were called. But the inspector in charge of the investigation, a man named Gates, had ruled that out. From all I had learned at this late date, I agreed with him. Yankowski and Adam Porter had been anything but bosom pals. Besides which, why would both of them have wanted Harmon Crane dead badly enough to conspire to kill him? And for another thing, the circumstances of that night were such that Amanda Crane would also have had to be party to such a plot, and that made no sense at all.
Suicide, all right, I thought. Has to be.
I checked through the list of people Gates and his men had interrogated, looking for someone who had known Crane well enough to offer a theory about the nature of his depression. Aside from Yankowski and the Porters, there wasn't anyone. I wrote down the names of a few people, those who, like Dancer, had been in the same profession and/or who might have been occasional drinking companions. But it seemed a dead-end prospect. On the list were the two writers Kiskadon had spoken to and who hadn't been able to enlighten him; and the rest figured to be long gone from San Francisco or dead by now.
I put the report back in the manila envelope, hauled the phone over, and dialed Stephen Porter's number. I wanted to ask him about Crane's first wife, Ellen Corneal; if he knew what might have become of her. I also wanted to ask him his opinion as to why Crane had withdrawn that $2,000 from his savings account. But talking to him again would have to wait: there was no answer. Late afternoons seemed to be a bad time to try to reach him.
I called Bates and Carpenter. Kerry was on another line; I sat there for five minutes, listening to myself on hold, before she came on. I told her where we were going tonight, and what time, and she said, “Italian again? I might have known it. I hate that woman, I really do.”
“Just grin and bear it, okay?”
“If you promise me this is the last time.”
“You know I can't promise you that.”
“Oh, all right. The last time for a good long while, then. At least that.”
“Deal. How's your day been?”
“Shitty. So my evening better not be.”
“It won't,” I said, and hoped I wasn't lying in my teeth.
We settled on what time I would pick her up, at which point she had another call and had to ring off. “I should be so popular,” I said, but she was already gone.
I swiveled around to the typewriter stand and hammered out a brief report for Michael Kiskadon. I intended to go see him later, so I could check through his Johnny Axe novels; but clients like to have written as well as verbal reports. Words more or less neatly typed on agency stationery reassure them that I'm a sober, industrious, and conscientious detective and give them a feeling of security.
When I was done I dialed Kiskadon's number. Lynn Kidkadon answered. I asked for her husband, and she said, “He's sleeping. Who is this?” Her response when I told her came in a much lower voice, almost a whisper, so I could barely hear her: “Oh, good, I'm glad you called. I've been trying to reach you for two days.”
“So you're the woman who's called my office several times.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you leave your name?”
“I didn't want you ringing up here and asking for me if Michael answered.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don't want him to know I've gotten in touch with you. I think we need to talk.”
“What about?”
“Michael and his father. The job he hired you to do. Can we meet somewhere? Right away?”
“Well… I was going to ask your husband if I could stop by.”
“Here? Why?”
“I need to look at his father's novels.”
“What on earth for?”
“To find a name. Look, Mrs. Kiskadon-”
“We could meet in the park,” she said, “the one across the street. Just for a few minutes, before you see Michael. Please, it's important.”
“… All right. Where in the park?”
“There's a circle with benches around it, straight across the green from our house and along the first path you come to. You can't miss it. How long will you be?”
“Twenty-five minutes or so.”
“I'll be waiting,” she said.
The wind off the ocean was pretty stiff today, bending the trees in Golden Gate Heights Park and making humming and rattling noises in their foliage. Nobody was out on the green; the only people I saw anywhere were a couple of kids on the playground equipment on the north side. I parked the car where I had yesterday, across from the Kiskadon house, and crossed the lawn with my head down: the wind slapped at my face and made my eyes water.
I found the path with no trouble, and Mrs. Kiskadon a few seconds later. Huddled inside a white alpaca coat, a bright blue scarf over her short hair, she was sitting on one of the benches at the near end of the circle, opposite a big cedar that grew in its center. She looked cold and solemn and worried.
“Thanks for coming,” she said as I sat down beside her. Then she shivered and said, “God, that wind is like ice.”
“We could go sit in my car.”
“No. Michael was still sleeping when I left, but I don't want to take the chance.”
“Why should it matter if he sees you talking to me?”
“He'll figure out why, if he does. Then he'll make trouble for me later on.”
“Trouble?”
“He yells,” she said, “he says things he doesn't mean. Or maybe he does mean them, I don't know. Then he'll ignore me for days, pretend I'm not even there.”
“I don't understand, Mrs. Kiskadon.”
“It's his illness,” she said. “And his obsession with finding out about his father.”
“Suppose you start with the illness.”
“Did he tell you what it was? That he almost died from it?”
“He did, yes. Diabetes.”
“But I'll bet he didn't tell you what it did to him psychologically. I'm not even sure he knows. He used to be optimistic, cheerful… normal. Now he has severe mood swings, periods of deep depression. His whole personality has changed.”
“That's understandable, given the circumstances.”
“That's what his doctor says too. But the doctor doesn't have to live with Michael and I do. He can be… well, almost unbearable at times.”
“He doesn't get violent, does he?”
“No, no, not toward me. But his depression gets so bad sometimes I think…” She broke off and made a fluttery, frustrated gesture with one gloved hand. “He has a gun,” she said.
“Gun?”
“A pistol. He keeps it locked up in his den.”
“Has he always had it, this pistol?”
“No. He bought it after he came home from the hospital.”