McCone and Friends (19 page)

Gary Viner hadn’t changed since I’d seen him a couple of years earlier, but he was very different from the high school kid I remembered. Gaining weight and filling out had made him more attractive; he’d stopped hiding his keen intelligence and learned to tone down his ogling to subtle looks that actually flattered me. Unfortunately, he had no more information on the Winslip murder than what John had already told me.

“Is it okay if I look into this for the parents?” I asked him.

“Feel free. It’s not our case, anyway. You go down there”—he motioned in the general direction of Baja California—“you might want to check in with the TJ authorities.”

“I won’t be going down unless I come up with something damned good up here.”

“Well, good luck, and keep me posted.” As I started out of his cubicle, Gary added, “Hey, McCone—the last time I saw you, you never did answer my question.”

“Which is?”

“Can you still turn a cartwheel?”

I grinned at him. “You bet I can. And my bikini pants are still the prettiest ever.”

It made me feel god to see a tough homicide cop blush.

My first surprise of the day was Troy Winslip’s house. It was enormous, sprawling over a double lot that commanded an impressive view of San Diego Bay and Coronado Island. Stucco and brick and half-timbers, with a terraced yard landscaped in brilliantly flowering iceplant, it must have been at least six thousand feet, give or take a few.

A rich roommate? Many rich roommates? Whatever, it sure didn’t resemble the ramshackle brown-shingled house that I’d shared with what had seemed a cast of thousands when I was at UC Berkeley.

I rang the bell several times and got no response, so I decided to canvass the neighbors. No one was at the houses to either side, but across the street I got luck. The stoop-shouldered man who came to the door was around seventy and proved to like the sound of his own voice.

“Winslip? Sure, I know him. Nice young fellow. He’s owned the place for about a year now.”

“You’re sure he owns it?”

“Yes. I knew the former owners. Gene and Alice Farrar—nice people, too, but that big house was too much for them, so they sold it and bought one of those condos. They told me Winslip paid cash.”

Cash? Such a place would go for many hundreds of thousands. “What about his roommate? Do you also know him?”

The old man leered at me. “Roommate? Is that what you call them these days? Well, he’s a she. The ladies come and go over there, but none’re very permanent. This last one, I’d say she’s been there eight, nine weeks?”

“Do you know her name?”

He shook his head. “She’s a good-looking one, though—long red hair, kind of willowy.”

“And do you know what either she or Mr. Winslip do for a living?”

“Not her, no. and if he does anything, he’s never talked about it. I suspect he inherited his money. He’s home a lot, when he’s not sailing his boat.”

“Where does he keep his boat?”

“Glorietta Bay Marina, over on Coronado.” The man frowned now, wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “What’s this about, anyway?”

“Troy Winslip’s been murdered, and I’m investigating it.”

“What?”

“You didn’t read about it in the paper?”

“I don’t bother with the paper. Don’t watch TV either. With my arthritis, I’m miserable enough; I don’t need other humans’ misery heaped on top of that.”

“You’re a wise man,” I told him, and hurried back to where I‘d left the Scout.

Glorietta Bay Marina sits at the top of the Silver Strand, catty-corner from the Victorian towers of the Hotel Del Coronado. It took me more than half an hour to get there from Point Loma, and when I drove into the parking lot, I spotted John leaning against his motorcycle. He waved and started toward me.

I pulled into a space and jumped out of the Scout. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

“Nice way to greet somebody who’s helping you out. While you were futzing around at the police department and Troy’s place, I went over to State. Talked with his adviser. She says he dropped out after one semester.”

“So how did that lead you here?”

“The adviser sails, and she sees him here off and on. He owns a boat, the
Windsong
.”

“And I suppose you’ve already checked it out?”

“No, but I did talk with the marina manager. He says he’ll let us go aboard if you show him your credentials and release from Bryce and Mari.”

“Good work,” I said grudgingly. “You know,” I added as we started walking toward the manager’s office, “it’s odd that Troy would berth the boat here.”

“Why?”

“He lived on Point Loma, not far from the Shelter Island yacht basin. Why would he want to drive all the way around the bay and across the Coronado Bridge when he could have berthed her within walking distance of his house?”

“No slips available over there? No, that can’t be - I’ve heard the marina’s going hungry in this economy.”

“Interesting, huh? And wait till you hear what else—” I stopped in my tracks and glared at him. “Dammit, you’ve done it again!”

“Done what? I didn’t do anything! What did I do?”

“You know
exactly
what you’ve done.”

John’s smile was smug.

I sighed. “All right, other half of the ‘detecting duo’—lead me to the manager.”

My unwanted assistant and I walked along the outer pier toward the
Windsong’s
slip. The only sounds were the cries of seabirds and the rush of traffic on the Strand. Our footsteps echoed on the aluminum walkways and set them to bucking on a slight swell. No one was around this Wednesday morning except for a pair of artists sketching near the office; the boats were buttoned up tightly, their sails furled in the sea-blue covers. Troy Winslip’s yawl was a big one, some thirty feet. I crossed the plank and stepped aboard; John followed.