Twospot

7

I watched Canelli bring my cruiser down the spiral parking ramp. The car bounced to a jerky stop at the broad yellow line at the bottom of the ramp — then stalled. Through the windshield, I could see Canelli’s lips moving as he restarted the car. To myself, I smiled. As long as I’d known him, Canelli had been on the losing side of a long, grueling battle with machines. Anything mechanical defeated him. A typewriter ribbon or a cassette cartridge left him helplessly muttering. Cheerfully, he volunteered to get coffee from the machine — but often returned to the squadroom apologetically carrying cocoa, or tea, or soup. Yet, before he’d wandered into police work, he’d been a skilled electrician. Electricity, he said, made sense.

Finally the car stopped at the curb in front of me, and the door swung open.

“I think this car needs a tune-up, Lieutenant,” he said earnestly.

Not replying, I closed the door, fastened my seat belt and motioned for him to get under way. “Go to Van Ness,” I said, “and turn right.”

“Yessir.”

Concentrating on his driving, Canelli maneuvered the car out of the garage and onto Sixth Street. The night was cold and damp; the fog was so thick the pavement glistened. On Folsom Street, the garish glow of neon signs was softened to misty pastels. As Canelli switched on the windshield wipers he asked, “Where’re we going?”

“Chestnut and Larkin. The corner.”

“Hey, that’s a pretty fancy part of town. One time when I was an electrician, I worked in a house on that block that had an observatory on top of it. Honest to God.”

“An observatory?”

“Right. No fooling. It had a telescope that I bet was ten feet long, at least. I was working on the servo system, that operated the overhead doors. They were half clamshells, I remember, just like the big observatories. It was unbelievable. Except that the servos shorted out when it rained.”

I didn’t reply, but instead let my head fall back against the seat. I was tired and sleepy. At ten o’clock last night, Ann had called. She’d been deeply disturbed, almost in tears. She’d just had an unexpected call from her ex-husband, a society psychiatrist named Victor Haywood. The purpose of the call had been a demand that she “do something” about their younger son’s grades. In Haywood’s terms, the boy was a “low achiever.” Ann, a fourth-grade teacher, had protested. Billy was bright and happy: an imaginative, lively boy. A bitter argument had flared, during which Haywood had superciliously questioned Ann’s choice of a “bed partner.” Translation: Haywood thought I was a low achiever, too. Ann had hung up on him — and then called me. We’d finished talking at midnight. At 2 A.M. I was still awake — still angrily brooding.

Beside me, I heard Canelli elaborately clearing his throat. He couldn’t tolerate long silences. He couldn’t tolerate curiosity, either. So he began to probe:

“The guy that called it in—” Canelli hesitated. “I had the feeling that he knows you.”

“He does. We’ve played poker a few times.”

“Is he on the force?”

“He used to be. Now he’s private detective. He’s an old friend of Lieutenant Eberhardt’s. They served together on General Works.”

“As long as I been on the force,” Canelli said, “I never knew a private detective. Not personally, I mean. But whenever I run across one in the line of duty, so to speak, I gotta say that they give me the creeps, sometimes. I mean, there’s this one guy I met that seems to make his living snatching kids from one parent to give to another parent. And he seemed to be proud of what he was doing. And he also seemed to be getting rich from it, too. He was driving a Mercedes, I remember. And he even said he had an airplane, too.” Canelli shook his head. “I couldn’t get over it.”

I pointed ahead. “Van Ness is next. You’d better get in the right lane.”

“Oh. Right.” Canelli glanced hurriedly over his shoulder and abruptly jerked the steering wheel to the right. His broad, swarthy face furrowed as a horn blared from behind.

“Those sportscars,” he muttered. “They’re always coming up on you from out of nowhere.”

I often wondered why I’d chosen Canelli as my driver — or, for that matter, why I’d picked him for my squad. At age twenty-eight, at a suety two hundred thirty, Canelli looked and acted more like an overweight fry cook than a homicide detective. His brown eyes were innocent. His normal expression was either puzzled or beguiled, depending on the problem. His only professional asset was a perpetual run of incredible good luck. If the entire squad spent days sifting through garbage for a murder gun, Canelli would accidentally stumble over the weapon lying under a rosebush. His luck protected him behind the wheel, too. In hot pursuit, Canelli drove with a kind of inspired lunacy — all the while muttering to himself. Once, mopping my face at the end of a chase, I’d told Canelli that he reminded me of W. C. Fields in The Bank Dick. Canelli’s large brown eyes had reproached me for days. He was the only detective I’d ever known who could get his feelings hurt.

“If he’s a friend of Lieutenant Eberhardt’s, I suppose he’s all right,” Canelli ventured. He was probing again.

I shrugged. “He seems all right to me. He’s one of these people who doesn’t talk unless he’s got something to say. And, if it’ll reassure you, I don’t think he’s got much money.”

“That probably means he’s honest.”

“It probably does.”

My poker-playing friend — they called him Bill — was standing just inside an elaborate wrought-iron gate.

“Hello, Frank. Good to see you.”

I smiled and offered my hand. “Good to see you, too.”

I introduced him to Canelli and turned to look at the house. It was an impressive sight: a two story neo-colonial with a pillared portico, Williamsburg-style windows and a gabled roof. The property was surrounded by an ornate iron fence supported by traditional brick pillars. The grounds around the house were meticulously landscaped. Situated on some of the most desirable real estate in San Francisco, the property could easily be worth a quarter of a million dollars. Seen shrouded in the fog that was blowing up Russian Hill from the Bay below, the house and grounds seemed strangely isolated, revealing nothing.

I turned to Canelli. “You go inside and secure the premises. Then make the calls. When you call, make sure you get the best personnel available, even if they come from home. I want Parrington from the lab and Walton from the coroner’s office — plus enough assistants to get the job done. I’ll call the D.A. myself, as soon as I get the details straight.”

“Yessir.” Canelli turned to Bill. “Which phone did you use?”

“The one in the study. The front door’s locked, so you’ll have to go in through the service door to the garage. It’s on the downhill side. That door was ajar when I came. So that’s the way I left it.”

“Once you’ve made the calls,” I said to Canelli, “you may as well open the front door. Leave it wide open, and tag it in that position for the lab.” I hesitated a moment, surveying the large corner lot, with only the five-foot iron fence for protection against the curious. “Better call for three black and white units,” I added. “At least.”

“Right.” Canelli lumbered down the sloping sidewalk toward the driveway.

I turned to Bill. “Before the troops get here, I’d like you to give me everything you’ve got that’s relevant. We can talk there—” I gestured to the porch, where we would be sheltered from the fog. As I preceded the private detective, he carefully closed the gate behind us, using a handkerchief.

For the next few minutes he talked and I listened. Midway through the report Canelli opened the front door, and I gestured for him to join us.

Bill’s report was a good, solid one: concise but not too sketchy, perceptive but not too speculative. When he finished, I regretfully shook my head as I looked him straight in the eye.

“At this point,” I said, “the man we want to question most is your client. He’s the one who’s missing — and probably running. I guess that’s obvious.”

His only reply was a brief, rueful smile. But the expression on his squared-off face was easily readable. He was a serious, conscientious man — one who cared what happened to his clients. He hated the idea of his client in custody. But he wouldn’t ask me for a break. He was too proud.

As two black and white cars pulled up in front of the house, Canelli asked the private detective whether he’d ever served in Homicide. The rueful smile returned.

“I was never asked,” he replied.

I faced the two of them. To Canelli I said, “I want you to take him into a bedroom, or somewhere, and make notes on everything he’ll tell you — names, times, addresses, everything. It’ll be part of your report. I don’t have any of his information on paper. So it’s your responsibility. Clear?”

Canelli nodded. “That’s clear.”

“If you want,” Bill said, “I’ll send you a written report.”

I nodded. “Fine. Thanks. But I still need Canelli’s.”

We shook hands, and I watched the two big men turn and walk into the house together. Their movements were as different as their personalities. Despite his size, Canelli’s gait was loose and ambling. Bill’s movements were solid and decisive. Canelli was still deciding who he was and where he was going. The older man already knew.

I turned to the four uniformed men who had assembled behind me on the walk, waiting for orders. I recognized a sergeant, and made him responsible for securing the perimeter of the property. As we talked, a third black and white car drew up at the curb. Across the street, a press car was parking illegally. Up and down the block, window drapes were drawn aside; front doors were opening. In the cold, fog-smudged darkness, shirtsleeved people were materializing: silent, disembodied, two-dimensional figures. Whenever someone died, wherever the place, the same silent shapes appeared. The shades, someone had called them. From Greek tragedy.

“Don’t let anyone in except through the front door,” I ordered, still speaking to the sergeant. “You’ll be on the front door. Clear?”

“Yessir.”

I nodded, then walked through the door and into a small entry-way. I was facing a central staircase that curved gracefully as it swept up to the second floor. From above, I could hear voices. Canelli was taking his notes.

The first floor was arranged around a large hallway. Through an ornate archway to my left I saw a large formal living room. The room looked as if it waited for a House & Garden photographer, not for its owners. Each piece of furniture gleamed; each book was perfectly aligned on its shelf. Magazines were arranged on the coffee table in a symmetrical fan. I looked carefully at every sofa and chair. All of the cushions were plump, unmarked.

I turned to an open door that led into a small study, where I saw a tweed hat resting on one corner of an elaborately carved desk. An expensive shearling coat was thrown carelessly across a leather couch. If Jason Booker had parked in the driveway and entered the house through the front door, as Bill had surmised, then Booker must have come directly into this room. Because the clothing, Bill said, almost certainly belonged to the victim.

Careful where I walked, I entered the study and stood in the center of the room. Like the living room, the study was a stereotype: an expensive decorator’s idea of how a study should look. Everything was in its calculated place. Behind glass doors, floor-to-ceiling bookcases held leather-bound books that probably hadn’t been read for years — if ever. Except for the tweed hat, nothing on the desk was disturbed; a calendar, a desk pen, a notepad and a phone were arranged with thoughtful symmetry. Still standing in one spot, I leaned forward to look at the tooled leather calendar. There were no notes, no dates circled. Nothing.

I stepped to the sofa and carefully patted down the shearling coat’s big patch pockets. I couldn’t feel anything: no weapons, no billfold, nothing bulky. After the photographers had finished, I would go through the pockets.

I turned next to a big leather armchair. This was where he’d sat; the heavy leather clearly retained an impression of a body. A side table was placed beside the chair. A large crystal ashtray rested in the exact center of the table.

In the ashtray I saw three filter-tip Winston cigarette butts, smoked almost to the nub. Statistically, the average cigarette represented approximately thirty minutes of “presence,” assuming the subject was an average smoker and was under moderate strain. If the statistics were right, Booker had been on the premises at least an hour and a half before the murder.

Waiting for his murderer — someone known to him, perhaps.

Alex Cappellani?

I made a slow, careful circuit of the room, but saw nothing else. Stretching out full-length on an Oriental rug, I looked under the desk, the sofa, the big leather chair. Nothing. I got to my feet and re-entered the central hallway. Eberhardt’s friend had told me what to do next. A polished walnut door, half open, led to small storage pantry. I stopped in front of the door, turned, looked back at the study.

Was this the way he’d come?

How long ago?

In response to what cue — what ominous sound — what tremor of fear?

I slipped through the doorway and stood in the darkened pantry. The pantry’s second door was open wide, and through it I saw garden tools hanging on a garage wall. For the first time, I caught the odor of death: drying blood mingled with the stench of excrement.

I drew a deep breath and stepped into the garage.

The murder scene was precisely as Bill had described it. Point by point, I recalled the private the detective’s theory. He’d speculated that Booker could have been in the study when he’d heard a noise in the garage. He could have left the lighted study and entered the darkened hall. Then Booker could have crept through the storage pantry and pushed open the door leading into the garage. With a gun in his hand, he could have cautiously entered the garage and switched on the overhead light. Standing where I stood now, he could have been struck by an assailant who’d crouched down behind a shoulder-high stack of oak firewood piled close beside the door.

Why?

Had Booker been an intended murder victim?

Had Cappellani made an appointment with him for six-thirty — then arrived earlier, surreptitiously coming through the garage, instead of the front door?

Or had Booker surprised a burglar — and died by accident, not design?

The facts seemed to fit the latter theory best. If Alex Cappellani had planned to murder Booker, he wouldn’t have called a private detective to witness the crime.

Three strides took me to the body. This would be my last time alone with him — my last chance to touch him with my imagination, and try to learn the secret of his death. I squatted beside the body — and found myself staring straight into Booker’s dead eyes.

He’d been a handsome man. The gray in his hair and the coarsening texture of his skin put his age in the early forties, but a leanness of cheek and jaw gave the face a younger look, and made an intriguing study of opposites. Even with lips distended in death’s last agony, the mouth was well shaped. The chin was cleft. The nose was straight. It was the face of a gracefully aging poet.

He was wearing an expensive silk sports shirt, checkered slacks that were probably pure wool and Wellington boots that could have cost a hundred dollars. He was lying on his right side, with his arm draped languidly over his torso at the waist. His right arm was extended above his head, pointing toward the service door set in the opposite wall. In his right hand he held a small blue-steel automatic. Leaning forward, I sniffed the barrel. The gun had been fired.

A package of king-size cigarettes was tucked in the pocket of the silk sports shirt. I pushed up the package from the bottom until I could read the label: Winston.

Blood matted his hair and streaked the shirt. He’s bled so much that blood was pooled beneath the handsome head. The blood was already coagulated. The private detective had been right: Booker had probably been dead for about an hour.

Still squatting, I minutely scanned the concrete floor of the garage. A blue sock filled with sand lay about a foot from the automatic. The sock was saturated with blood. Judging by the position of the firewood that had been tumbled to the floor, and by the hand tools that had apparently been swept from the top of a nearby workbench, there’d been a struggle that had started the moment Booker stepped into the garage. At least one shot had been fired. The assailant had escaped, probably through one of the two garage doors.

I took a moment to verify that the victim’s wallet was in his hip pocket. The pocket was buttoned; the wallet apparently hadn’t been touched. I stood up and began pacing across the cement toward the open service door. Carefully, I examined the scattering of matches, coins, the package of Camels and the cryptic “Twospot” note — all described by Bill. The items made a random pattern on the floor between the murder weapon and the door.

If Booker smoked Winstons, the murderer must have smoked Camels.

And, if the Camels belonged to the murderer, his prints could be on the cellophane wrapper of the cigarette package.

Still pacing, I saw the small circle of blood that stained the concrete just inside the service door.

Logically, it was the murder’s blood.

As I was about to go through the service door, I heard someone call my name. Turning, I saw Parrington, from the police lab, and Walton, from the coroner’s office. Both men stood in the doorway of the storage pantry, waiting for permission to enter the area. Each man carried a satchel. I told them to stay where they were, and asked Parrington for a piece of chalk. I marked off a “safe” corridor that led to the rear of the garage. Walking between the chalk lines, the two men followed me to a six-foot circle that I chalked on the oil-stained concrete. As we assembled inside the circle, a police photographer ventured into the open doorway. I waited for hum to join us before I explained to the three men what I expected from them.

“Especially,” I finished, “there are three things I want you to do. First—” I pointed toward the service door. “I want that blood typed. It might not be Booker’s. Second—” I pointed to the package of Camels, then turned to the photographer. “I want to make sure those cigarettes show up clearly in the pictures. I think they might’ve belonged to the suspect. And also—” I turned to the lab man. “Also, I want that cigarette pack fingerprinted by the best man available. Which means you. Clear?”

Parrington was young and eager. He wasn’t able to surpress a smile at the cryptic compliment. Perhaps to conceal the smile, he solemnly nodded.

“That’s clear,” he answered. “What’s the third thing?”

“The third thing is the bullets. I want every square inch of this place searched for expended bullets.” I pointed to the automatic. “That gun’s been fired. I want to know where the bullets are.”

“One of them might be inside the murderer,” the coroner’s man said laconically. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “That’s what I think.” I edged past them and walked between the parallel chalk lines to the door. Then I turned back. “When you’re ready to move the body, let me know. I’ll be in the hallway, probably. Don’t hurry, though. I requested you men for this job because I want it done right. The reason I want it done right is obvious.” I pointed to the dead man. “We’ve got a victim who wore hundred-dollar shoes and who was a good friend of the woman who owns this house. And the woman who owns this house is a very important person — as I’m sure you’ll be reading in tomorrow’s papers.” I looked at each man in turn. “Clear?”

They nodded.

8

I was yawning as I unlocked my office door the next morning. Canelli and I had arrived at the murder scene about seven-fifteen the previous evening. The technicians hadn’t arrived until quarter to eight, and hadn’t finished the first phase of their investigations until almost nine. They were still on the premises when the second wave arrived: the D. A.‘s man, the light crews and the additional lab men who would search inch by inch for evidence. At the same time, three men from my own squad arrived, called from their homes. Their responsibility was the interrogation of witnesses. I put them under Canelli’s command while I performed the on-site investigation’s final ritual. Before witnesses, I moved the body and searched his pockets. I found sixty-three dollars in cash inside his wallet, together with the usual credit cards and identification. He’d carried his wallet in his hip pocket. In another pocket I found less than a dollar in loose change and a Swiss Army knife. A third pocket yielded a key ring and ten .32 caliber cartridges. None of the keys fitted any of the locks in the Cappellani house or garage. However, when I searched the victim’s shearling coat, still in the study, I found a separate key to the front door. At about ten P.M. I told the D. A.’s man that, based on my tentative appraisal of the physical evidence, I’d concluded that Booker had arrived on the premises at about four-thirty, driving his own car. He’d probably been alone. Using a key, he’d entered the house through the front door. He’d bolted the door behind him and gone directly to the study, where he’d possibly waited for an hour and a half. At about six, he may have heard someone entering the garage through the service door. Since we’d found no jimmy marks, we assumed that the intruder’s entrance had been effected by a key — unless he’d come through the overhead garage door, using an electronic door opener.

The assistant D. A. had been satisfied — and anxious to return to a Friday-night party. My next problem was the reporters: one each from San Francisco’s two daily papers, and two TV reporters. I made them wait until the body had been taken away, then allowed them to photograph the scene of the crime. An informal press conference had taken three-quarters of an hour. By that time, additional information had been developed. One neighbor thought she heard a shot “sometime during the six o’clock news.” At about the same time, a teenage boy had seen a man run from the garage and get into a compact car. At the place where the teenager said the car was parked, we’d found the blood. Because of the fog and the gathering darkness, the boy hadn’t gotten a license number.

I’d stayed on the scene until eleven-thirty, then left Canelli in charge. His responsibility hadn’t ended until everyone in the neighborhood had been interrogated and every foot of the house and grounds searched.

Thursday night, thinking about Ann, I’d gotten less than five hours’ sleep. Last night, thinking about the Booker murder, I hadn’t done much better.

Now, at eight-thirty Saturday morning, I dialed Parrington, in the lab. My muscles ached with fatigue. My eyes felt hot and dry.

“Do you have anything?” I asked.

“Yessir,” he answered promptly. “I don’t have it written up yet. But I can tell you about it.”

“Fine.”

“Everything we found more or less confirms what you thought, Lieutenant. The blood inside the garage was two different types, for instance. And the blood beside the service door matched the blood on the sidewalk. We got some real good prints off that cigarette package, too — just like you thought. I calibrated the prints and put them into the computer about an hour ago. With luck, Identification could have something for you before too long.”

“Good.”

“I also found some clothing fibers caught under the victim’s fingernails. The fabric was brown polyester, and it didn’t match anything the victim was wearing or anything in the house. Which makes me think that he ripped open one of his attacker’s pockets. That would account for the stuff spilled on the floor — all of which, incidentally, had latent prints that matched the prints on the cigarette wrapper.”

“Did that ‘Twospot’ note have the same prints too?”

“Yessir.”

“What about the gun and bullets? Anything conclusive?”

“It’s a Beretta .32 caliber. I just called Sacramento for an ownership printout on it, but I haven’t heard anything yet. The victim’s prints were on the gun, but no other prints. They were on the bullets, too. If the magazine was fully loaded, and there wasn’t a cartridge in the chamber, then he fired two shots. Which also adds up, assuming he shot his attacker. We found one bullet in the wall of the garage.”

At that moment, I heard a quick double knock on my office door. I knew that knock. It was Pete Friedman, my senior co-lieutenant. I called for Friedman to come in, and thanked Parrington for his work. Either he’d been up most of the night, or he’d started working at six-thirty this morning. Or both.

I watched Friedman enter my office and sink down into my visitor’s chair with his customary grateful sigh. It was Friedman’s long-standing contention that my visitor’s chair was the only one in the Department that could comfortably accommodate his considerable bulk. Therefore, according to Friedman, it was only in my visitor’s chair that he could properly formulate the ideas we needed to solve the city’s homicides.

“Even for a Monday-through-Friday day,” Friedman said, “you’re up early. Not to mention that it’s a Saturday.”

“You’re up early, too.”

Ruefully, he nodded. “I’m up early because, about midnight, I got a call from his eminence Chief Dwyer.”

“What about?”

“About taking over security for Castro’s visit, if you can believe it. Which I couldn’t — especially at midnight. And especially when Dwyer told me that Castro’s coming to town the day after tomorrow. Christ, I thought it was a week from Monday.”

“What happened to Captain Duncan? I thought he was in charge of security.”

Friedman sighed, at the same time unwrapping a cigar and rummaging through his pockets for a match. “Captain Duncan had a gall bladder attack. He’ll be all right. But not in time to throw himself between Fidel and an assassin’s bullet.”

Sympathetically shaking my head, I pushed my ashtray across the desk toward Friedman. His cigar ash almost never found the ashtray, but I continued to hope.

“What’s this Booker thing?” Friedman asked. “Give me the rundown. Not that I’ll be able to help until after Monday.”

It took almost fifteen minutes to describe the case, during which time Friedman complacently smoked his cigar — spilling ashes at random on the floor, my desk and his vest. While I talked, he regarded me with his typically lazy-lidded stare. Occasionally he grunted, signifying either surprise or puzzlement — or both. When I finished, he sat silently for a moment, thoughtfully regarding the tip of his cigar. Finally:

“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 attempted murder. Tried, and acquitted. 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.

“It’s too early to say for sure, Mrs. Cappellani. But I can tell you that we’ve got a prime suspect.”

“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 investigation — 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.”

“By the way, do you happen to know Alex’s blood type?”

Half turned toward the door, she turned back, staring at me. “Blood type?”

“For the record.”

“It’s the same as mine,” she said. “O positive. For the record.” She spoke in a low, bitterly mocking voice. I hadn’t fooled her.

I waited for them to leave the office, then spoke into the phone: “Yes. Sorry.”

“It’s Canelli, Lieutenant. Did I interrupt you?”

“It’s all right. What is it?”

“I just wanted to tell you that the only ones I could find are Logan Dockstetter, who’s the Cappellanis’ sales manager, and Leo Cappellani and Shelly Jackson. They work at the winery’s offices in the city here, as I understand it. Mr. Cappellani wasn’t very anxious to see us, but I finally, ah, insisted. So he said we could see him about two o’clock, at his office. And the Jackson woman, too.”

“What about Dockstetter?”

“He’s going to have lunch at the San Francisco Yacht Club. He said he’d meet us there, at noon.”

“All right. Fine.”

“I’ve never been inside that yacht club,” he said. “I hear it’s pretty fancy.”

“It is.”

9

Canelli pulled into a parking place, switched off the engine and sat for a moment staring out over the yacht harbor.

“Jeeze, Lieutenant, did you ever stop to think how much money there is in San Francisco? I mean, every once in a while when I’m downtown, I can’t believe how many Cadillacs I see. Not to mention Lincolns, and Mercedes, and all. And then this—” He gestured to the long rows of pleasure boats moored side by side to wharves ranked endlessly along the shore. The Yacht Club was built on a stone breakwater that protected the harbor. The largest, most expensive yachts were moored closest to the club. The smaller craft, mostly sailboats, lost definition in the distance: a constantly criss-crossing tangle of masts and rigging lines, gently shifting with the swell.

For a moment we sat staring out across the harbor. Last night’s fog had burned off; sunlight sparkled on the water. To our left, a small sailboat, bright white, was just clearing the breakwater, heading out into the bay.

Marveling, Canelli shook his head. “It’s another world, you know that, Lieutenant? It’s a whole other world.”

Instead of replying, I glanced at my watch. The time was exactly noon. I reached for our microphone and pressed the “transmit” button.

“This is Inspectors Eleven,” I said. “Lieutenant Hastings.”

“Yessir, Lieutenant.” It was Halliday, my favorite communications man.

“We’ll be in the San Francisco Yacht Club for thirty or forty minutes. Any messages?”

“No, sir.”

“Any developments on either Mal Howard or Alex Cappellani?”

“No, sir.”

I sighed. In addition to the six men looking for Howard, I’d detailed two men to watch the Cappellani house and another two men to watch the Cappellani offices. Including Canelli and myself, twelve men were assigned to the case. For a “routine homicide,” I’d reached the departmental manpower limit.

I signed off and got out of the car. As we walked across the parking lot I asked, “Is there anything yet on those blood types?”

Canelli exhaled loudly, irked with himself. “I forgot to tell you. Booker’s type is AB negative, which was most of it. The blood, I mean. The type at the garage door and on the sidewalk outside is O positive.”

“Alex’s type.” I pushed open the huge front door of the Yacht Club, gesturing for Canelli to precede me.

“Right,” he answered. “Except that I couldn’t find out about Howard’s type. And O positive is the most common. So I guess there’s a better than even chance that it could be Howard’s type, too. At least, that’s what I—” His voice trailed off. A middle-aged man who looked like a successful investment banker stepped forward to greet us, subtly blocking our progress into the club’s elegantly paneled interior hallway. The man was deliberately assessing Canelli, head to toe. Plainly, the verdict wasn’t favorable.

“We’re meeting Mr. Logan Dockstetter,” I said, stepping forward. “We’re expected.”

The man’s gaze transferred itself to me. Resignation clouded his voice as he asked for our names.

Dockstetter was sitting at a corner table facing the huge plate-glass windows that looked out on San Francisco Bay. Following his gaze, I was startled to see the long, slate-colored shape of an atomic submarine passing under the Golden Gate Bridge, slipping out to sea. Above the submarine, in front and behind, two outriding Navy helicopters hovered like giant dragonflies.

“They’re sinister looking, those submarines,” Dockstetter said. “They always remind me of crocodiles.”

“Because they only show their snouts, you mean.”

He nodded, and gestured us to seats across from him. When we declined his perfunctory offer of drinks, he was visibly relieved. Like the man who’d greeted us at the door, Logan Dockstetter was obviously pained at our presence in this high-ceilinged, richly carpeted, antique-furnished citadel of privilege.

I settled back in my chair and took a moment to survey the bar room. Red-jacketed waiters moved discreetly from table to table. Expensive glassware tinkled and sparkled. Conversation was slow and melodious. Laughter was muted. Seeing it all, I secretly winced. During the year I’d played professional football, I’d been married to an heiress. Early in our marriage, some of our best moments had been shared in places like this. At the end of our marriage, after football had ruined my knees and a “public relations” job in my father-in-law’s executive suite had robbed me of my self-respect, most of my worst moments had been spent in the same places.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” Dockstetter said, consulting a wafer-thin gold wristwatch.

“We won’t need much time, Mr. Dockstetter.” As I spoke, I placed my notebook on the table between us. “I just wanted to get a few facts straight.” I flicked my ballpoint pen. At the sound, Dockstetter seemed to start. He was a slightly built man of about forty. Height, average. Weight, not more than a hundred fifty pounds. His face was pale and narrow, drawn into prim lines of permanent disapproval. His mouth was pursed, his washed-out eyes distant and disdainful. He looked like an overbred English aristocrat. Canelli had told me that Dockstetter was the winery’s sales manager. It was hard to imagine this pale, fastidious man cajoling a customer.

Canelli had also said that Dockstetter was probably gay. That, I decided, was a good guess.

“You were present at the Cappellani winery on Thursday night, when Alex was attacked. Is that right?”

Sipping something that looked like a gin and tonic, he inclined his beautifully barbered head. “That’s right.”

“Who do you think was responsible for that attack, Mr. Dockstetter?”

Plainly, the question startled him. Frowning, he placed his glass on the table before him. “I… I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said carefully.

“It’s very simple.” As I spoke, I put a faint edge of patronizing contempt on my voice. If I could ruffle Dockstetter’s carefully preened feathers, I might learn something extra from him. “I’m asking you to tell me who you think tried to kill Alex.”

“But I—” He blinked. “I don’t know. How could I know?”

“Guess, then. I want input.”

“But that would be — slander, if I guessed.”

I shook my head. “Wrong. I’m a police officer, and I’m asking you a question in connection with a murder investigation. I want an answer to the question. In this case, I want you to make a guess. There’s a witness present—” I nodded to Canelli. “Technically, if you don’t do as I ask, you could be obstructing justice.”

“But I… I never heard of anything like that.” He stared at me for a moment, then dropped his eyes. His fingers tightened on the gin and tonic glass. I noticed that he wore two small golden rings, one on each of his little fingers.

I looked at my own watch. “I’m waiting, Mr. Dockstetter.”

“Well, I… ah—” His tongue tip circled pale lips. “I… ah… I’d have to guess Booker, then. Jason Booker.”

Across the table, Canelli grinned. “That’s a safe call, I guess, if you’re worried about slander. Since he’s dead, I mean.”

Both Dockstetter and I stared hard at Canelli — who promptly flushed, and began to fidget.

“Did you see anything or hear anything Thursday night that made you think it was Booker?” I asked Dockstetter.

“No. Nothing. I’m just guessing.” He flicked his hand in a small, petulant gesture. “That’s what you wanted, I thought — a guess.”

“Would you guess that Booker actually struck the blow? Or would you say he hired it done?”

“Well… ah if I had to choose, I’d say he hired it done. I mean, it’s hard to imagine Booker actually trying to kill anyone.” Again Dockstetter’s hand moved, fluttering now.

I slipped Mal Howard’s picture from my pocket. “Have you ever seen this man, Mr. Dockstetter?”

Annoyed, he drew a pair of horn-rimmed half-glasses from the inside pocket of his blue blazer. He glanced briefly at the picture, shook his head and quickly returned the glasses to his pocket. Obviously, reading glasses didn’t fit Dockstetter’s self-image.

“No, I’ve never seen him. Who is he?”

“The man who may have killed Booker,” I answered, staring him straight in the eye. “His name is Malcolm Howard. Mal, for short. His fingerprints were discovered at the murder scene.”

Peevishly, he blinked at the picture. I felt that he wanted to look at it again, now that he knew its significance. But he didn’t want to put on the glasses again.

“Some people figure,” Canelli said, “that Alex thought Jason Booker was trying to run some kind of a con on Rosa Cappellani, to maybe get some of her money. Maybe all of her money. So then, some people think, maybe Booker hired Mal Howard to get to Alex. Like, to warn him off, maybe, with a lump on the head. How does that sound, Mr. Dockstetter? For guessing, I mean?”

As Canelli had been talking Dockstetter had drained the last of his drink in two long, noisy gulps.

“But—” He gestured to the picture, still lying on the table. “But you said that he — Howard — killed Booker.”

Canelli raised his beefy shoulders, shrugging. “Maybe Booker didn’t pay Howard for the job Thursday night. Maybe that’s why they were going to meet yesterday, at the Cappellani house — so Booker could make the payoff. But maybe he didn’t make it, or couldn’t. So there was a fight. And Howard won.”

I looked thoughtfully at Canelli. Except for the fact that it didn’t account for Alex’s presence at the town house, it was a good, sound theory. I wondered whether it had just occured to him. If not, I wondered why I hadn’t heard about it.

“Do you think Booker was doing something illegal, Mr. Dockstetter?” I asked. “Something that might have been calculated to defraud Mrs. Cappellani?”

Dockstetter’s pale eyes narrowed. “Is this another guess you’re asking for?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d say that, definitely, Booker was up to no good, as the saying goes. Rosa — Mrs. Cappellani — is very—” He paused, searching for the word. “She’s very susceptible,” he said finally. “She’s very vain. And according to the rumors, she’s very—” Again he hesitated. Finally: “She’s very hot-blooded.” Saying it, he registered disdainful disapproval.

“Sexually, you mean.”

He nodded primly. “That’s her business, of course. However, when her, ah, appetites affect the welfare of the winery, then others become involved. And that’s what’s happening.”

“Is the winery in trouble?”

“Not serious trouble. Not yet. But it could happen. Both Rosa and Leo have had other things on their minds, lately. And it’s beginning to show. Cappellani wines used to have a reputation for quality. That’s no longer true.”

I thought about what he’d told me, then decided to say, “Rosa came to see me this morning, along with with Paul Rosten. She said that Leo has taken over the management of the winery — and is doing a good job.”

He sniffed. “Leo was doing a good job, up until a year or so ago. Then he began to get involved in politics, just like his father. It’s the same pattern, all over again. As soon as the old man got a little power — a little money — he immediately began to think of himself as a kingmaker. The same thing is happening with Leo. If it weren’t so — so ludicrous, it would be funny. Basically, they’re nothing but grape growers who got lucky. In the fifties, the old man was constantly flying off to Texas, or New York, or God knows where, instead of tending to business. The real kingmakers must have laughed at him — and used him, too.”

Obviously, the thought gave Dockstetter a certain malicious pleasure. He was a man who enjoyed minimizing the achievements of others. I saw him raise a finger to a passing waiter, point to his empty glass. He didn’t ask whether Canelli or I would join him.

“Paul Rosten is another—” Dockstetter hesitated, searching for the word. “He’s another strange one,” he finished lamely.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean—” Again, he hesitated, this time while the red-jacketed waiter took away his glass. “I mean that as a winemaker, he’s impossible. He simply has no feeling for the job. But Rosa would never think of firing him.”

“Why not?”

Dockstetter looked at me shrewdly. I thought I knew why. He was about to pass on more gossip — gratuitously, for his own self-serving purpose.

“Rosten was very close to the old man — birds of a feather. That’s one theory. There’s also a theory that Rosten and Rosa were lovers after the old man died. Or maybe—” He permitted himself a small, self-satisfied smirk. “Or maybe before, others, say.”

At my belt, a small electronic pager buzzed. I pressed the button and heard Halliday requesting that I phone Communications, code two.

“I used to have one of those,” Dockstetter said, pointing to the pager. “But I eventually decided it was a terrible nuisance. Simply terrible.”

I rose to my feet. “That’s negative thinking, Dockstetter,” I said. “You should’ve thought of it as a status symbol.”

He didn’t return my departing smile.

I’d seen a phone outside the Yacht Club, at dockside. As we walked toward the phone, Canelli said, “That Dockstetter’s sure a pris.”

“A what?”

“A pris. You know — for prissy.”

“Have you got a dime?” I asked.

“How’s two nickels?”

“Fine. Thanks.” I dialed Communications and asked for Halliday.

“I hope I didn’t disturb you, Lieutenant,” he said. “But Lieutenant Friedman is out, and Canelli is with you, I gather. And I’ve got a couple of things that I thought you should know about, on the Booker homicide.”

“It’s all right, Halliday. What’ve you got?”

“First,” he said, “a black and white car spotted Alex Cappellani’s car. It’s on upper Grant Avenue, near Greenwich. They’re keeping it under survelliance. I thought I’d better notify you.”

“I’m glad you did. Are you in contact with the team watching the Cappellani offices?”

“Yessir, I am.”

“All right. On my authority, tell them to proceed to Alex’s car and relieve the uniformed officers. Tell them to stay well back, out of sight. Clear?”

“Yessir, that’s clear.”

“What else’ve you got?”

“The team that’s looking for Mal Howard drew a couple of blanks, but now they’re sure they’ve located his present address. They found someone who got burned by Howard on a dirty movie transaction, and he’s willing to cop, out of spite. It looks pretty solid. I thought I should tell you.”

I took out my ballpoint pen. “What’s the address?”

“1976 Scott Street. Near Pine.”

“I’ll send Canelli to take charge. Have a sector car pick him up at the Yacht Club, outside. I’m going to the Cappellani offices. I shouldn’t be there for more than an hour. Then, if nothing else develops, I’ll go downtown.”

“Right.”

“You’re doing a good job, Halliday. Are you going to be on duty for a while today?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want me, Lieutenant, if that’s the question.”

“That’s the question, Halliday. Thanks.”

10

The receptionist’s face was expressionless as she examined my badge. She was a pale, fussy woman of about thirty, with a narrow head and a scrawny body. A bright red mouth accented the unhealthy pallor of her face. A tight sweater clung to a torso that was barely pubescent. Dark eyeshadow enlarged eyes that were already protuberant.

“Is Mr. Cappellani expecting you?”

“He’s expecting me at two. I’m early, but I hope he’ll see me. I’m having a — busy day.”

Plainly displeased, she lifted her phone and spoke in a hushed voice. She handled the phone as if it were covered with germs.

“He’ll see you, Lieutenant.” Disapprovingly, she gestured to a tall walnut door with brushed chrome fittings. A matching chrome nameplate was inscribed L. CAPPELLANI. The effect was understated elegance.

“Go right in, please.”

The Cappellani offices occupied a suite on the third floor of one of the huge brick warehouses that had been built close to the waterfront at the turn of the century. As shipping declined, the fortresslike warehouses had fallen vacant. Then, during the last decade, developers had profitably restored the old buildings, remodeling them to accent worn wooden beams and the timeless texture of natural brick. Leo Cappellani had a corner office. On two sides, big plate-glass windows set into the massive exposed-brick walls offered a magnificent view of San Francisco Bay.

Leo Cappellani sat behind an oversized rosewood desk. As I entered the office he rose to his feet and gestured me to an armchair placed about five feet from the desk. As I sat down, I realized that my chair was several inches lower than Leo’s. He didn’t offer to shake hands.

“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.”

“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 Sheriff’s 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 hands 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 Scott Street. He wants instructions.”

“What does he mean by ‘pinned down’?”

“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.

“Pretty fancy,” Canelli muttered. “Chimes.”

A half minute passed. I rang the bell again, and waited another half minute. Now I could hear a soft scuffling on the other side of the door. I glanced at Canelli. He’d heard it, too.

As the door came open on a chain, I had my shield case in my left hand. My right hand was inside my coat, gripping the butt of my revolver. In the crack of the door I saw a spectacled eye, a large pimply nose and a dark, ragged mustache.

“Police,” I said. “Lieutenant Hastings and Inspector Canelli. We want to talk with Mal Howard. Open the door.”

“You got a warrant?” The voice was deep and rough.

“We aren’t searching the premises. And we aren’t making an arrest,” I lied. “Mal Howard is a material witness in a homicide investigation. He’s also a felon on parole. Which means that we don’t need a warrant. Now open the goddamn door.”

“Homicide investigation?”

“That’s what I said. Open it.”

“He’s not here.”

“Open the door, asshole. Now.” As I said it, I heard Canelli’s walkie-talkie come alive. To hear it better, Canelli drew back the flap of his jacket.

“…someone coming out on the roof in back,” a metallic voice was saying.

At the same moment, the door began to close. Quickly I stepped back, extended my arms straight in front of me and hit the door with the heels of both hands. The door flew open. I was inside, standing over the man with the dark mustache. He sat splay-legged on the polished parquet floor. With one lens broken, his aviator glasses were cocked askew on his forehead. His nose was bleeding heavily. He was slowly shaking his head. His eyes were blank.

“Sorry,” I said. “But you should have opened it.” Through the open door I called for two detectives to come inside, and one to stay in the van, with the radio. The van’s front doors came open; two detectives dressed in coveralls climbed the four stairs, fast. The first man carried a shotgun. At a gesture from me, he pointed the shotgun at the fallen man’s head. Eyes wide, the man began scrabbling across the floor. The gun barrel followed him, the muzzle inches from his eyes. His mouth was open, but he couldn’t speak. His hands came up before his face, fingers delicately touching the muzzle, as if to gently push it away. Suddenly he closed his eyes tight. Tears streaked his stubbled chin. He thought he was going to die.

“Where’s Mal Howard?” I asked.

He began to shake his head. “H... h... h—”

I kicked him in the thigh, hard. “He’s on the roof, isn’t he?” I kicked him again. “Isn’t he?”

“No. I swear to God, no. He... h... h—”

“Hold on to him,” I ordered the two detectives. “And shut that door.” I took the walkie-talkie from Canelli and called position two.

“Is he still there, Marsten? On the roof?”

“Yessir.”

“What’s the access to the roof? How’d he get out?”

“There’s a window at the back of the building that opens on the roof. It’s a flat roof, shed-style. The window’s wide open.”

“What’s his exact position?”

“He’s standing to the right — my right — of the window. Your left. Repeat, your left.”

“Our left. Roger. We’re coming up and try to collar him.”

“Roger, Lieutenant. Watch it, though. He’s got a gun. An automatic. Repeat, he’s got a gun. Do you read me?”

“I read you. Out.”

With Canelli close behind me, I turned to the stairway. Holding my revolver in my right hand, I went slowly up the staircase, one cautious step at a time. As my head came even with the floor of the upstairs hallway, I saw curtains billowing out from the open window at the end of the hall. I pointed to the window, and Canelli nodded — just as his walkie-talkie crackled to life.

“This is position two. Can you read me?” Marsten was speaking softly. His voice was static-blurred.

Crouching against the wall of the staircase, Canelli spoke cautiously into his own walkie-talkie. “I read you, Marsten. What is it?”

“He just tried to get off the roof. He went to the edge, and tried to jump off the roof, into a big redwood tree, back here. But he couldn’t make it. So he’s coming back toward the window. Do you read me?”

“I read you,” Canelli repeated.

Motioning for Canelli to keep his position on the staircase, I quickly ran back down the stairs, holstering my revolver. I gestured for the detective to give me his shotgun.

“Is there a round in the chamber?” I whispered.

“Yessir.”

I checked the safety catch as I went back up the stairs. Exposing only his head, Canelli was watching the open window.

“Anything?” I whispered.

“No. Marsten says he’s still just to the right — Marsten’s right — of the window, flattened against the side of the building. He’s got a big automatic, Marsten says. Maybe a Colt .45, for God’s sake. And he’s just standing there. Waiting, maybe.”

“Christ.” I was suddenly aware that my shirt and jacket were sweat-soaked. Perspiration covered my forehead, ran into my eyes. Cautiously, I surrendered my grip on the shotgun’s fore-stock, drew the arm of my jacket across my forehead, then gripped the forestock again. The open window was about twenty-five feet from our position — perfect range for buckshot.

“We going to wait him out?” Canelli whispered.

“Do you want to get a shotgun?”

“No, that’s all right.” Under pressure, Canelli was good with a handgun.

“Let’s get closer,” I said. I pointed to an open bedroom door, ten feet from the window. “You get in that doorway. I’ll cover you. Then I’ll put myself beside the window, against the wall, on the left side. Our left side. If he comes through the window, you challenge him. That’ll distract him. Then I’ll try to take him. Clear?”

“That’s clear.”

“If it comes to shooting, I’ll shoot first. I don’t want you shooting toward me.”

“Right.”

Moving on delicately tiptoeing feet that looked ludicrously small for his outsize body, Canelli scampered up the stairs, down the hallway and into the safety of the doorway. I was flexing my legs, ready to follow him, when my paging device suddenly buzzed. Swearing, I switched the box off. Then, drawing a deep breath and mopping my streaming forehead one last time, I slipped off the shotgun’s safety. A dozen strides took me up the last of the three steps and down the hallway to the window. I was breathing heavily — from fear.

At short range, only a shotgun does more damage than a .45.

I looked toward the bedroom door and saw Canelli peeking around the doorjamb, exposing half his broad, swarthy face. Canelli was sweating, too. I nodded. He nodded in return. We were ready.

I heard Marsten’s voice on Canelli’s walkie-talkie, but couldn’t make out the words. Softly answering, Canelli momentarily drew back his head.

At that moment, the big square barrel of a .45 automatic came slowly through the window, poking against the billowing curtains. Next came a hand, gripping the gun. Deliberately, inexorably, a forearm followed.

I set the shotgun’s safety, raised the barrel and brought it crashing down on the forearm. Bone snapped. The .45 roared, leaped from the disembodied hand, fell to the floor. The hand disappeared.

“Oh… shit.”

Without exposing myself, I ripped the curtains free of the window. With my breath coming in short, ragged gulps, with sweat still in my eyes, I forced myself to wait a long, deliberate moment, listening. I heard a ragged shuffling of feet, moving away from the window. I placed the shotgun on the floor, drew my revolver and cautiously looked through the window. I saw a man crouched on the edge of the flat roof, facing away from me.

“Hold it,” I yelled. “Hold it right there.”

He gathered himself and leaped toward a huge redwood that grew close beside the roof. I saw him disappear, heard a crash.

I climbed out on the roof. As I cautiously approached the edge, I heard Marsten calling, “It’s okay. We’ve got him. It’s all right.”

I looked over the edge. With Marsten and another detective standing over him, surrounded by broken branches, he lay on his back, staring up at me. His hair was dark, worn medium long. His face was almost as swarthy as Canelli’s, with a broad jaw and thick, full lips.

Not Mal Howard.

“Where the hell is Howard?” I shouted down at him. “Tell me, or it’s your ass.” I heard my voice shrilling, then cracking ineffectually. It was the hysterical backlash of tension and fear. “It’s his ass, Marsten,” I shouted. “Tell him. Tell the son of a bitch.”

Still lying flat on his back, the swarthy man called, “Howard’s gone. He’s been gone for an hour, pig. And he ain’t coming back.”

I recognized the truth in his voice, saw truth in his face. Furious, I holstered my revolver. “Search him and cuff him,” I called down to the men on the ground. “We’ll call for an ambulance.”

“Is it him?” Holding the shotgun, Canelli was framed in the open window behind me.

“No, goddammit.” I climbed back through the window. “Is there a phone?”

“I saw one in the bedroom.”

I dialed Communications. After a delay of almost a minute, Halliday came on the line.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. I was talking to the phone company. I didn’t think I’d gotten through on the buzzer, and I was getting the phone number of 1976 Scott Street.”

“What is it, Halliday?” Wearily, I sank down on the bed, closing my eyes. I was thinking that, with every year that passed, it became harder for me to face a gun.

“We just got a call from Alex Cappellani,” Halliday was saying. “He asked for the officer in charge of the Booker investigation. He’s in an apartment on Telegraph Hill. It’s 2851 Greenwich, a rear apartment. It’s a half block down from upper Grant, near Coit Tower. He wants you to go see him.”

“How’s he sound?”

“He sounds nervous.”

“Did he give you a phone number?”

“No. He gave me the message, made sure I had it, then hung up. There’s a phone in the apartment, though. I checked.”

“I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone.

“What’s happening, Lieutenant?” Canelli was standing beside me.

“Alex Cappellani called in. He’s on Telegraph Hill.”

“You want me to go with you?”

I stood up. “No,” I answered. “I want you to stay here, and finish up. I want you to take both these characters downtown. But before you do that, I want you to get the story on Mal Howard from them. I want to know everything about Howard. I don’t care how you do it — the hard way or the easy way, it’s all the same to me. Just find out about Howard.”

“You want me to lean on them, you mean? Really lean on them?”

“I want the information, Canelli. If you have to bend the rules to get it, I’ll back you up. I don’t have to tell you that we’re shorthanded. Which is why I’m leaving it to you. Understand?”

He frowned, thinking it over. “You want me to make a deal? Like that? Let these guys off, if they cop?”

“Goddammit, Canelli, I’m telling you what I want. How you do it, that’s up to you. I want Mal Howard. I don’t care what you do with these two. They’re nothing. I want Howard. Is that so hard to understand?”

I knew I’d hurt his feelings, but I didn’t have time to worry about it — or to apologize.

“Tell Marsten to follow me to 2851 Greenwich,” I said shortly. “Tell him to bring a walkie-talkie, tuned to channel ten.” I was already walking down the hallway to the stairs. “I’ll meet him in front of 2851 Greenwich. Got it?”

“2851 Greenwich. Channel ten.” Looking at me with reproachful brown eyes, he nodded. “Got it,” he sighed.

12

With Marsten a half block behind me, I drove slowly past 2851 Greenwich. During the fifteen-minute drive from Scott Street, I’d ordered Halliday to contact both Leo and Rosa Cappellani, asking whether the Greenwich Street address was known to the family. It wasn’t, apparently.

Like the Cappellani town house, 2851 Greenwich was an example of choice six-figure San Francisco real estate. It was a “lowrise” apartment building, built to the city’s code that protects an owner’s right to a view. The building was new: a stark, squared-off stucco box, architecturally undistinguished. But it was located on the north slope of Telegraph Hill. From the rear of the building, floor-to-ceiling windows would command a vista of San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, with the low green hills of Marin County for a background and Alcatraz and Angel Island in the foreground. Full-width balconies would allow affluent tenants to drink martinis and barbecue steaks while they admired the view.

Two entrances fronted on Greenwich, designating two large flats, numbered 2847 and 2849. The number 2851 was fixed to a gate on the uphill side of the building, and marked a garden apartment with a rear entrance and access through the gate. The front windows of the two flats showed no signs of life. Circulars littered the two entrances, and the mailboxes were full. The gate on the uphill side was closed — but not littered with the same circulars.

The building was only two blocks from Alex’s car, still parked on Grant Avenue. He’d probably borrowed the apartment from a friend, to hide. He’d parked his car close enough to get it in a hurry — but not close enough to betray his hiding place.

Just ahead, Greenwich Street began a tight uphill curve that ended in the tourist parking circle that served Coit Tower, on the crest of Telegraph Hill. The circle was less than two blocks from 2851. Following a green Porsche, I drove to the crest and made a circuit of the parking area, finally pulling into a red zone. Using my walkie-talkie, I told Marsten to pull in beside me. I rolled down my window.

“I’ll leave my car here, and walk back. You follow me in your car, a half block behind. If it looks all right, I’ll go in by myself. There’s a gate beside the house that leads back to the apartment. When I go through the gate, I’ll leave it open. You take up your position opposite the gate. Stay in your car. Clear?”

“Yessir.”

“I don’t think there’ll be a problem. He’s scared, probably, and wants to talk. He might talk to one man, rather than two.”

“Right,” Marsten said shortly. Displeasure was plain in his voice. He’d been hoping for action. Marsten was still in his thirties — a hard-working, ambitious, savvy cop. But he was hot-tempered. He’d grown up a tough kid, and hadn’t changed. Working on the vice squad, his street sense had helped him second-guess the hoods and the whores and the hustlers. In Homicide, though, his temper worked against him. He was too quick with his fists — and his gun, too. As a partner, Marsten was a calculated risk.

I raised my walkie-talkie. “We’ll stay on channel ten.”

“Right.”

I locked my car, slipped the walkie-talkie into my inside pocket and began walking back the way I’d come. It was a clear, warm Saturday afternoon, and the observation circle was crowded with tourists. But, despite the balmy weather, most of the tourists remained in their cars, staring at the sights through their windshields. A few of them — children, mostly — clung to the big coinoperated telescopes, focusing on Alcatraz, or the Golden Gate Bridge, or the ships sailing into San Francisco Bay. Some of the tourists emerged from their cars long enough to take a shapshot or pose for one. Then they quickly returned to their cars.

As I walked down Greenwich Street, I glanced to my right, down the steepest slope of Telegraph Hill. The rock slope was overgrown with wind-stunted laurel and juniper, as impenetrable as a forest thicket. Yet, despite the steepness of the terrain and the denseness of the undergrowth, I could see tunnels burrowed through the tangled branches. The small, twisting tunnels could have been made by animals — but weren’t. They were made by children, playing. I’d grown up in San Francisco. I could remember playing on this same wild slope during a time when tourists were a novelty, not a nuisance. One of the tall rock outcroppings had been my Indian fortress. I’d been a cowboy, stalking the enemy, attacking with shrilly shouted “bangs” and “pows,” followed by equally shrill arguments and arbitrations.

Thirty-five years later, I was still stalking the enemy.

I paused at the side gate of 2851 Greenwich, and casually looked up and down the street. On both sides, the sidewalks were deserted. From my right, a station wagon filled with squirming children came up the hill. From my left, Marsten’s car was coasting down toward me.

The gate was made of thick redwood planks, secured by a simple black iron latch. I tripped the latch and pushed the heavy gate slowly open. A flight of cement steps led down to a redwood deck. The stairs were about three feet wide. On my right was a high wooden fence. The stucco side of the house rose on my left, a sheer wall with only two small, high windows. Pine and laurel grew across the top of the redwood fence, touching the stucco of the house. Even though the time was only three-thirty, the fence and the overhanging foliage and the high stucco wall cut off much of the afternoon light.

I tried to leave the gate open, but it was spring loaded. I looked for a hook to latch it back, but couldn’t find one. As Marsten drew to a stop at the curb, I let the gate swing free, shrugged and raised my walkie-talkie, signaling for him to listen.

“It won’t stay open,” I said. “So listen for me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I slipped the walkie-talkie into my pocket and began descending the cement steps. I saw a door leading from the redwood deck to the garden apartment. Beginning on the far side of the deck, a flight of wooden stairs ran down the hill to a tall privet hedge that probably marked the lower boundary of the lot. Except for a single huge pine tree, nothing grew on the property. The ground was covered with thick-growing ivy. A small wooden gate was set into the privet hedge.

The deck was about fifteen feet below street level. Before I stepped on the first of the deck’s redwood planks, I stopped to look — and listen. I didn’t like the silence — didn’t like the feeling of the place. I was confined by a fence on one side and a stucco wall on the other. I was isolated by trees and darkening foliage and an ominous silence. I felt closed in, cut off — threatened.

Why?

Was it because there wasn’t a sidewalk in front and an alley behind — because I didn’t have a man beside me, and men in the rear?

Did a city cop draw his strength and his courage from the pavements — from cars and radios and, most of all, from other cops close at hand?

I was on the deck now, walking lightly toward the door, moving one slow, cautious step at a time. I’d unbuttoned my jacket. My revolver was loose in its holster.

The door was half glass, but curtained. Beside the door was a narrow window, also curtained. The door opened inward. A small brass knocker was mounted on the door-frame to the right of the door. With my left hand I reached across my body for the knocker, so my right arm would be free. Another step, and…

The door flew open. An arm held a black iron poker raised against me. I threw myself back, pivoting away. My left shoulder struck a concrete bulkhead, hard. In the dim light, the figure of a man filled the doorway — a big man, still with the poker raised. My gun was in my hand as I dropped to a crouch.

Ready to kill him.

“Jesus, Frank!”

The private detective — Bill.

“What the hell—” Wrathfully, I holstered my revolver. “Where the—” I realized that I was sputtering. I straightened, brushing leaves and dirt from my left shoulder.

A big man spoke urgently. “A guy just tried to get to Alex — tried to get in the basement window. He’s about thirty, thin face, sandy hair, fighter’s nose.” He pointed down the hill, toward the small gate set into the privet hedge. “He came up from down there. He was carrying a handgun. He went back the way he came — through that wooden gate.”

It was Mal Howard. The description fitted perfectly.

“Is Alex all right?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“All right, get back inside.” Through the door, I’d seen a telephone in the entryway. I stepped inside and switched on my walkie-talkie. Bill closed the door behind us.

“Marsten?”

“Yessir.”

“Come down here. Bring your walkie-talkie and a shotgun.”

“Yessir.”

I went to the telephone and called Halliday, ordering him to dispatch two black and white units to the scene. The officers were to remain in their cars until I contacted them on channel ten — or until they heard shooting.

I saw Bill pull the door open. Carrying a shotgun across his chest, Marsten stood in the doorway. I explained the situation to him, then turned to Bill. “Stay with Alex,” I ordered. “Don’t let him take off again. And lock the door behind us.”

A moment later Marsten and I were cautiously descending the steep wooden steps that led down from the deck to the gate below. Taking the lead, I constantly scanned the base of the privet hedge. If Mal Howard was waiting for us, lying flat on the ground and shooting through the hedge, we’d be easy targets.

“Did you order reinforcements?” Marsten asked.

“Yes. But I told them to stay in their cars until they get orders. I don’t want them behind us, shooting.”

Speaking in whispers, we were standing in front of the gate.

“Ready?”

Marsten nodded calmly. He looked ready.

I slowly pushed open the gate, standing to the left as the gate swung wide to the right.

The terrain beyond the gate was similar to that higher on the hill: a wild, twisted tangle of low-growing underbrush and stunted trees. In the heart of San Francisco, I was facing a wilderness. To my right, a ragged line of tall pines ran down the hill, ending abruptly at a man-made cliff that had been blasted away to allow construction of the street below. To my left, the sheer concrete wall of an elegant high-rise apartment building rose fifty feet from the ground. The wall extended almost to the cliffside, with a cyclone fence running to the very edge — and even extending beyond, protection against prowlers. Two sides, then, were secure. He couldn’t climb the wall, wouldn’t have gone over the cliff. The third side, marked by tall pines, was bounded by another high wire-mesh fence. The fourth side — the uphill side where I stood — was bordered by three private pieces of property. One of the lots ended in the privet hedge. The second lot was bounded by a brick wall. A wooden fence secured the third piece of property. The enclosed tract of overgrown land measured about two hundred feet square.

“If he’s in there,” Marsten said, “we’ve got him. He can’t get out. But the cover’s so thick, you should order a helicopter.”

The remark was typical of Marsten. He was always suggesting, always pushing. Always bucking. I turned deliberately away from him and moved a few paces down the steep slope and into the cover of the first small, twisted trees. For a moment I stood alone, eyeing the wooden fence that adjoined the brick wall. The fence was no more than five feet high.

Howard could have escaped over the fence, the weakest point.

If he’d escaped, and I ordered a ’copter, I’d look like a fool. Once every three months, the departmental comptroller called each unit commander into his office for a “cost of operations” review. For all of us, it was a dreaded moment of truth.

And a helicopter was charged out at three hundred dollars an hour.

I drew a deep breath. “All right, Howard,” I called. “Come on out. Bring the gun with you. Throw it on the ground when we tell you to do it. You’ve got one minute.”

Except for a woman’s head thrust out of a nearby window, there was no response. I called again, louder. Nothing.

By now, I knew, two black and white units were standing by, parked on Greenwich Street. I switched on my walkie-talkie and ordered the uniformed men to come down the stairs — with their units’ shotguns. And flack vests and helmets, if they had them.

Less than a minute later, with all of us crouched like jungle soldiers among the low-growing trees, I was explaining the problem to the four uniformed men, two of whom I knew by name, two by sight.

I pointed to the uphill perimeter: toward the hedge, the brick wall and the wooden fence. “Two of you guard that line,” I ordered, indicating the two men I didn’t know by name. “If he’s going to break out, he’ll probably try to go over one of those fences, or else through the hedge, maybe.” The two men were young and nervous. Both wore khaki-colored Army flack vests and big white helmets with S.F.P.D. stenciled in front. The bulky vests made their arms look frail and spindly. The helmets made their necks look scrawny. Both swallowed hard — then nodded in unison. They looked like boys playing war, dressed in their fathers’ combat gear.

“The rest of us will spread out,” I said. “We’ll work our way downhill to the cliff, through the trees. Each of you will carry a shotgun. Marsten, you take the far side—” I pointed uphill, toward the pines and the cyclone fence. “I’ll take the left. Let’s try and keep a line. And let’s not shoot each other.”

The two young patrolmen tried to smile — but couldn’t make it. Holding his shotgun high, Marsten began forcing his way through the underbrush. Watching the decisive, bull-shouldered way he moved, I realized that Marsten hoped to find Howard first — and kill him.

I drew my revolver and moved to my left, toward the towering concrete wall of the apartment building. The wall was blank, with only a series of vent holes, probably marking bathrooms on each floor. I counted eight balconies overhanging the cliff, one for each floor. On four of the balconies, figures had come to the railing, watching the show below. Sirens and flashing lights and screams and drawn guns attracted them: the rubberneckers, the impassive ghouls. They assembled silently, coming from nowhere — and everywhere. When it was over, when the sirens finally faded away and the blood was drying on the pavement, they silently disappeared.

I turned to my right, looking along the line. Three men with shotguns were working through the tangled trees. Two men with drawn pistols guarded the upper line of fences and walls and hedges.

“This is your last chance, Howard,” I called. “It’s the hard way or the easy way — your choice.”

Nothing.

The silence threatened a fiasco — an assault team assembled against an enemy long gone. Thank God I hadn’t called for the helicopter.

“All right,” I called out, “let’s get him out of there — slow and easy.”

In unison, the four of us entered the underbrush. Immediately I was surrounded by foliage. Here there were no tunnels burrowed by playing children. There were only bramble branches, tearing at my clothing. That morning, realizing that I would be interrogating the affluent Cappellanis, I’d have chosen one of my best suits. Now I was sorry. I should have—

A flicker of movement came from my right. Crouching low, I brought my revolver up — and saw the blue of a police uniform over my sights. I lowered the gun just as I heard a shout from my left, above.

“Policeman. Hey.” It was a high-pitched voice. A child’s voice, from high above me. From one of the high-rise balconies. Looking up, I saw two small arms waving.

“Policeman. Hey. I see him. By the fence, there. Right down there. Right down below me, there.”

And ahead something moved — something brown, not blue. Through close-growing tree limbs I saw a trouser leg — a shoe — a hand.

And a flash of metal, bright among the branches.

“Over here,” I shouted. “To your left. Here. He’s…”

A shot cracked — and another shot. I flinched, then plunged ahead. I couldn’t see him now — so he couldn’t see me, either. So he couldn’t hit me if he shot again.

“Policeman. Hey. He’s climbing over the fence. Hey.”

Arms flailing, legs pumping, feet slipping and sliding, I fought free of the foliage, staggering into a cleared strip of rocky ground that paralleled the building.

He was climbing up the eight-foot wire mesh fence that ran from the apartment building to the edge of the cliff. Incredibly, he’d almost reached the top.

“Howard—” I raised my revolver, shot in the air — then lowered the gun, aiming at the desperately climbing figure. A part of my mind registered the image of a frenzied ape, trapped in his chain-link cage. The distance between us was less than thirty feet. If I squeezed the trigger, I couldn’t miss.

He threw his right arm over the top of the fence — then his right leg.

“Howard.” I took careful aim at the dangling left leg, and fired.

And missed.

With his left hand he reached for his waistband. The hand disappeared inside his jacket — then reappeared, holding a revolver.

“Howard. Drop it.”

Still hanging grotesquely on the fence, clinging to the top by an arm and a leg, he swung the big revolver toward me.

And fired. Once. Twice.

Close behind me, branches snapped, bullets whined.

I raised my revolver, steadied the sights squarely on his chest, and squeezed the trigger. I watched his body convulse, heard him sigh—

— and saw him slowly surrender his ape’s grip on the wire, then suddenly fall. The ground was rocky where he fell. He landed flat on his back, spread-eagled. His neck snapped; his head struck the rocks with terrible force. For a moment he lay motionless, staring straight up into the sky. Then, when his eyes began to glaze, his arms and legs began to twitch.

“Policeman. Hey. You got him.”