Twospot

by Bill Pronzini

  “The town house is still sealed, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But Leo might not know it.”

  “I hope,” Friedman said, “that the FBI is smart enough to question Rosa. My last waking thought, four hours ago, was that they might get more from Rosa than Rosten.”

  “Maybe we should—”

  My phone rang. I lifted the receiver to hear, “It’s Canelli, Lieutenant. Hey, you’ll never guess what happened.”

  “Canelli. Please. No guessing games.”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. I forgot you’ve been up all night, and everything.”

  “Well, what’s happened?”

  “Leo just arrived at his office. In his Lincoln, as advertised. He just drove up and parked in his parking place and went into the building, cool as anything. What d’you want me to do?”

  “Who’ve you got with you?” As I spoke, I unlocked my desk drawer and took out my gun and cuffs.

  “Marsten.”

  “Is Leo inside the building now?” I was trying to visualize the big brick building. Were there side entrances, as well as entrances in the front and back? I couldn’t remember.

  “He sure is, Lieutenant,” Canelli said cheerfully.

  “All right, you and Marsten cover the front and back, outside. Stay out of sight of Leo’s office, which is on the third floor, the southeast corner. Have you got that?”

  “Yessir. Third floor, southeast corner. Except that—” A pause. “Except that, I gotta tell you, he could’ve already eyeballed me, if that’s where he is.”

  “It can’t be helped. If he tries to leave, collar him. Otherwise, wait for orders. Clear?”

  “Yessir, that’s clear. Are you coming down?”

  “Both of us are coming down. Right now.”

  As Friedman drove, I worked with Communications, trying to reach Brautigan through the FBI switchboard. Just as we were pulling into a parking place beside Leo’s Lincoln, Brautigan came on the air, talking from his mobile phone.

  “Don’t tell him we’ve located Leo,” Friedman hissed. “Not yet. They’ll just come barging in and maybe screw everything up.”

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Brautigan’s static-sizzled voice was demanding. “What’ve you got?”

  I reported that we were still looking for Leo, then asked Brautigan what his agents had learned from Rosten.

  “This isn’t exactly a secure line, Lieutenant.” Even through the sizzling I could hear the weary condescension in Brautigan’s voice.

  “We need the information,” I countered. “Castro’s plane arrives at eleven. That’s less than three hours from now. We’re trying to decide whether to change the arrival schedule.”

  “All right. I’ll check and get back to you. Where are you?” He spoke sharply: the commander, giving orders.

  “We’re in the field. You’ll have to go through Communications.”

  “Tell him to interrogate Rosa,” Friedman whispered.

  “We’re wondering whether your men questioned Rosa Cappellani,” I said. “We have reason to believe that it might pay off.”

  “Naturally we’ve questioned Mrs. Cappellani, Lieutenant. We’ve been questioning her for two hours.” Now he was the longsuffering commander, forced to endure an underling’s tedious questions. I felt myself getting angry.

  “Any results?” I felt asked flatly.

  “I’ll check that, too. Out.”

  “Good show,” Friedman said amiably. “You really stuck it to him. You’re learning, my boy.”

  “That supercilious bastard. I always forget how he talks.”

  “He’s been to Yale. For only two years, though. I checked.”

  I snorted.

  “He doesn’t sound like he’s exactly worried about an assassination,” Friedman mused. “Whatever he’s heard from the interrogation, he must not think it’s damaging to Leo.”

  “Brautigan never sounds worried. That’s not his style.”

  Grunting disgusted agreement, Friedman heaved himself out of the car as Canelli came to stand beside us. It was a cold, raw morning, overcast and damp. Unshaven, Canelli wore an old car coat. A brightly striped muffler was wrapped around his neck, dangling to his waist in front and back. A blue stocking cap was pulled down around his ears. He could have been going to a football game.

  “What’s happened?” I asked Canelli.,

  “Nothing, Lieutenant.”

  I glanced up at Leo’s office. The curtains were open, but I saw no movement inside. I turned to Friedman, asking, “Shall we have Canelli and Marsten stand by while we talk to him?”

  Friedman nodded, at the same time slipping a tiny, short-range walkie-talkie from his pocket and rectifying channels with Canelli.

  “Did you call off the other surveillances, Canelli?” I asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Do it.”

  “Right”

  As Friedman and I walked across the parking lot toward the building’s rear entrance, Friedman said, “I’ve never met the gentleman, but it seems to me that we should try and finesse Leo, instead of butting heads with him.”

  “You want to lead off? It’s fine with me. You’re better at finessing than I am.”

  As he held the door open for me, he shook his head. “You know him. You start. I was thinking, though, that we should make sure he knows he’s got two lieutenants on his tail.”

  “Right.” I walked across the small lobby that served the rear of the building and pushed the elevator button.

  “Also,” Friedman said, “it occurred to me that, since Rosten is in custody, Leo might not know whether Alex is alive or dead.”

  “You think we should try to make him think Alex is dead—and that Rosten confessed?”

  “I think we should keep him guessing. If he’s ready to assassinate Castro, he’s going to be under pressure. And people under pressure don’t like to play guessing games.” Friedman stepped into the empty elevator as I pushed “3.” “I also think,” he said, “that time could be on our side—to a point. Let’s assume that they’re going to try and shoot Castro on the City Hall steps at noon. If we’re still talking to him at eleven-thirty, Leo’s going to start twitching.”

  The elevator was stopping. I reached across Friedman to depress both the “close” button and the “3” button. ”Maybe we should take him downtown. We’ve got Alex’s testimony. That’s plain grounds for detention. If Leo plans to do the job himself, we solve the problem when we arrest him.”

  Friedman considered for a moment, thoughtfully frowning. Then: “That’d take time, though, taking him downtown. And, when we booked him, he’d call his lawyer, and then clam up. Besides, the odds are that he’s found another triggerman. And that’s what we need from Leo: the name of the triggerman and his location. So let’s play it by ear—see what he’s got to say, and see whether we can get him twitching. Are you going to start off asking him where he spent the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He nodded to the elevator doors, still closed. “Let’s see how it goes.”

  21

  I’d expected to find Leo Cappellani a different-looking, different-acting man than I’d confronted two days earlier. I was wrong. He was just as impeccably dressed, just as clean-shaven, just as clear-eyed and alert. Wherever he’d been last night, he’d gotten some sleep.

  Stressing the “lieutenant,” I introduced Friedman. If Leo was disconcerted, facing two ranking officers, he gave no sign. Instead, he gestured us to chairs, smiling as he resumed his seat behind his rosewood desk. Looking at him closely, I was sure his white shirt was fresh. His sharkskin suit was unwrinkled. His tie was crisply knotted.

  “I understand,” he said, “that you—yourself—killed Booker’s murderer, Lieutenant.” As he said it, he smiled at me. It was a wide, affable smile. When he chose, Leo could be charming.

  I let a long, deliberate beat pass before I asked, “Who told you that I killed him?” I wanted to throw him off balance—wanted him to wonder whether the deta
ils of Howard’s death had been in the papers.

  But his answer came easily, plausibly: “Alex told me Saturday night.” As he spoke, Leo’s dark, vivid eyes held my own, as if to encourage my questions. Today, he was on our side.

  “What time did you leave the winery last night, Mr. Capellani?” I asked.

  His muscular shoulders rose as he gracefully shrugged. “It was about ten-thirty, I guess. Maybe ten-fifteen.” Now the smile slowly faded, replaced by a friendly, puzzled frown. If he was trying to project an innocent man’s perplexity, his portrayal was flawless. “Why? Why do you want to know? Is something wrong?”

  For the first time, Friedman spoke: “I gather that you haven’t talked to anyone at the winery since ten-fifteen last night, then. Your mother or anyone else. Is that right?”

  Leo turned to Friedman and took a long, deliberate moment to study him. Then: “That’s right, Lieutenant Friedman. But my question still stands. Why’re you asking?” As he spoke, his voice lowered to a deeper, more purposeful note. Resting before him on the rosewood desk, his fingers tightened into loose fists. His eyes narrowed as he studied us. The smile was gone—permanently. The message was clear: he was a busy man. He’d asked us a question. He expected an answer.

  “If something’s wrong,” he said finally, “I want to know about it. I’d assumed that you’d come to give me a progress report on your investigation. But that’s not it, is it? There’s something else.”

  “Before I answer that,” Friedman said, “I’d like you to tell us exactly what you did from the time you left the winery last night until you arrived here at this office this morning.”

  Instead of responding, Leo turned to look at me, as if to discover how we were trying to trick him. His eyes were hard now, studying me shrewdly. Then, deliberately, he turned again to Friedman. He’d decided how to deal with us.

  “And before I answer that, Lieutenant, I’m afraid I’ll have to know exactly why you’re asking.” His voice was tight, dead level. His eyes were cold and hard. Leo was in command.

  “Why?” Friedman asked blandly. “I’m not trying to make this a contest. As a matter of fact, you’re exactly right about the reason we’ve come. We’re here to give you some information—some very important information, that’s got nothing to do with Mal Howard. But before we can tell you about it, simply as a matter of police procedure, we’ve got to have an account of your movements last night.” Friedman paused, then added quietly, “If you went home, for instance, all you’ve got to do is tell us.”

  “The point is,” Leo said, “that I didn’t go home. Which is the reason I can’t tell you.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  Slowly and deliberately, still in control, Leo shook his head. “I can’t tell you. Sorry.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Cappellani,” I said. “There was another attempt made on Alex’s life last night. And it looks very much like you’re involved.” I let a moment pass before I added, “Deeply involved.”

  “Another—” He looked at me, looked at Friedman, finally looked again at me. “Another ‘attempt,’ you say. What d‘you mean, ‘attempt’?” His voice rose. His dark eyes snapped. The loosely clenched fists were knotted now. “What the hell are you telling me? Is Alex dead? Hurt?”

  “Before I answer that, I want you to—”

  “Goddammit.” Suddenly he reached for the phone. Involuntarily, I moved to stop him, but Friedman quickly shook his head as Leo began dialing. I sank back, listening to Leo harshly command someone to put his mother on the line. Peremptorily, he asked her what happened last night. Listening to the faint buzz of Rosa’s voice, I studied Leo’s face. His expression was inscrutable. After less than a minute, he curtly thanked his mother, told her that he would call her shortly, and hung up.

  For a moment, the office was perfectly silent as we stared at Leo and Leo stared straight ahead. Slowly, furiously, his face tightened.

  “That son of a bitch,” he said finally. “He tried to kill Alex. Rosten. He—Christ—he owes his whole life to us. Everything. And he tried to kill Alex.”

  Catching my eye, Friedman surreptitiously raised his chin to me. He wanted to ask the next question. I nodded. Friedman sat silent for a moment, studying Leo as he still stared straight ahead, plainly struggling to control himself. Finally Friedman cleared his throat, saying, “It didn’t sound like your mother had much information for you.”

  Leo ignored him.

  “That was probably because the FBI’s still with her,” Friedman said. “They’re interrogating her.”

  Slowly—unwillingly—as if his head were being moved by some invisible, inexorable force, Leo turned to stare at Friedman.

  “The FBI? Is that what you said?”

  Friedman nodded cheerfully. “They’re also interrogating Rosten. They’ve been interrogating him for two or three hours, now. Your mother, too. As I say—” Airily, Friedman waved a casual hand. “As I say, that’s why she couldn’t say much to you, probably. The FBI can be pretty intimidating. As you’ll soon discover.”

  “Without realizing it,” I said, “your mother gave us the key. Your father was a right-winger. You’re a right-winger, too. And so is Rosten, isn’t he? The two of you decided to kill Castro. And Alex found out about it.”

  “So you ordered Rosten to kill Alex,” Friedman said. “Your own brother.” He spoke softly and regretfully, as if it saddened him to say it.

  “How’d you find Mal Howard, Leo?” I asked. “How much did he charge you, for agreeing to kill Castro? That was his job, wasn’t it—his original job?”

  “Who’s Howard’s replacement, Leo?” Friedman asked. “Give us a name.”

  “You’re crazy,” Leo breathed, looking at each of us in turn. “Coming in here—asking these questions, making these accusations. You must be crazy. You—Christ—you’ll suffer for this. Both of you.”

  But now he spoke without the flare of conviction. Without force or anger.

  “Who’s ‘Twospot’ Leo?” I asked.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” Friedman said. “It’s your cover name.” He let a beat pass before he suddenly barked, “Isn’t it?”

  Startled, Leo looked quickly at Friedman.

  Picking up the remorseless tempo, I said, “Booker was murdered because he found out about the assassination plot. That was it, wasn’t it? Maybe he tried a little blackmail. That’d be his style. So you ordered him killed. Mal Howard carried the address of your town house in his pocket, with ‘Twospot’ signed to the note. You set Booker up, didn’t you—told him to meet you there, at Larkin Street. Then you sent Mal Howard to kill him.”

  As we hammered at him, I could see Leo’s arrogant assurance slowly failing him. First he lost control of his mouth, then his hands, finally his dark, bold centurion’s eyes. Now, as if it were again tugged by some invisible force, his head began to sink slowly until he sat bowed over his desk.

  Friedman took up the attack. “Mal Howard didn’t die instantly,” Friedman said softly. “He talked before he died. That’s why we’re here, Leo. Because he talked.”

  To myself, I nodded approval. In court, the statement would hold up. Howard had died in the ambulance—after mumbling something about a woman named Sophie.

  “And Rosten’s talking, too,” Friedman continued. “He’s talking right now, to the FBI. He’s not going to fall for attempted murder. Not alone. Not when he can make a deal, and take you along with him.”

  “And not if he can be a hero, Leo,” I said. “That’s the deal the FBI’s offering him, right this minute. He can be a hero. He can be on the FBI’s side. You’d be surprised how attractive that is when you’re in custody.”

  “He can blow the whistle on a plot to assassinate a visiting head of state,” Friedman said smoothly. “For that, he’ll get many, many brownie points—which, about now, he needs very badly. He’ll be a hero, like Frank says.”

  Slowly, Leo’s head began to shake. This time, though, the volition was Leo’s, not so
me uncontrollable outside force. We watched him raise his head. His mouth was firmly set, his eyes defiant.

  Somehow, for some reason, he’d recovered his arrogance, his self-control. For a few minutes we’d been pummeling him, seemingly scoring with ease. But, suddenly, he’d rallied.

  Why?

  What had changed? What mistake had we made?

  Looking for the answer, I searched his face, his eyes. And then I saw it: a tiny sliver of manic light deep in his eyes—as if someone had opened a darkened door just a crack, to reveal a monstrosity behind.

  “Paul won’t be a hero,” he said. “He’s a hireling, that’s all. Just a hireling.”

  He spoke very softly. In his eyes the telltale gleam of mad light was gone, extinguished by force of will.

  The message was clear: no matter what we did, he intended that Castro should die.

  22

  Friedman saw it, too: the quick, secret glint of mad purpose in Leo’s eyes. Saturday, Leo had played the role of the forceful, urbane executive, too busy to talk. A half hour ago, he’d played the same smooth, suave part.

  Finally, though—cornered—Leo’s real persona had flashed through: the zealot, the true believer. Blinded to consequences, he saw only his goal: the death of a despot.

  Friedman and I exchanged a quick glance, then he looked meaningfully to the office door. We excused ourselves and stepped into the outer office, closing the door behind us. Leo’s secretary was at her desk, watching us with cold eyes. We turned our backs on her, whispering together.

  “The son of a bitch really is going to try it,” Friedman said. “He’s going to kill Castro if he can.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve got to call Dwyer, and the FBI, and maybe the Commissioner, too, if Dwyer won’t do it. We’ve got to have a change of Castro’s schedule.”

  “It’s almost nine o’clock. Two hours isn’t much time.”

  “Still,” he answered, “I’ve got to try. Someone’s got to call the mayor, too. For one thing, I want my ass covered. If Castro’s going to swallow a bullet, I’m not going to take the fall alone.” He gestured to Leo’s door. “You go back inside and keep working on him. He’s all we’ve got—him and Rosten. See if you can break him down—find the goddamn triggerman. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”