Death Notes

shame. I am so sorry to hear of this death. Rosario should have let me go over there. But she wouldn’t allow it. And now, this.’
    ‘Did you or your wife see anything? Did you hear anything?’
    ‘Yes! Oh, yes. How stupid of me. I should have said so immediately. I saw the man this time,’ he said, his voice suddenly jittery with excitement. ‘Rosario did, too.’
    ‘Did you tell the police?’
    ‘Yes, of course, Ms Ventana. It was our duty as citizens. But because we did not see him come from inside the house, the police did not visit. They said this is San Francisco and it is not unusual for people to behave oddly. And then we went to visit my Rosario’s mother in Santa Cruz. We did not return until this morning. That’s when Rosario noticed the smell. We called again, and told them we saw the man and that the house was quiet and smelled bad. Then they came.’
    ‘What did the guy look like, Rocky?’
    ‘That is the part that is so strange, Ms Ventana. I wouldn’t believe it unless Rosario saw him, too. And she did. It is all very strange. The man, he was el Presidente Nixon.'
    ‘In a leather jacket?’
    ‘Yes! How remarkable that you should know! You have met him?’
    ‘In a manner of speaking. Did you get a better look at his car this time?’
    ‘No. I am so sorry, Ms Ventana. His car, I do not know where it was.’
    ‘Did you hear shots?’
    ‘We were asleep but now that I know what happened, I believe that is the sound that woke us up.’
    After I hung up the phone, I sat down on Blackie’s cluttered couch and tried to figure out what to do next.
    Sharon was dead and my fingerprints were all over the gun. Since I was innocent, in theory, I could turn myself in and let them test my hands for residue. But I could have picked up traces of residue just by handling the gun. It wasn’t worth the risk.
    If I turned myself in, chances were good to great that they’d hold me until they found the right person - and I wasn’t about to bank my freedom on Philly Post’s investigatory skills.
    What I needed was an angle, some way to work the case, solve both murders and not get picked up by Philly Post while I was doing it. I guess the problem wasn’t challenging enough, or maybe it just overwhelmed me. In either case, I didn’t resolve it. Instead, I fell asleep.
     

56
     
    O ne eye opened. It was dark. I hated to leave dreamland. It was cool and soft and vaguely pleasant. For a split second, I didn’t know where I was, then I smelled the scent of stale cigarette smoke and remembered I’d come to Blackie’s to hide out.
    Something bumped out on the front porch and I realized that’s what had awakened me. The door flew open before I managed to sit up, much less sprint out the back door.
    Blackie snapped on the overhead light and sauntered in.
    ‘Blackie!’
    I was so happy to see him, I grinned like an idiot. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it.
    ‘Hey, doll.’
    He tossed a copy of The Explorer on the couch next to me, then fumbled for a cigarette.
    ‘You want a beer?’ he asked.
    I was too busy checking the paper to answer. The story -with Abby Stark’s byline - made the bottom half of the front page:
     
WIFE OF JAZZ GREAT SLAIN
Sharon Margolis, 45, was found shot to death this morning in her Miraloma Park home, apparently the victim of an armed intruder. Her death comes only six days after the slaying of her husband, legendary saxophonist and jazz composer Match Margolis, who was stabbed last Saturday night minutes after ending his first performance in fifteen years.
Investigators refused to speculate as to motive, but sources close to the department say burglary has been ruled out and there was no sign of forced entry. Police are following several leads but no arrest has been...
     
    Good old Sharon. She, with Abby Stark’s kind assistance, was now screwing me even from beyond the grave. It didn’t matter. I still felt sorry for her. I wasn’t going to miss her brassy lies, or her pushy ways. But I felt saddened by her death all the same.
    Blackie set a beer on the floor next to my feet while I finished the article. It didn’t say much else worth reading. ‘So?’ Blackie said when I looked up.
    ‘I left her snoring like a sawmill on her living-room couch.’ Blackie grunted. ‘Harry says you’re hot.’
    ‘You went to the Quarter Moon?’
    He nodded and took a deep drag of his cigarette.
    ‘Was Post there?’
    ‘Do dolphins swim? He wants a wrap on this