THIRTEENBY TEN O’CLOCK the following morning, I had quite an acquaintance with the San Diego homicide squad team of O’Quill and Lowden.
O’Quill was a thinnish, black-haired, Sphynx-eyed, dry-toned man who chain-smoked Kents. He gave the impression of taciturnity, but he did the talking for both. Lowden, who looked almost affably openfaced, said next to nothing.
They seemed fairly well acquainted with me; only it was a me I didn’t know, and would have sneaked up back alleys to avoid meeting socially.
These homicide d***s knew I had an exorbitantly expensive lodging with a close-up view of the Chaparral House pool—was it so I could whet my illicit passions by watching the lady guests in bathing?
The knew I had gone to Ye Olde Crowe’s Neste and left with Miss June Betts, the barmaid, a ph
