“That ‘Twospot’ note is a nice touch,” he said dryly. “A little theatrical, maybe but still nice. It suggests some sinister presence. A mastermind, maybe. Or maybe an inspired red herring.” He nodded approvingly. “Either way, I like it.”
“I thought you would.”
“I’m also intrigued by the sock-and-sand weapon,” he continued. “To me, that smacks of professionalism—or, at the very least, premeditation.”
“Right ”
“Also,” Friedman said, “the sock and the sand might smack of conspiracy not to commit murder, but merely to stun. Ever think of that?”
“To be honest,” I answered, “I haven’t got around to theorizing. I’m still trying to put the pieces together.”
Friedman nodded ponderous approval. Then, speaking slowly and thoughtfully, he said, “There’s something about the whole situation that doesn’t add up.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that Thursday night Alex gets his skull cracked. The next night, Jason Booker gets his skull cracked—fatally. Why? What’s the connection?”
I shrugged. “Apparently Alex suspected that Booker was running some kind of a con on his mother. But maybe Booker was trying more than just a con. Maybe he was involved in something really heavy. And maybe Booker thought Alex knew more than he really knew. So Booker tried to kill Alex. Don’t forget that Bill didn’t actually see Alex’s assailant, up at the winery. It could have been Booker.”
Friedman nodded judiciously. “That much, I can buy. But I don’t buy the part about how maybe Alex talks his way out of the hospital and comes down to the city and asks a private eye to meet him at the site of Booker’s proposed murder—which happens to be the family home away from home. It just doesn’t figure. It also doesn’t figure that Alex would need a note reminding him of the address of his family’s town house.”
“Then why did Alex run?”
Friedman spread his hands. “Maybe he didn’t run, ever consider that? Maybe he was killed too. And hauled away.”
“Who hauled him away?”
“How should I know? It’s your case. I’m just trying to stretch your mind.”
“Our witness didn’t see anyone hauled away.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you,” he said, “that single witnesses are about as reliable as weather reports. Until you’ve got two witnesses who saw the same thing at the same time, you don’t have crap.”
“Well, there’s one way to tell whether Alex was shot in that garage.” I pulled my notepad toward me and wrote “Alex’s blood type?” on the top sheet. At that moment, my phone rang.
“This is Fenster, Lieutenant Hastings. Identification.”
From his voice, I knew that he had a positive make for me. I turned to the notepad’s second sheet. “What’ve you got, Fenster?”
“It’s the prints on that cigarette wrapper. Relating to the Booker homicide.”
“Yes.”
“They’re listed as identifying one Malcolm Howard, of this city.”
“Did you pull his jacket”
“Yessir.”
“Give me the rundown.”
“Caucasian male. Age thirty-four. Last known address, 469 Eddy Street, apartment 670. Previous convictions—” He paused. “Do you want them all, Lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
“1961, grand theft auto, this city. Suspended sentence. 1964, receiving stolen goods. Sentenced five to fifteen years. Served—let’s see, about four years, I guess. Maybe a little less. Released on parole. In 1968, he was indicated for possession of a firearm and for attmpted murder. Tried, and acquited. In 1970, in Florida, he was indicated for illegal possession of machine guns and possession of illegal explosive devices. Gun-running, in other words. Tried, and convicted. That’s all his indictments and convictions.”
“How long has he been back in San Francisco?”
“About a year. He was arrested six months ago in a sweep of gay bars, out on Castro Street. He wasn’t booked. He’s a homosexual, I guess.”
“Are there any current intelligence reports on him?”
“Yessir—” I heard papers rattling. Then: “He’s apparently trying to get into pornography. Male pornography. He bought a rundown movie house on Eighteenth Street, and he’s showing dirty movies. He may be making some porno films, too. All gay.”
“He came back from Florida with some money, then.”
“It looks like it. From the gun-running, probably.”
“Have you got a current picture?”
“Yessir.”
“All right. Inspector Canelli will be down to pick up the jacket. Wait for him. And thanks.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
I turned to Friedman. “Ever heard of Malcolm Howard?”
Friedman nodded.“I arrested him once.”
“Is he a murderer?”
“Not when I knew him, he wasn’t. But he was certainly going in that direction. He’s a smart, vicious punk with very kinky sexual preferences and a very strong profit motive. Mal will do anything for money. That’s what his friends call him. Mal.”
“Excuse me.” I called Canelli, and ordered him to organize a search for Mal Howard. “When they find him,” I finished, “they’re to put him under close surveillance, and call me. Don’t apprehend.”
“Yessir. Do you want me to take charge in the field?”
“No,” I answered. “I want you here. Lieutenant Friedman is going to be busy with security for Fidel Castro. That leaves you and me to hold down the fort.”
“Oh. Well. Jeeze.” Canelli was plainly flustered. A combination of Castro’s visit and a Saturday morning’s skeleton crew in Homicide had suddenly elevated him to command status. It was the first time it had happened. “Well, okay, Lieutenant. Sure. And thanks.”
“You can get some extra men from General Works, if you need them—on my authority. Let’s use three teams—six men, altogether. Get the best you can.”
“Yessir. Six men. Is that all? I mean, is that all you wanted?”
“No. When you’ve got the search for Howard organized, I want you to see how many people involved with the Cappellanis are in San Francisco. You got the names from Bill, last night. Right?”
“Yessir. Right. I was just typing up my report on his statement, as a matter of fact.”
“Okay. When you get the names, set up an interrogation schedule for you and me. Beginning in, say, an hour. Clear?”
“Yessir, that’s—Oh. Say. I forgot.”
I sighed. “Forgot what?”
“Mrs. Rosa Cappellani and a guy named Paul Rosten just came in. He’s the foreman up at the Cappellani Winery, according to that private detective. I was just going to call you, when you called me. You want to see them?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Bring them in.”
Canelli tapped on my door, opened it and ushered Rosa Cappellani and Paul Rosten into my office. After making his awkward introductions, Canelli moved his blue-stubbled chin toward the interior of my office, silently asking whether he should stay. Surreptitiously, I shook my head. I wanted Mal Howard found.
Friedman remained long enough to covertly form his own impression of the woman and man, then excused himself, mumbling something about “Fidel” under his breath.
Wearing a mink coat over a dark woolen dress, with her hair coiled regally on her head, Rosa Cappellani was plainly a woman accustomed to center stage. She moved with calm, concise assurance. Still in her fifties, slim and full-breasted, she held her head high and proud. Her face was aristocratically lean, with a prominent nose, high cheekbones and a decisive mouth. On appearance, she was a woman who set her own style. Her simply cut dress must have been made especially for her. She wore no visible makeup; her hair was untinted, strikingly gray-streaked The effect was elegant indifference to fashion—and to the pandering to opinion. Her gray eyes moved quickly and. shrewdly, compelling attention.
“Have you found out who killed Jason?” she asked abruptly.
“Who?”
“A man named Malcolm Howard.” As I said it, I glanced quickly at both Rosa and Rosten, looking for a reaction. I saw them exchange a puzzled look, nothing more.
“You don’t know him,” I said. “Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Rosa answered impatiently. “Who is he? Is he the one who tried to kill Alex, Thursday night?”
I countered with a question: “We have reason to believe that the murderer had the address of your own house on his person when he struggled with Booker. A slip of paper was found with the address of your house and the word ‘Twospot’ typed on it. Does ‘Twospot’ mean anything to either of you?”
Again, the two exchanged a glance—with the same negative result.
“Who is this Malcolm Howard?” the woman asked.
“He’s a professional criminal, Mrs, Cappellani—a man with a long arrest record that includes attempted murder.” Letting her think about it, I watched her closely. Her eyes wandered thoughtfully past mine as she asked, “Do you think Howard came to rob the house, and killed Jason in the process? Is that what you suspect?”
I shook my head. “No, Mrs. Cappellani, that’s not what I think. Howard isn’t a petty hoodlum. He isn’t a burglar, either.”
“Then why was he there? Why did he kill Jason?”
“He was probably there,” I answered, “because someone hired him to be there. If he killed Jason Booker, he probably did it for money. Plenty of money.”
“Why do you say ‘plenty of money’?” The question came quickly, shrewdly.
“Because,” I answered, “Howard apparently has some money already. So he wouldn’t come cheap.”
“I don’t understand this,” she said. “I don’t understand any of it.” She spoke angrily. Her eyes snapped impatiently; her head moved with restless exasperation. Faced with frustration or uncertainty, it was her nature to strike back.
Still watching her closely, I said, “I think that the attempt on Alex’s life and the murder of Jason Booker might be connected.”
“Connected?”
I nodded.
“Why? How?”
“I have no idea. However, on two successive nights, they were both attacked. They could have been attacked by the same person. Or else—” I let it go unfinished.
“Or else what?” she asked. As she spoke, her eyes narrowed.
I decided not to answer. I wanted her to think about the other possibility: that, directly or indirectly, Alex was responsible for the attack on Booker.
Rosa Cappellani drew a slow, measured breath. “I’m here for two reasons, Lieutenant,” she said, speaking with deliberate emphasis. “I’m here because Jason and I were friends. Good friends.” As she said it, I saw Paul Rosten stiffen almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t liked Booker.
“But more important,” Rosa continued, “I’m here because of Alex. Where is he? What’s happened to him?”
As concisely as I could, I told her everything I knew about Alex Cappellani’s movements, finishing with the stark, brutal statement that Booker, while probably intending to meet Alex at the Cappellanis’ town house, had been murdered. After the murder, I continued, Alex had apparently run—or else been taken away. As I spoke, Rosa Cappellani’s eyes burned into mine with an intensity so fierce that I dropped my own gaze to the desk.
Her voice was low and tight as she said, “You’re telling me that my son might be either a murderer or a murder victim, Lieutenant.” It sounded like a warning—or a threat.
“No, Mrs. Cappellani, that’s not what I’m telling you. I’m simply giving you the facts. I’m hoping you can tell me what they mean.”
“They mean that Alex is trouble—that you’ve got to help him, not hunt him for a murderer.”
“I’ve got to find him before I can help him, Mrs. Cappellani. And that’s why I’m questioning you. Because I want to find him.” I let a beat pass before I added, quietly, “I’d hoped you could help me.”
Silently, remorselessly, her eyes continued to challenge me. Then I saw the firm, uncompromising line of her mouth weaken. For the first time, her eyes shifted uncertainly.
“How can I help you?” she asked finally.
“By telling me everything you can about your son. About your family life. Everything. Because that’s where this whole thing seems to have started—with your family.
She looked at me for a last long, speculative moment, making up her mind. Then, speaking slowly and steadily, she began:
“Until my husband died, thirteen years ago, Alex was always happy—always smiling. He was never very serious, not like his brother Leo. Alex took life as he found it. Leo was like his father —always trying to change things. And often succeeding, too.”
“Did it bother Alex? That Leo succeeded?”
“I don’t think it bothered him. But, to be honest, I don’t really know.” Under the mink, her shoulders lifted. Slowly, she shook her head. It was a regretful gesture, an admission of parental helplessness. “After my husband died, I had my hands full, running the winery and handling my husband’s—” Momentarily, she hesitated. Then: “My husband’s other affairs.”
“What ‘other affairs’ do you mean?”
“He was very active in politics.”
“How about you?” I asked. “Were you active in politics, too?”
“Not to the extent my husband was involved. I had only the interest. He had the conviction—the fire.” As she said it, she exchanged a quick, meaningful look with the man beside her. “In any case,” she continued, “the fact is that I was never able to get close to either of the boys after my husband’s death. Leo, of course, was already in his twenties. He didn’t need me. Alex, though—” Again, she shook her head. “Alex had his problems. I knew it, and tried to help. But I had my problems too.”
“The boys grew up well,” Rosten said, speaking for the first time since he’d introduced himself. “Differently, but well.”
“I suppose so.” But, plainly, she didn’t believe it—didn’t choose to delude herself. “Actually, after only a few years, Leo took over a lot of the winery management. I made the major decisions, but Leo handled day-to-day matters—and very well, too.”
“What about Alex? What was he doing during that time?”
Lips compressed, she hesitated before saying, “Alex tried—different things. From the first, it was obvious that he and Leo couldn’t work together—not as equals, anyhow. So, for several years, Alex drifted. First there was college. Or rather—” She shook her head, remembering. “Rather, a succession of colleges. Then he lived in the East for a while. But then, a few years ago, he came back to California.”
“And now he’s working under Leo’s direction. Is that right?”
She nodded. “That’s right.” There was a note of finality in her voice. The subject of the two brothers and their rivalry was closed.
So I said: “Alex was very concerned about your-friendship with Jason Booker. That’s apparently how all this started.” I decided to say nothing more. She knew why I’d said it. Either she would respond, or she wouldn’t.
A long, uncomfortable moment passed while she studied me. Then, having made her decision, she spoke calmly and concisely.
“Jason began working for us about six months ago. We became —friendly. From the first, Alex didn’t like Jason. I knew it, but there was nothing I could do about it. I—” Again, the glance at Rosten. “I’ve always lived my own life, especially since my husband died. I don’t interfere with my sons’ lives. I don’t expect them to interfere with mine.”
“It’s my understanding that you and Jason Booker were more than just ‘friendly.’” I hesitated. Then: “You were close friends. Very close friends. Is that right?”
She lifted her chin and stared at me with scornful defiance before she finally spoke. “Yes, Lieutenant. If it’s any concern to your inv
estigation—yes, we were very close friends.”
Disconcerted by her obvious scorn for my policeman’s grubby duties, I self-defensively asked, “Did you know that Alex retained a private investigator to look into Booker’s past?”
She stared at me coldly for a moment before she said, “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true, though.”
For the second time, Rosten spoke. “The man at the winery, Thursday night,” he said. “The one who found Alex—who was wrestling with Shelly, out in the vineyards. It must be him.”
Rosa questioned me with a single haughty look. Silently, I nodded.
“He might have saved Alex’s life,” Rosa said. She spoke quietly, thoughtfully.
“Your son trusted him,” I said. I waited, hoping she’d say something more.
Instead, Rosten spoke again. His brown, weather-seamed face was impassive as he said, “This private detective—he seems to know a lot about us. About the winery, and the family. Everything.”
“Alex gave him a rundown, I’m sure”
“He shouldn’t have done it,” Rosten said. “It was wrong, hiring someone to spy on his own mother.”
Thoughfully, I turned my full attention to this strangely implacable man, who didn’t hesitate to criticize Alex Cappellani, even to his mother.
“Do you have any ideas, Mr. Rosten?” I asked quietly. “Do you know why Alex might have been attacked, or Booker murdered?”
For a long, silent moment he held my gaze. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “Those are things for Rosa to tell you,” he said. “Not me.”
Rosa, he’d said. Not Mrs. Cappellani.
At that moment my phone rang. Impatiently, I lifted receiver. At the same moment, Rosa rose decisively to her feet, motioning for Rosten to do the same.
“Just a minute,” I said into the phone. And to Rosa: “Where can I get in touch with you, if anything develops?”
“At the winery. In St. Helena.”
I passed her one of my cards, asking to her to call me if Alex contacted her. “Will you do that?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered gravely. “Yes, I’ll do that.”
Twospot Page 8