Death in North Beach by Ronald Tierney Page A

they’re alone at night, all by themselves, they need someone to help them through their nightmares.’
    Just as he’d seen her before in countless movies, he’d heard the ‘big baby’ line before. Was that because it was true? Or was it that she was playing a role?
    â€˜I always thought that we are the people we were in the third grade,’ Lang said. ‘That’s my theory anyway. If you remember who you were and how you acted in the third grade, that’s you.’
    She didn’t respond.
    â€˜What kind of girl were you?’
    â€˜The kind of girl who stayed away from class clowns.’
    Ouch. She wasn’t far off.
    â€˜You weren’t after the money, were you?’ Noah sipped his beer.
    â€˜He didn’t have that much. So where are we going here, Mr Lang?’
    â€˜The person who killed Whitney Warfield is likely someone who didn’t want the book published. I’m told he was planning a tell-all and you were on the list of people who might object to that.’
    â€˜The theory is that the other woman is supposed to be a secret and that as that other woman I would be upset that our affair would become public. Everyone in Whitney’s life knows about me – including his wife. I like Elena. We get along. We are polite to each other and the only consideration we do for the public is that we aren’t in the same place at the same time with Whitney. I have no other shame. And Whitney would never do anything to hurt me.’
    â€˜You have any idea who wanted to kill him?’
    â€˜I came to meet you out of curiosity,’ she said, getting up, grabbing her coat and bag. ‘I’m leaving you out of boredom.’
    â€˜Who gets his royalties?’ Lang asked.
    She stopped. ‘His family.’
    â€˜Don’t you want his killer found?’
    She didn’t look back.
    Musicians were setting up inside. He was either going to commit to a night of jazz and alcohol – and maybe, just maybe meet a beautiful girl – or head home to spend some quality time with Buddha.
    â€˜Boring?’ he asked, as he stood and put enough dollars on the table to cover the drinks and a tip. ‘Me?’
    Frank Wiley’s place wasn’t all that far from Anselmo’s. Nor was it all that different on the outside. Unremarkable exteriors on unremarkable streets. She found Wiley’s dilapidated stairway halfway down the half block that dead-ended at another wooden structure.
    She had to feel for each step as she climbed up to his door. The light that came from a naked bulb above his door did little more than cast indistinct shadows on the steps. Most of the light was absorbed by the blanket of night.
    There was light inside. She knocked, waited, and knocked again. If he was there, she was determined to get him to the door.
    She heard some muffled grumbling before the door opened.
    Frank Wiley stood there, all bones and pale flesh. He had a skinny mustache and wisps of hair combed as if he had a full head of it. He wore a sleeveless white shirt and gray work pants and sandals with white socks. He also wore big, horn-rimmed glasses. Carly thought he looked like a bug. A nice bug. A harmless bug. His initial smile gave way to a look of befuddlement.
    â€˜I’m Carly Paladino. I’m an investigator looking into the affairs of Whitney Warfield.’ Nice and succinct, she thought
    His eyes, already magnified, widened. His face went dark.
    â€˜That’s no affair of mine,’ Wiley said. His tone was dismissive. He didn’t quite close the door, but he had narrowed the gap.
    â€˜I’d really like to talk to you,’ Carly said. ‘I’d appreciate it very much. We’re just trying to make sense of his death.’
    â€˜Why does that include me?’
    â€˜I’m afraid there is an indication that you and he had a falling out.’
    â€˜And you are not police,’ he said. Though it was not a