Death in North Beach by Ronald Tierney Page A

‘But I’ll try to get in to see ancient Agnes. Maybe she knows somebody who knows somebody.’
    They talked about movies, finished their lunches and went their separate ways. On the way to Lang’s beat-up Mercedes, Thanh called. He had some information.

Ten
    Carly thought about Lang’s comments on Hayes Valley – how it had changed from derelict and dangerous to stylish and expensive. Where else would you find a liquor store that sold only sake? San Francisco had changed. She’d heard the complaint many times. With each passing generation, the older one bemoans the changes brought about by the younger ones. The Castro area she was driving through was a prime example. At one point it was an Irish neighborhood, then it became the most famous or infamous gay neighborhood in the world. Young guys with mustaches wore Levi’s jeans and plaid shirts and posed as Marlboro men not that many decades ago. Today, young heterosexual couples with their baby strollers were coming over the hill from Noe Valley to mix with the gay couples and their baby strollers. Just as there were no more pirates on the Barbary Coast and the Chinese were finally permitted to leave Chinatown, the entire city was both better and worse for changing times. Prejudice had indeed gone down. The cost of living had indeed gone up. San Francisco had one of the highest median incomes of any city in the country.
    She turned left on Hill Street and entered a quiet little hilltop neighborhood with handsome, well-kept homes; many, she guessed, with remarkable views. To the north one was likely to look down a long way as homes stretched out to the Bay. Nathan Malone lived on the other side of the street.
    Mrs Malone, as she introduced herself, was a silver-haired, spirited woman in a yellow pantsuit, who was carrying what appeared to be a drink. There was a twist of lime, an inch of clear liquid and some ice. She was in her late sixties or early seventies, Carly guessed as the woman guided her to the back of the house. They went through an arch and into a room where a wall of windows looked out over a deck and an expanse of homes that climbed up another distant hill. The walls on either side of the window were lined with bookcases. Malone was at the computer and hadn’t looked up, perhaps finishing a sentence before engaging the visitor.
    Carly noticed that the top row of the bookcase behind his desk contained books Malone had authored. Non-fiction mostly. Some biographies. Some seemed to reference history. But there were a couple, she recognized from her background check, that were novels.
    Nathan Malone got up from his desk. He was as striking and as energetic-looking as his wife and probably very nearly the same age. His hair, and it appeared he had all of it, was a mix of silver and blond in tousled curls. He came from around the desk to shake hands.
    â€˜Can I get you anything?’ Mrs Malone asked.
    â€˜No, thank you. Just had lunch.’
    Malone answered his wife with a subtle shake of his head and a frown. His gaze was directed at his wife’s drink. She didn’t notice. He raised his eyebrows. His expression seemed to be one of total submission to the forces around him. As his wife retreated, he nodded toward a big, high-backed chair upholstered in brown leather, he sat in a matching chair separated by a small table. On the table were two magazines – The New Yorker and Publishers Weekly .
    â€˜You’re from New York, right?’ Carly asked.
    â€˜I am. In terms of career, moving out here may have been a major mistake. In those days and for many years thereafter, serious writers were supposed to live in New York.’ He paused, shook his head. ‘But you wouldn’t necessarily be interested in all that. You wanted to inquire about Whitney Warfield, you said on the phone.’
    â€˜Yes, thank you for taking the time. We believe he was writing a major tell-all book that might have caused his