Free Death in North Beach by Ronald Tierney

so. Just turning his head seemed to be the result of a considered effort. This was not an impetuous person, she thought. He wore a sport coat that looked like it was made of canvas over a tee shirt that had some sort of faded graphics on its front.
    â€˜Go for it,’ he said, his head falling back in a way that suggested he was determined to look down on her.
    â€˜What have you done in your life that is so incriminating that you would kill someone to keep it secret?’
    He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together. He scratched his beard.
    The room was full of old newspapers and books, all stacked against walls and on tables, threatening to tumble down if someone sneezed. His desk had messy piles of papers and a manual typewriter. Was it for show?
    â€˜I’d kill somebody for less than that if I thought I could get away with it.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll have to give that some thought. I’ve done many things. So this is your take on old Whitney’s death. He was going to reveal deep dark secrets and someone strongly objected?’
    â€˜Seems so. We know he was writing a tell-all book . . .’
    â€˜His legacy.’ His tone was derisive.
    â€˜And we have names of a few people whose stories were included in a very unflattering way.’
    â€˜There was no love lost between Whitney and me. None. He was a blowhard who didn’t know when to call it a day. His first book, especially, covered some new ground and deserved the attention it got. But for a lot of writers, unfortunately, there is really only one story. And if you keep writing you simply tell it over and over again. That was Whitney. People grew tired of it. Yet, he demanded attention, demanded to be treated like a star. He was pissed that the paper wouldn’t give him the attention he wanted. In fact, he submitted articles. And we rejected them.’
    â€˜We?’ Carly asked.
    â€˜Me,’ he said. ‘Me. I rejected them. I called him personally. I loved to get his goat, get him all riled up. I’d tell him I had an intern position open if he wanted it. I liked getting him all blustering and spitting.’
    â€˜You do that with many people,’ Carly said.
    â€˜I do. It is my raison d’être .’ He smiled. ‘Now that’s a phrase Whitney would have used.
    â€˜What did he have on you?’ Carly asked.
    â€˜Personally, I live a pretty boring life these days. I regret to admit there is nothing scandalous here. My obsessions are public. You can read them every week in the paper.’ He halted, took a deep breath. ‘I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t had sex with a goat, but even if I did, no big deal. You know, if there’s something really embarrassing to be revealed about me, I’m as interested as anyone else.’
    He said all of this in a casual manner, halting frequently to choose his words.
    â€˜What do you know about Frank Wiley?’ she asked.
    â€˜Excellent photographer, but caught up in the romance of the Beats. Kind of limited his appeal.’
    â€˜He’s on the list. Why?’
    â€˜This list, where did you get it?’
    Carly smiled. ‘An anonymous source close to the investigation.’
    â€˜We don’t use anonymous sources in our publication,’ he said. ‘Unlike the mainstream press, we are journalists.’ He grinned. Perhaps he wasn’t so tough, Carly thought. ‘I don’t know what,’ the publisher said, ‘if anything, Frank Wiley would have to hide.’
    â€˜Agnes DeWitt?’
    â€˜She wrote her own tell-all and had some nasty things to say about Whitney. She’s not quite capable of killing anyone. She’s almost blind and nearing death, herself.’
    Carly realized that Brozynski was enjoying the conversation. As a journalist, he was about to find out, if Carly continued, everyone who was on the list. Maybe it wasn’t wise to continue. If she did it