Kill Me Tomorrow by Richard S. Prather Page A

door. The door closed, shutting off the soft sound of that crazy music, and I walked to my Cad thinking about Henry Yarrow. It puzzled me even more than it did Mrs. Blessing that Gil Reyes could have mistaken a local businessman for a Tucson mafioso he must have been pretty certain was dead.
    Besides, I’d have given a dollar to a nickel that Henry hadn’t dropped by Mrs. Blessing’s home so, ah, early in the morning to … have her sign some papers.
    I found North Palma Drive about a mile down Claridge, followed it a couple of blocks till I hit the sixteen hundreds, parked near the next-to-last house, number 1694, at the far end of the block, and approached Yarrow’s home with at least as much care as I’d used on my previous stop. And when I rang the bell my right hand was beneath my coat. Just in case.
    Even though I was virtually certain Civano had been dead more than five days, it was a bit of a relief when the door opened and a tall, heavily built man looked out at me. Because he was certainly not Joe Civano.
    He was a couple of inches shorter than my six-two, but the thick chest and stomach—the stomach not unusually protuberant, however—accounted for maybe an additional ten pounds more than my two hundred and six. His hair was brown, thick, slightly waving, flecked with strands of gray and definitely gray at the temples. He was deeply tanned, and his eyes were a startlingly light blue.
    Except for the fact that he was roughly the same height and weight as Civano, and that there was a very slight facial resemblance—sharp nose, wide chin, full lips—I wouldn’t have mistaken him for Crazy Joe at a distance of fifty feet, much less when he was standing only a yard from me as he was now. Civano’s eyes had been brown, there’d been a fine scar on his upper lip and a wide and deeply indented scar—the result of getting clobbered by a well-aimed crowbar—high on his forehead near the hairline.
    â€œMr. Henry Yarrow?” I asked. He nodded and I said, “My name’s Shell Scott. I’d appreciate it if you could give me a few minutes of your time.”
    â€œSure,” he said. “I was expecting you. Recognized you from Mary’s description.” He smiled. “You’re not difficult to recognize, are you?”
    I shook my head as he continued, “She told me—Mrs. Blessing told me, that is—you’re a private detective, and had just called on her. I understand it’s about Mr. Reyes.”
    â€œRight on all counts.”
    â€œCome in, Mr. Scott.”
    I stepped into a very attractive living room done in blues and soft grays, the basic coolness of the room warmed by splashes of orange from scattered pillows and two abstract oil paintings, and the red-orange shade of a six-foot-high floor lamp.
    We both sat on a thickly cushioned blue couch and I said bluntly, “Didn’t take Mrs. Blessing long to let you know I might be dropping in, did it?”
    He raised a neat eyebrow but said levelly, “No. Indeed, after this conversation, Mr. Scott, I shall phone Mary and tell her anything of importance which we may discuss.” He lit a cigarette. “Perhaps our interest and”—he smiled again—“reciprocal communication seem excessive to you. I doubt that it would if you were in my position. I have been in business here for several years, and now—in part due to the confidence placed in me by Mrs. Blessing and her late husband—am president of the Blessing Real Estate Agency. Should rumors begin, linking my name no matter in what way or how innocently with a known criminal and murderer … well, would you want to purchase land or a home from the alleged associate or intimate of a hoodlum? A member of the Cosa Nostra?”
    â€œI see what you mean, Mr. Yarrow. Apparently you know quite a bit about the late Joe Civano.”
    He nodded. “I do now. I’d never heard the