My stomach lurched and I ran down the steps, fell to my knees, and retched. I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since the two beers on Keller’s boat that morning, so what I ended up with was a fine case of the dry heaves. After a minute they stopped and I felt around for where I’d dropped the flashlight.
My fingers encountered it and I shone its beam around me. There had once been public phone booths in the park and I wondered if they were still in working order. I had to call the police, had to get them out here, had to explain…
Explain what? Explain why I was the one who found all the corpses in Port San Marco? How was this going to look? What if, in the course of questioning me, Barrow asked to talk to my client? If he found out I didn’t even have one…
Well, that couldn’t be helped. All I could do right now was find a phone booth. There didn’t seem to be any in the park and, in a way, that relieved me. I’d just as soon get out of here. When I reached the stairs to the beach, I gave the Tunnel of Love a final glance. Its mouth yawned at me, like the door of a crypt.
Chapter 15
Music poured from Don Del Boccio’s apartment as he came out and looked over the banister at me. It sounded like Tchaikovsky-great, surging crescendos. I stood, my hand on the railing, looking up.
Don wore a forest green terrycloth bathrobe and a huge grin. His black hair was tousled and fell onto his forehead. “Now, this time it’s sure to be a social call!”
“I hope it’s all right to drop by this late.” I remained where I was, still clutching the railing. “I got your message at the motel and I…I need someone to talk to.”
His bushy brows drew together in an expression of concern. “Sure. Come on up.”
I climbed the stairs, feeling terribly weary. When I got to the top, Don’s eyes searched my face and then he ushered me in. He motioned for me to sit on the blue rug and went to the stereo. “Let me turn this down.” I dropped to the floor.
The music sank several decibels and then Don came over and sat in front of me. “What’s wrong?”
“I stumbled onto another murder.” Quickly I told him about John Cala.
Don was silent for a moment. “John. My God. Didn’t the police suspect him of having something to do with Janie’s death?”
“Apparently he found her body before I did.”
“And now someone’s killed him.”
“In the same way, and in the same kind of deserted place. Did you know Cala?”
He nodded. “Everybody from Salmon Bay knows everybody else. John was kind of a troublemaker, and not very bright. He dropped out of school in tenth grade and went into his father’s fishing business. I guess he did all right.”
“Really? He lived in a little house with a dreadful assortment of junk in the front yard.”
“That doesn’t mean much; it’s the way his family lived. In Salmon Bay, nothing ever changes from generation to generation.”
“I guess not. Did he have a family?”
“No. He married twice, that I heard of. The first wife was killed in an auto accident, the second left him. Claimed he beat her.”
“Do you think he did?”
“Maybe. I know he was a confirmed male chauvinist; goes with the territory, I guess.”
I sighed. “It really doesn’t matter now. He’s dead. And his murderer escaped. And the police think somehow it’s all my fault.”
Don’s eyes widened. “They don’t suspect you?”
“Oh, no. They just think I bungled everything. If I hadn’t found Cala, his body might have lain there until demolition on the amusement park started next spring. But do they appreciate that fact? No, because I’m a private operative, I bungled it. I suppose if a real cop had followed him there and found his body, they’d have given him a medal.” My voice broke, from weariness and frustration, and Don took my hand.
“Why don’t you let it go for now?” he said softly.
“How can I?”
“Relax. Have some wine.”
“That sounds good.”
He stood up. “How about some food?”
My stomach was still uneasy. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Please, no.”
“You need to eat. A little salami, some cheese. It’s good for you.”
“Mother Del Boccio.”
“Humor me. I’m Italian.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Everything.”
He went to the kitchen and quickly produced red wine, cheese, crackers, a dish of black olives, and a foot-long salami.
“You’re always feeding me,” I said.
“I know.” He sat back down and gestured at the food. “Eat.”
Surprisingly, I was able to get down a respectable amount. It did make me feel better, but didn’t relax me enough to get my mind off Cala’s murder.
“If only I knew why he went out on that pier,” I said. “And why he went to the amusement park. I know he was meeting someone there. But who?”
Don smiled, leaning back against a pillow. “Full of questions, aren’t you?”
“It’s my stock in trade. Somehow, I’ve always known the right questions to ask. And people open up to me. I’m a complete stranger, but they’ll still tell me things they wouldn’t tell their best friend.”
“You have an open face. You look like you won’t judge people.” Don’s eyes moved over my face, in the same appreciative but inoffensive way they’d appraised my body when he first saw me. I smiled back and lay down, my head on a pillow, feeling warm and finally relaxed. The wine had made me drowsy and a little disconnected from my surroundings.
“I’ve always asked too many questions,” I said, aware I was almost repeating myself. “My mother used to get mad at me. ‘Why, why, why?’ she used to say. ‘Why are you always asking why?’ ”
Don chuckled and got up. He turned off the lights, brought a candle from the kitchen, lit it, and set it on the rug. Then he lay down, his elbow on the pillow next to me, head propped on his hand.
“Tell me about you,” he said. “You asked me the right questions earlier this week and I gave you my life history. Now it’s your turn.”
“There’s not a whole lot to tell. I’m from San Diego, got a sociology degree from Berkeley, couldn’t find a job. I’d done security work part-time while I was going to school, so I went back into that and got training as a detective.”
“And your family-what are they like?”
“An average middle-class clan.”
He traced one finger along my hairline. “I find it hard to believe that an average middle-class clan produced someone like you.”
“Hmmm. Well, I guess you’re right. Now that I think of it, I’m the most normal of the lot.”
“Tell me about them.”
I shut my eyes, visualizing my parents’ old rambling house in San Diego and all the people who had lived there at one time or another. “I have two older brothers. One’s married with two kids, the other’s single. They get in trouble with the law a lot.”
“The kids or your brothers?”
“My brothers. The kids are too young yet.”
“What do they do?”
“Minor things. Overdue traffic tickets. Getting rowdy in bars. My brother John once punched out a cop. Then I have two younger sisters.”
“Do they beat up on cops?”
“No. Their specialty is pregnancy.”
“Oh.”
“One of them lives on a farm near Ukiah. She has three kids, each by a different boyfriend. My other sister lives in a suburb of L.A. She’s got four kids and is married to a musician.”
“Are all the kids his?”
“Oh, yes. Unlike Patsy, Charlene is very monogamous. That’s the problem.”
“Problem?”
I opened my eyes. Don had a bemused smile on his lips and the candlelight flickered over his tanned, handsome face. “Charlene’s husband keeps leaving her. Not for anything like other women-just to go on tour with this country-western band. He’ll go off for six, eight months at a time and then, when he shows up, bingo! She’s pregnant again.”