Twospot

by Bill Pronzini

  “I hope this won’t take long, Lieutenant. I don’t mind telling you that I’m having a hell of a day.” He ran his fingers impatiently through dark, curly hair as he threw himself back into his elegant black leather swivel chair. “First, there’s Alex—and then Booker. And then, in addition to everything else, we just had a goddamn shipment of wine hijacked, if you can believe that. And, as if that weren’t enough, my secretary phoned in sick.”

  “You had a wine shipment hijacked?” I asked incredulously.

  He nodded angrily. “I’ve just got off the phone with the FBI. They think the shipment was hijacked by mistake.” He shook his head disgustedly, as if someone had played a bad joke on him. “It seems that the hijackers were looking for a shipment of pocket calculators, for God’s sake. And they—” His phone buzzer sounded. Grimacing, he picked up the receiver. “Miss Farwell,” he said acidly, “I thought I told you to hold my calls.” He listened for a moment. “My wife?” As he listened again, frowning, I had a chance to assess him. He had his mother’s large, high-bridged nose and dark, restless eyes. His face was squared off, with a strong jaw, prominent cheekbones and heavy ridges above dark, full eyebrows. It was a willful, powerful face. Wearing a helmet and breastplate, he could have been a Roman centurion.

  He had apparently agreed to talk to his wife. He listened impatiently for a moment, still frowning. I saw him clench his right hand hard into a fist, and begin rhythmically striking the desk—suffering her silently. The gesture revealed a strong, dominant man who bore frustration badly. Even from across the desk, I could hear a strident, metallic voice on the phone. Finally Leo interrupted.

  “Listen, Angela, I simply don’t have time for this. Now, I’ve already told you to stay out of it. Rosa doesn’t need your help, and I don’t want your help. You’ll just—what?”

  The frown became a furious scowl. The fist was white-knuckled now. On the phone, the metallic voice continued its shrill protestations. Again, he roughly interrupted her.

  “What you’re doing, Angela, is trying to make a big production number out of this. But the facts—the simple, unvarnished facts —are that Booker got himself killed, which was good riddance, and Alex’s got himself in yet another scrape, which was inevitable. Now, if it’ll make you feel less left out, you can go downtown and buy yourself a black dress, just in case Alex is dead, too. But in the meantime, please—please—get off my back. And—” Suddenly he stopped speaking. He took the phone away from his ear, glared at it for a moment, then banged it down. His wife had hung up on him.

  Immediately, the phone buzzed again.

  “Goddamn son of a bitch.” He lifted the phone. Speaking in a low, dangerous voice, he said, “Miss Farwell, for the last time—” He paused, blinked, then sat for a moment in irresolute silence. Finally he said shortly, “All right. Tell her to wait for me. It’ll just be a few minutes.” As he hung up, he glanced quickly at me, as if to assess how much I’d heard—and guessed. Now he swiveled in his chair to face me squarely. He allowed a moment of silence to pass as he eyed me speculatively, taking my measure. As he stared, his hand strayed to his expensive silk tie, absently adjusting the knot. Finally:

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” His voice was clipped, his eyes cold. He could have been speaking to an employee—or a servant.

  I matched his manner. “I’m looking for your brother. His car’s been located on Grant Avenue, near Telegraph Hill. Does he know anyone in the area?”

  “Not so far as I can remember.” The answer came so quickly that he couldn’t have given it an instant’s thought. Before I’d asked the question, he’d decided on a negative reply.

  I pointed to the phone. “I gather that you don’t keep very close track of your brother’s life.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked truculently.

  “It means that you don’t exactly play the role of the devoted brother.”

  “I don’t have time for role playing, Lieutenant. I’d rather just tell the truth. I’ve found that it saves a lot of time and energy. And the truth is that I’ve never really liked Alex very much. And he’s never liked me much, either. We’re two different people.”

  “He could be dead, Mr. Cappellani. Or in danger. Aren’t you concerned?”

  “Of course I’m concerned. But I’m not going to let his mistakes dominate my life. I learned that little trick a long time ago.”

  As I rose slowly to my feet, I decided I didn’t like Leo Cappellani. I looked at him for a moment in silence before I asked quietly, “Do you know anyone named Mal Howard?”

  “No.”

  “Does the word ‘Twospot’ mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think that Jason Booker intended to marry your mother?”

  He drew a deep breath. “I think he intended to try and marry her. But he never would have succeeded. I can assure you that my mother would never have been taken in by Booker.”

  I nodded. “I think you’re probably right.” I laid my card on the corner of his desk. “If you hear from your brother—or about your brother—I’d like you to call me.”

  He didn’t reply. Realizing that I could expect nothing from Leo Cappellani, I turned and left the office. In the reception room outside, on a leather sofa, I saw a handsome young woman seated with her legs crossed, leafing through a copy of Time. She was wearing beige wool slacks, a Levi-styled jacket made of the same material and a brown turtleneck sweater. The close-fitting jacket modeled round, high breasts and a trim, exciting torso. When I opened the door, she lifted her head to look at me over the magazine. Her face was a classic oval, with a firm mouth, a straight nose and calm, level brows. She was a small, slim woman, almost petite. But the squared-off set of her shoulders and the arch of her neck suggested vitality, determination and strength. Her hair was dark auburn, cropped close. Her gray-green eyes were coolly appraising. Under my scrutiny, she lifted her chin a disdainful half inch. She held herself as if she was accustomed to having men look at her.

  From Bill’s description, I could guess her identity.

  “Are you Shelly Jackson?” I asked, at the same time slipping my shield case from my pocket. Watching my gesture, she raised her hand. “You don’t have to show me your badge. I know who you are.” She put the magazine aside, recrossed her legs and turned on the couch to face me fully. “I understand you want to talk to me.” “I understand you want to talk to me.”

  “Not especially. We want to talk to everyone who was at the winery Thursday sight. And I understand that you—” I hesitated, searching for the right phrase. “I understand that you participated.”

  It was an awkward, ineffectual opening—a mistake. I should have begun with a question, putting her on the defensive. It was a basic police tactic, based on the premise that every interrogation is a contest.

  Questioning desirable women, I always made the same mistake.

  As if she sensed my momentary dissatisfaction with myself, her mouth moved in a small, condescending smile. The green eyes regarded me calmly, with an aloof, supercilious tolerance. Suddenly I knew how Canelli must feel, trying to cope with a constant succession of citizens who caused him to blush, or perspire, or otherwise surrender to confusion.

  “How do you mean that, exactly?” she asked.

  “I mean that you were apparently very helpful.” As I sat beside her on the sofa, I saw the inefficient Miss Farwell enter Leo Cappellani’s office. Shelly Jackson and I were alone in the reception room.

  This time maintaining eye contact, I pitched my voice to a crisp, official note as I said, “I understand that you gave statements to the Napa County Sheriffs office indicating that, except for the private detective, you didn’t see anyone in the vineyards Thursday night after the attack on Alex. Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is there anything you can add to what you told them?”

  She raised her shoulders, shrugging. Her eyes were steady, never leaving my face. Her han
ds were clasped easily in her lap, relaxed. Innocent or not, most witnesses betray nervousness during questioning. Not Shelly Jackson. She was a cool customer.

  “I probably can’t add anything to what you already know,” she answered. “You’re apparently pretty well informed about what happened.”

  “You work for the Cappellanis, I gather.”

  “Yes. I’m in their marketing division.”

  “You know Logan Docksetter, then.”

  “Of course.”

  “What d’you think of him?”

  “As a man, or a sales manager?”

  “As a man.”

  “I don’t think he’s much of a man.” She let a deliberate moment pass before she added, “You can take that any way you like—and you’d probably be right.”

  “How long have you worked for the Cappellanis?”

  “Just a few months.”

  “What’d you do before that?”

  Again she shrugged. The slow movement of her shoulders suggested a self-confident sensuality. I found myself thinking that she would be a bold, exciting lover.

  “I was in marketing. I’m pretty good at it, as a matter of fact.

  “Did you work here in San Francisco?”

  “No,” she answered shortly. “In Florida. My—” For the first time, she hesitated. Then: “My marriage broke up. So I came west.” As she said it, she challenged me with her eyes, putting the subject of her broken marriage off-limits.

  “I wouldn’t think there’d be much wine marketed in Florida. They don’t grow grapes, do they?”

  The comment seemed to amuse her. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I was in nuts, as they say. Pecans. But marketing is marketing, Lieutenant.” Her eyes still held mine, coolly waiting.

  “You’re an intelligent woman, Miss Jackson. I’d like you to tell me how the Cappellanis strike you—as a family, I mean.”

  She looked at me for a moment, obviously deciding how much to say—how far she could trust me. Finally she said, “Alex is a lightweight and Leo is a light-heavy. The mother, Rosa, is the only one who knows who she is and what she’s doing. But she apparently can’t do without a man, so that’s a weakness, I guess. Anyhow, Booker could get her giggling like a schoolgirl, sometimes.”

  “You didn’t like Booker.”

  She shook her head.

  “How about Paul Rosten?”

  “I don’t know him very well. He never talks. At least, not to me.”

  I was trying to decide whether to ask if she thought Rosa and Rosten had been lovers when, suddenly, the paging device at my belt buzzed. It was Halliday again, asking me to phone him. I crossed the office, punched an outside line and dialed Communications. In spite of himself, Halliday was exicted as he said:

  “Inspector Canelli just called to say that he thinks he has Mal Howard pinned down at 1976 Scctt Street. He wants instructions.”

  “What does he mean by ‘pinned dawn’?”

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes. Tell him not to take any action until I get there. He’s to keep the place buttoned up, nothing more. Clear?”

  “Yessir.”

  11

  I drove past the Scott Street address twice before I spotted Canelli. He was across the street from the house, crouched down behind a laurel hedge. Whenever I saw Canelli concealing himself behind a tree or bush, I thought of an amiable hippo bulging out on all sides of a small hummock.

  I surreptitiously nodded to him, drove around the corner and parked out of sight. Moments later, he slipped into my car.

  “What’s the situation?” I asked.

  “Well,” Canelli said, “what happened is that they been backtracking on Howard all day, the way I get it—going from one old address to another. You know. So anyhow, at one of the addresses, Marsten ran across this guy he’d busted a couple of months ago, when he was in Vice. So Marsten thought, what the hell, he’d give the guy a toss, for old time’s sake. So he finds the guy carrying some cocaine—which makes the guy think about making a deal, of course. And, besides, the guy had a beef with Howard, about some dirty movies, and was pretty pissed off, the way I get it. So anyhow, the guy cops. We’ve been here for about an hour and a half, showing Howard’s picture around. And it sure seems like he’s in there, all right. I mean, people saw him go in, but nobody saw him come out.”

  “Have you got the back covered?”

  “Sure, Lieutenant.” Canelli’s soft brown eyes reproached me for asking the question.

  “How many men have you got?”

  “Six, including me. I figured I should pull the whole detail in.”

  I nodded agreement. From where I sat, I could see the building. It had once been a large, elegant two-story Victorian town house, built on a double lot. One side of the house was attached to its neighbor. An alleyway five feet wide ran along the other side of the house. The alleyway was secured by an iron gate. The gate was more than six feet high. The house itself was in fair repair—not completely restored, but not beyond hope, either. It wasn’t the kind of place I’d expect to find a hoodlum. Like the house, the neighborhood had been down as far as it would go, and was starting up on the other side. Most of the homes in the area had been built before 1900: spacious, ornate Victorian buildings, elaborately constructed for some of the city’s best families. In recent years, a city-sponsored Victorian restoration program had started the process of reclamation, reversing the slide toward decay. Private enterprise was finishing the job.

  “Does he live by himself?” As I asked the question I studied Mal Howard’s picture: a thin, drawn face, sparse sandy hair, small eyes set deep over unusually high cheekbones, a flattened streetfighter’s nose and a tight, sullen mouth. Howard would be easy to identify.

  “No,” Canelli answered. “It turns out that Howard’s gay—at least, if you want to believe the guy with the cocaine, he’s gay. And apparently there’s three or four of them living together, there. They’re all gay. The gays like those old Victorians, you know. They fix them up, and everything. You know—artistically.”

  “Are Howard’s friends hoods, too?”

  Canelli nodded. “According to the guy with the cocaine, they’re all hoods. And pretty heavy types, too, Marsten says.”

  “How many of them are in there now?”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant. I didn’t want to ask around the neighborhood too much, in case some wise guy should call them up, and warn them. That happened to me a few months ago. Remember?”

  I remembered. The shootout had sounded like a war.

  “How are your men dispersed?”

  “Did you see that blue van with the white letters parked across the street from the house? It says General Alarms on the side.”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s there. A friend of mine has a burglar alarm business. His name’s Pat Harvey, and he’s one of those eccentric geniuses, I guess you’d say. When I was an electrician, I used to work with him. So I borrowed the van from Pat. I put three of our guys in the van with a walkie-talkie and two shotguns. Then I sent Marsten and a guy from General Works to cover the back of the house. I forget the G. W. guy’s name. But they got a walkie-talkie.” As he spoke, Canelli withdrew his own walkie-talkie, and offered it to me. “You want to check out the positions?”

  “You do it. Designate the van position one. Marsten is position two.”

  He spoke briefly to Marsten and the men in the van, then left the walkie-talkie on the seat between us, switched on. Neither of the positions reported any movement, either inside or outside the house.

  By the book, I should order the surveillance continued until Mal Howard was identified either entering the house or leaving it.

  But, during the ten-minute drive from the Cappellani offices, I’d received a report of another homicide: a housewife in Noe Valley had followed her husband to another woman’s house, and killed them both in the woman’s bedroom. The housewife’s father had once served on the
city’s board of supervisors, and the woman in bed was the daughter of a four-star general. Already, the reporters were hot on the scent. Friedman was handling the case until I could take over, but he was still muttering about Castro. And, on a Saturday afternoon, half our detectives were unavailable to us, except in an emergency.

  “Things are piling up downtown,” I said. “Maybe we should go in. You and me. Want to give it a try?”

  Canelli knew what the book said, too. He knew that I wasn’t giving an order. I was asking for a volunteer.

  “Well—sure.” He shrugged. “Why not? Should I—” He cleared his throat. “Should I get a shotgun, or what?”

  “No. Let’s do it slow and easy.”

  “Yeah. Okay, Lieutenant. Slow and easy.”

  “Where’s the burglar alarm van in relation to the house? How far away?”

  “About two, three houses away. It’s on the opposite side of the street, though.”

  “I’m going to order them to wait until we ring the doorbell. Then I’ll tell them to approach the house slowly. When we get inside—if we do—they can double-park directly in front of the house, ready to come in behind us. Is that all right with you?”

  “Well, sure, Lieutenant. Anything you say.”

  I gave the orders, handed Canelli the walkie-talkie and swung the car door open.

  As we mounted the four steps to the porch, I took my last chance to scan the windows. In an upstairs window, a curtain moved.

  “Did you see that?” Canelli whispered.

  “Yes.” Under cover of the porch now, I unbuttoned my jacket and loosened my revolver in its holster. I gestured for Canelli to stand to my right, slightly behind.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  The old-fashioned door was heavily built, with a pane of beveled Victorian frosted glass set in the upper half. Gently, I tried the knob. The door was locked. As I pressed the bell button, I glanced over my shoulder. The van was inching out of the parking place. Inside the house, chimes were melodiously ringing.