Read Online The McCone Files by Marcia Muller - Free Book Online Page A

change all that much in sixteen years.”
    That depended, but I wasn’t about to debate the point with him. “But what about makeup? Won’t that disguise them?” Fitzgerald and Tilby wore traditional clown white-face.
    â€œThey can’t apply the makeup until they’re about to go on—in other circumstances, it might be possible to put it on earlier, but not in this heat.”
    I nodded. It all made sense. But why did I feel there was something Kabalka wasn’t telling me about his need for an armed guard? Perhaps it was the way his eyes had once again shifted from mine to the posters on the walls. Perhaps it was the nervous pressing of his laced fingers. Or maybe it was only that sixth sense that sometimes worked for me, what I called a detective’s instinct and others—usually men—labeled woman’s intuition.
    â€œAll right, Mr. Kabalka, “I said, “I’ll take the job.”
    I checked in with Don to find out when I should be back at the studios, then went home to change clothing. We would arrive at the pavilion around four; the show—an early one because of its appeal for children—would begin at six. And I was certain that the high temperatures—sure to have topped 100 in the Diablo Valley—would not drop until long after dark. Chambray pants and an abbreviated tank top, with my suede jacket to put on in case of a late evening chill were all I would need. That, and my .38 special, tucked in the outer compartment of my leather shoulder bag.
    By three o’clock I was back at the KSUN studios. Don met me in the lobby and ushered me to the lounge where Kabalka, Gary Fitzgerald, and John Tilby waited.
    The two clowns were about my age—a little over thirty. Their British accents might once have been a put-on, but they sounded as natural now as if they’d been born and raised in London. Gary Fitzgerald was tall and lanky, with some straight dark hair, angular features that stopped just short of being homely, and a direct way of meeting one’s eye. John Tilby was shorter, sandy haired—the type we used to refer to in high school as “cute.” His shy demeanor was in sharp contrast to his cousin’s straightforward greeting and handshake. They didn’t really seem like relatives, but then neither do I in comparison to my four siblings and numerous cousins. All of them resemble one another—typical Scotch-Irish towheads—but I have inherited all the characteristics of our one-eighth Shoshone Indian blood. And none of us are similar in personality or outlook, save for the fact we care a great deal about one another.
    Wayne Kabalka hovered in the background while the introductions were made. The first thing he said to me was, “Did you bring your gun?”
    â€œYes, I did. Everything’s under control.”
    Kabalka wrung his hands together as if he only wished it were true. Then he said, “Do you have a car, Ms. McCone?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen I suggest we take both yours and mine. I have to swing by the hotel and pick up my wife and John’s girlfriend.”
    â€œAll right. I have room for one passenger in mine. Don, what about you? How are you getting out there?”
    â€œI’m going in the Wonder Bus.”
    I rolled my eyes. The wonder bus was a KSUN publicity ploy—a former school bus painted in rainbow hues and emblazoned with the station call letters. It traveled to all KSUN-sponsored events, plus to anything else where management deemed its presence might be beneficial. As far as I was concerned, it was the most outrageous in a panoply of the station’s efforts at self-promotion, and I took every opportunity to expound that viewpoint to Don. Surprisingly Don—a quiet classical musician who hated rock-and roll and the notoriety that went with being a D.J.—never cringed at riding the Wonder Bus. If anything, he took almost a perverse pleasure in the