Twospot

19

Softly swearing, I hung up the phone and looked at the bedside clock. The time was one-twenty A.M. I sank back on my pillow, groaned, and allowed my eyes to close. For a moment I lay motionless. Beside me, Ann stirred drowsily. I heard her murmuring, then felt her drawing close to me, snuggling up.

“Have you got to go out?” Her voice was husky, sleepthickened. As she spoke, I felt her foot touch mine. Now her toes began a slow, sensuous movement up the calf of my leg. If I was weighing a decision, she was trying to tip the balance.

“Hmmm?” Her hand touched the top of my hip, moved slowly across my stomach, then up to my chest. My body was responding, rippling to a slow, erotic pulsing of desire. My genitals were tightening.

I groaned again. “That’s not fair.”

“Hmmm.” Her hand was high on my chest — and now descending.

Quickly I turned to her, kissed her hard, drew the full, warm length of her body close against mine — and pushed her away.

“You’re shameless, you know that?”

“Hmmm.” Lasciviously.

I kissed her again with firm finality, then turned to the phone and reluctantly began dialing.

“Who’re you calling?”

“Friedman. I’ve got to.”

“Oh. Pete.” As she said it, I felt her forefinger on my spine, playfully moving up — then down. Ann and Pete were friends. So she would tease me while I talked to him.

Surprisingly, Friedman answered on the first ring.

“It’s Frank. Sorry.”

He sighed: a long, deeply resigned exhalation. “I just walked in the house. Just this minute.”

“Trouble?”

“With the Secret Service and the FBI and all the other goddamn agencies of the federal government. Not to mention the Cubans. They don’t listen. They’re amiable enough. But they don’t listen.”

“The FBI doesn’t listen, either.”

He snorted. Then: “What’s happened?”

“I’ve got more trouble for you. For Castro, too, maybe.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Detail by detail, as concisely as possible I repeated the conversation I’d just finished with Bill. Friedman was silent for a moment. Then, softly and earnestly, he began to swear. As I listened, I rolled over on my back. Giggling, Ann began kissing my ear. Finally I heard Friedman say:

“You know these people — Leo, and the rest of them. What d’you think?”

“I think we’ve got to take it seriously. We’ve got to find Leo. Fast.”

“I’m glad you said ‘we,’ ” he answered dryly. “If that’s an offer to help, I accept.”

“It’s an offer.”

“What about Bill? Do you think he’s got his facts straight?”

“You know him better than I do,” I countered. “What d’you think?”

He sighed again. “I think he’s probably got his facts straight.”

“So what now?”

“Does Leo live in San Francisco?”

“Yes. But I don’t know where. I talked to him in his office.”

“Why don’t you come over here? I’ll find out where he lives. We can go from here.”

“Right.”

“Let’s take that,” Friedman said, pointing to a cruiser parked in his driveway.

“That’s against regulations, taking a cruiser home.”

“Since I’ve only been home for approximately forty minutes, I guess I’m clean.”

I waited until he wedged his two hundred forty pounds beneath the steering wheel before I asked, “Where’s Leo live?”

“Sea Cliff,” Friedman grunted. “Thirty-second Avenue, north of Lake Street.” He backed out of the driveway and turned north, driving smoothly, at a moderate speed. Even in hot pursuit, Friedman never seemed to hurry. But he was usually first on the scene.

I switched on the radio, turning the volume down. “Do you have a codeword for the Castro security thing?” I asked.

“Yes. Counterpunch.”

“That’s pretty catchy. Your idea?”

“Of course.” He yawned.

“You want me to drive? At least I got two hours’ sleep. You can close your eyes.”

“Frankly,” Friedman said, “I’d rather have no sleep than two hours’ sleep. Besides, as soon as Castro leaves town — tonight, that is, at ten forty-five — I’m going to leave town, too. For three days’ fun in the sun. Except that, the way I feel now, we may stay a week.”

“Where’re you going?”

“San Diego. Clara’s aunt has a place there, on the beach. She’s in Europe.”

“Have you got Leo’s house under surveillance?” I asked.

“Naturally.”

“Did you call the FBI?”

“No.”

I looked at him. “Why not?”

“Because, if Leo should happen to be home, playing the part of the innocent industrialist, one of two things might happen. One, he might have an explanation for everything, which would make us look silly, especially if we’d called the FBI, our natural enemies. Or, two, we might get lucky and foil an assassination attempt single-handed. Which would make us heroes. Plus it would also confound the FBI, our natural enemies.”

“I doubt that he’ll give us an explanation. More likely, he’ll refuse to give us an explanation, and start raising hell, and call his lawyer. He’ll try to run over us. That’s his style.”

“A real honcho, eh?”

“Yes.”

We drove for a few moments in silence before Friedman ventured: “It’s too bad that you had to waste Howard. If he’d fingered Leo, we’d have our case, no sweat.”

Remembering the sound of Howard’s head hitting the rocks, I didn’t reply.

“I’m wondering how Howard fits into all of this,” Friedman said.

“I think it’s obvious,” I answered. “He was a hired gun. He was probably hired to kill Castro. Then, when Booker uncovered the assassination plot, Howard was hired to kill Booker. Bill thinks Booker tried to blackmail Leo, threatening to blow the whistle on the plot. From what I know of Booker, I think it’s a pretty good theory.”

“How’d Alex get mixed up in all this?”

“Alex overheard Booker and Leo talking about it — about something Leo and Rosten are ‘planning’ for today. That’s why Leo ordered Alex killed.”

“I wonder whether Leo’s had time to hire another triggerman,” Friedman mused. He turned left on Twenty-fifth Avenue. In ten minutes, we would arrive at Sea Cliff.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Which is precisely the reason I think you should call the FBI. They should be interrogating Rosten right this minute. He’s the only real leverage we’ve got. We’ve got him dirty. He might talk. And, God knows, we need all the information we can get.”

“It doesn’t sound like Rosten’s much of a talker,” Friedman answered laconically.

“Still, we’ve got to try.” I turned to him, saying heatedly, “You’re just being goddamn foolish, Pete, not calling the FBI. This private feud you’ve got going with them is going to cost you one of these days.”

“Let’s see what happens at Leo’s house.”

“But, Christ, minutes might count.”

Amused, he glanced at me aside. “The older you get, the more you’re developing a talent for turning dramatic phrases, you know that? Some of them are a little trite, maybe. But, altogether, I think it’s a step in the right direction. When I first knew you, I thought you were a little too taciturn.”

“And the older you get, the more stubborn you get.”

“What time does Castro get in town, anyhow?” I asked truculently.

“Eleven A.M.” Grimacing now, Friedman glanced at his watch. “Exactly eight and a half hours from now.”

“What’s his schedule?”

“He’s flying in from Dallas, on a commercial jet. He lands at eleven, like I said. He’ll have a press conference in the VIP lounge, which is supposed to end at eleven-thirty. From there, he drives to City Hall.”

“Will there be a parade?”

“No,” Friedman answered. “Just a motorcade. He’ll get off the Bayshore Freeway at Seventh Street, and travel down Bryant to the Embarcadero. He’ll drive through the Embarcadero Center and the Golden Gateway, and then go south on Montgomery Street, through the financial district. He’ll go west on California, then south on Polk Street. He’ll drive down Polk directly to the City Hall, where his honor will be waiting on the steps. As I understand it, they’ll have the blue carpet out — not the red. That’s because Castro’s a commie, as I get it.”

“Will he have an open car?”

“No. It won’t be a parade situation. He’s scheduled to travel at twenty-five miles an hour, once he gets off the freeway. Beginning at Montgomery and California, the intersections will be held open for him. They don’t anticipate any crowds along the streets, though. Not until he gets to the Civic Center.”

“What’s the rest of his day?”

“The usual. Lunch at the Commonwealth Club, followed by a speech. An appearance at the Press Club, dinner at the Bohemian Club. It’s a pretty tight schedule. He hasn’t even booked rooms at a hotel. At ten forty-five, he leaves for Los Angeles, where he’ll spend the night.” He turned right on Lake Street.

“If he’s going to get killed,” I said, “it’ll probably be on his way from the airport, or at City Hall.”

“Right.” He turned left on Thirty-second Avenue. “My main concern is City Hall. The mayor will say his standard few words on the steps, and Castro will probably say several words. There’ll be a crowd. Maybe an unfriendly crowd. Or, at least, there’ll be protesters. Which will make a confusing situation. Which I don’t like.”

We passed through the two brick pillars that marked the entrance to Sea Cliff, one of the city’s most pretentious subdivisions. Built on the highlands overlooking San Francisco Bay and situated on the seaward side of the Golden Gate narrows, Sea Cliff was a part of the ocean’s shoreline panorama. Here, the nights were always foggy. The fog smelled of salt and water and the pungent odor of marine life.

I pointed to a large two-story brick house, checked the address Friedman had scrawled on an envelope and said, “There it is — Leo’s house.”

“This isn’t going to work,” Friedman said, pushing the bell for the fourth time. “Either no one’s home, or no one’s answering.”

“Push it again. Keep your finger on it.”

Yawning, he leaned heavily against a porch pillar and did as I asked. A full minute passed before I saw an oblong of light fall on a hallway wall at the top of the big central stairway. A bedroom door had opened.

“Someone’s coming,” I said. But it was another two minutes before I saw a muff-slippered foot appear on the upstairs landing. The foot moved hesitantly beneath a richly embroidered blue dressing gown. Another foot followed the first. An angle of the upstairs wall contrived to reveal first a skirt, then a woman’s torso, finally her full figure. With the dim reflected light behind her, she stood at the head of the stairs, looking down at us. I took my shield case from my pocket and held my badge against the door’s single pane of glass. At the same time, Friedman rang the bell again. I saw her squint as she stared down at the badge. Finally, with one hand at her breast and one hand gathering the gown together midway down her thigh, she began descending the stairs one slow, reluctant step at a time. Underneath the embroidered blue dressing gown, her nightdress was frothy white lace. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders.

“Good-looking woman,” Friedman said. “Leo’s wife?”

“I don’t know.”

At the bottom of the stairs, still fifteen feet from the front door, she stopped.

“What d’you want?” she called. Clutching the robe with both hands, she evoked the classic image of the threatened female: eyes wide, mouth soft and uncertain, head held rigidly on a taut neck, bosom rapidly rising and falling. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened,” I said. “We just want to talk to you. Let us in. I don’t want to shout.”

One slow step at a time, she approached the door, closely examining my badge. Even without makeup, she was a striking woman. The swell of her breasts was full and firm. Her shoulders were wide, self-confidently set. Her mouth was generous, her eyes large and luminous beneath gracefully arched brows.

But she was frightened. Badly frightened. Fear was plain in the fixity of her stare, and the pallor of her face, and the small, uncertain movements of her hands and mouth.

Friedman stepped forward. “Are you Mrs. Leo Cappellani?”

She nodded: one slow, tight inclination of her handsome head. The muscles of her neck were corded. Still clutching the robe, her hand was knuckle-white.

“Let us in, Mrs. Cappellani,” Friedman ordered. “We’ve got to talk to your husband.”

She began shaking her head in short, unnatural arcs. “Leo’s not here.”

“Then we want to talk to you.” As he spoke, light from the house next door fell across the Cappellani porch. “Open the door,” Friedman grated. “Now.”

Her head moved sharply aside, as if he’d struck at her. The quick, spontaneous response suggested an abused wife’s reaction. A moment later I heard a click and a chain rattle. As we entered the house, she retreated before us. Again she moved as if she expected us to abuse her — and was resigned to it.

“You look like you should sit down, Mrs. Cappellani.” Friedman took her elbow and turned her firmly toward a darkened living room. “Let’s go in here.” He switched on a lamp and gestured her to a seat on the sofa. Still moving with strangely nerveless submission, as if she’d surrendered her will, she obeyed him. She sat in the exact center of a large velvet sofa. She looked like an unhappy little girl waiting for someone to come into the room and punish her.

“Where’s your husband?” I asked. “He left the winery between ten and eleven. He told his mother he was coming here, to his home.” I spoke in a flat, hard voice, making the question an accusation.

“He didn’t come home,” she answered. “He’s not here.” Her voice was totally uninflected: a dull, dead monotone. Her eyes, too, were dead.

“Has he phoned you tonight?”

“No, he hasn’t phoned.” Her embroidered robe had fallen open across her thighs, revealing a froth of white nightgown lace. She tried to close the robe with one hand and couldn’t. When she used her other hand, the robe parted at the top, revealing the swell of her breasts. Defeated, she tremulously caught her breath as she struggled with the robe.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Cappellani?” Friedman asked.

Head bowed, she didn’t answer. Slowly, hopelessly, she began to shake her head.

“You’re very upset,” Friedman said, speaking quietly and reasonably. “It’s obvious. And it’s got something to do with Leo, hasn’t it?”

“He’s in trouble. That’s why you’re here. Because he’s in trouble.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. Suddenly she let the robe fall away as she clasped her hands in her lap. She sat staring helplessly down at her hands.

“Leo had Jason Booker killed,” I said. “You suspected that, didn’t you?”

“I… I thought so. I heard him talking — saying strange things on the phone. And he — he acted strangely, too. He’d done something terrible. It was in his eyes.”

“He tried to have his brother killed, too. He tried three times. Thursday, Saturday, and again tonight. He ordered Paul Rosten to kill Alex, tonight.”

“Paul Rosten is—” She let her voice trail off. Still bowed over her clasped hands, she again moved her head slowly from side to side. She could have been a penitent, atoning for some terrible sin. “He’s mad, I think. Paul’s a little mad. I can see it deep in his eyes, sometimes. But Leo’s not mad. Leo — he’s fallen from grace. He’s wicked and cruel. He’s done terrible things, and he believes in terrible, godless laws. But he’s not mad. Not like Paul.”

“Do you know what Leo’s planning to do in just a few hours, Mrs. Cappellani?” Friedman asked. “Has he told you?”

“Oh, no.” Almost primly, she denied it. “No, he wouldn’t tell me, because it’s wicked. What he’s planning is wicked. I know he’s planning something. And I know someone’s going to die. Someone very important. I… I listen to Leo, that’s why. And I watch his eyes. That’s how you learn about people, you know — by watching the eyes. Because the eyes are the windows of the soul. And, lately, I’ve seen something terrible in Leo’s eyes. It looks like a… a flower of evil, blooming in his eyes.” To herself, she secretly nodded. She was speaking very softly, in a small, shy, little girl’s voice. She was leaving us, retreating to some safe, secret place. “At first it was just a seed,” she murmured dreamily. “And then it was a bud, way down deep in his eyes. Then, one by one, the petals began to open — terrible, blood-red petals.” She looked up at me and said, “Most people, you know, think flowers are beautiful. But I know better. Flowers can be poison. They can be evil and terrible — with death at the center.”

I exchanged a glance with Friedman, who raised his eyes to the ceiling and silently shook his head.

“What kind of a car does your husband drive, Mrs. Cappellani?” I asked.

“He drives a Lincoln,” she said. “It’s a new Lincoln. Brand-new.”

“What color is it?”

“It’s silver. All silver, except for the top. That’s black. Like leather.”

Friedman heaved himself to his feet. “Where is he, Mrs. Cappellani? Do you know? Do you have any idea where he is — any idea at all? We’ve got to find him. And you’ve got to help us. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know that.” She raised her head, looking up at us each in turn, with wide innocent eyes. I wondered what she thought she saw in my eyes. Was it a flower? “You’re good men,” she said finally, nodding to me, then to Friedman. “You’re good men. I can see that. I know that.” As she said it, she lowered her head, staring down at her tightly clenched hands. “I know that,” she whispered. “And Leo knows it, too. That’s why he’s running away from you. Because the evil must always flee from the good.”

“Then where is he?” I urged. “Tell us.”

“There’s a girl. Her name is Lynda Foster. Leo doesn’t know that I know about her. But I do. That’s where Leo stays, sometimes. With her.”

“Where does she live?”

“On Potrero Hill, I think. Close to the top. She has an apartment with a view. It costs him three hundred dollars a month. Plus utilities.”

We left her on the couch, bowed over her clasped hands. Her lips were moving soundlessly. She could have been praying.

20

Friedman got out of the cruiser and looked balefully at the steep flight of stairs leading up to Lynda Foster’s apartment.

“These goddamn hill dwellers,” he groaned. “For a view, they kill themselves. Us, too.”

Potrero Hill had always been the working man’s Telegraph Hill, overlooking the warehouses and factories and switchyards of San Francisco’s industrial area. Behind a confusion of railroad tracks and corrugated iron buildings towered the enormous cranes and gantries of the city’s shipyards. The Bay was beyond, with the Oakland hills in the background. In recent years the real estate boom had burst over Potrero Hill. The old, tired houses had been bought by speculators, skillfully cut up into tastefully decorated apartments and rented as view property at inflated prices.

“Come on,” I said, leading the way. “It’s three-fifteen, for God’s sake. We’ve got to find him.”

Friedman groaned again, and began heavily climbing the stairs.

“Do you think one of us should be covering the back?” I asked over my shoulder.

“Probably,” Friedman gasped, laboring behind me. “Except that I don’t think there is a back. Not on this hill.”

When I finally reached the upper landing and rang the bell, I was secretly gratified to see Friedman stopped midway up the last flight of stairs. He was holding to the railing, heavily panting and helplessly shaking his head.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Sweet Jesus.”

As he said it, a light came on inside the apartment. With a peony-printed sheet wrapped around her, a girl was coming quickly toward me down a short, cluttered hallway. She moved easily, eagerly. She was expecting someone — but not the police. I watched her stop short when she saw my stranger’s face, then watched her mouth come open when she saw my badge. She was a tall, slim girl with sharp features and a leggy, lithe figure under the sheet.

“Just a minute,” she called through the door. “Wait a minute.” She quickly retraced her steps, disappearing into a rear room. A moment later she reappeared, this time wrapped in a Japanese kimono. After a brief, noisy struggle with a nightchain and a deadbolt, she wrenched the door open.

“Miss Foster? Lynda Foster?”

“Right.” She nodded decisively, tossing her hair in a loose blond whirl around her face. “What is it? What’s happened?” It was a quick, avid question. She was looking for excitement.

“Nothing’s happened. Are you alone?”

“Sure.” Her dark, lively eyes darted between Friedman and me as she mischievously smiled. “Why?”

I decided to gamble: “But you were expecting Leo Cappellani. Weren’t you?” As I asked the question, I stepped into the hallway, followed by Friedman. With the door closed, the three of us touched the walls as we stood facing each other. My foot struck something that tipped. Glancing down, I saw a shallow pan filled with kitty litter. Most of the litter had spilled on the floor.

“Sorry,” I said.

“That’s all right. It happens all the time,” she said cheerfully. “Are you looking for Leo?”

“Why do you think we’re looking for Leo?” Friedman asked.

“Because that’s what you seem to be doing. Looking for Leo.”

“Is he here?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Has he been here tonight?”

“Nope.”

“Are you expecting him?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? What time is it, anyhow?”

“About three-thirty.”

“Then I’m probably not expecting him.”

“Do you mind if we look around?”

“Not if you don’t mind telling me why you’re looking,” she answered promptly.

“I’m afraid we do mind, though,” Friedman said, moving past her. “Regulations, you know.”

I helped Lynda Foster clean up the kitty litter while Friedman searched the apartment. Five minutes later we climbed back inside the cruiser. I checked in with Communications while Friedman sat glumly behind the steering wheel, rubbing his eyes.

“What do you think about Lynda?” I asked.

“I think she’s exactly what she seems,” he answered. “She’s an aging flower child who’s getting smart enough to let men with money pay the rent and buy her pretty things.”

“Maybe we should have interrogated her more—”

“Interrogations take time,” he answered wearily. “And we don’t have much. I don’t think she can help us. Besides, Leo’s wife convinced me.”

“Convinced you of what?”

“Convinced me that he’s going to try to kill Castro. It all makes sense, when you think about it. Everything adds up. Booker found out about the plan and got himself killed for his trouble. And Alex almost got himself killed for the same reason.” His voice was hoarse with fatigue. Still digging his fingers into his eyes, he sat silently for a moment. Then he said, “I’m beginning to think that Leo might just be as nutty as his nutty wife. Different nutty, of course — like Hitler was nutty, say. But still nutty. And it’s the nuts that do these assassinations. Like Leo and Rosten. They hire a triggerman — Mal Howard — and they’re in business. Or they get someone to do it for love, like Lee Harvey Oswald.” He started the engine, put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

“So what now?” I asked.

“So now we find Leo. That silver Lincoln with the black leather top should simplify the problem. But first, we find an all-night gas station.”

“Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

“No. I’ve got to call the FBI. Our natural enemies.”

After calling the FBI, Friedman and I stopped for ham and eggs at an all-night restaurant in the mission district. Milton Brautigan, the FBI’s local agent in charge, had promised that two agents would leave within the hour, on their way to interrogate Rosten. At four A.M., Friedman and I arrived at the Hall of Justice.

“I’ve got to get a couple of hours’ sleep,” Friedman said as we rode up in the elevator to our office. “You’re going to have to cover for me. I’m sorry, but I’m out of gas. Wake me up, though, if something happens.”

I waved a hand. “Sleep. Either we find him, or we don’t. If we don’t find him, and if Rosten doesn’t talk, there’s not much we can do. Not until Castro arrives, anyhow.”

“I think we’ve got to call Chief Dwyer,” Friedman said. “We should do that now. And he should call the Commissioner. We can’t take the whole responsibility for this.”

“Is that why you’re going to sleep?” I asked sourly. “So I’m the one who calls Dwyer at four in the morning?”

Friedman smiled. It was an exhausted attempt at humor. Beneath dark stubble, his face was gray with fatigue. His eyes were lusterless. In the last hour, the lines of his face had deepened.

“Go to sleep,” I said, pointing to the door marked Dormitory. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll call him. Sleep.”

At ten minutes to eight, Friedman knocked once on my office door and entered without being invited.

“For those four hours’ sleep,” he said, sinking into my visitor’s chair, “many, many thanks.”

“No problem. I slept a little myself, in fact. An hour, almost.”

“I’m getting old,” Friedman said. “This is the first time it’s really hit me. Honest to God, for the first time in my life, tonight, I just — just ran out of gas.” He shook his head. “I’m getting old,” he repeated. “Too damn old for all this crap.”

“You’re not getting old,” I said. “You’re getting fat. Too damn fat. It’s no wonder you get tired, carrying all that extra weight around.”

“Ah — now comes the lecture. For the four hours’ sleep, it turns out I got to hear a lecture.” He spoke with a Yiddish patois, burlesquing the ancient resignation of the race.

“Look at the medical statistics. Look at the relationship between overweight and heart disease. Think of Clara, for God’s sake.”

He shrugged. “If I didn’t eat so much, I wouldn’t be so amiable. And, next to Clara and my kids, you’re the one who’d suffer most, if I turned into a grouch.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re so amiable. Does Clara know?”

“She knows.” He stretched, yawned, sat up straighter in the chair. “What’s happening? What’d Dwyer say?”

“He said he’d talk to the Commissioner.”

“That’s all? He didn’t think we should change Castro’s route, for instance? Or at least delay him at the airport for a half hour?”

“I don’t think,” I answered slowly, “that Dwyer believes anyone who’s in the social register could commit murder.”

Ruefully, Friedman guffawed. “You’re right,” he answered. “Sure as hell, you’re right. Also, as always, Dwyer is covering his ass. I knew he’d do it.”

“How do you mean?”

“He doesn’t want to get directly involved in the anti-assassination planning. That way, if something goes wrong, he’s got a patsy.”

“You.”

He smiled — then shrugged. “Me. Us. Take your choice.”

“You.”

Again, he yawned. “So what else has happened?”

“There’s nothing from the FBI. And, so far, I haven’t got a license number for Leo’s Lincoln. It’s newly registered, and apparently it’s not in the computer yet. There won’t be anyone in Sacramento until nine o’clock, to run a manual check for us.”

“Wonderful.”

“I’ve got four teams in the field — one at Leo’s house, one at his office, one at his girlfriend’s and one at the Cappellani town house. Canelli’s coordinating all four teams. He’s at Leo’s office.”

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

“Yes. But Leo might not know it.”

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

“Maybe we should—”

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

“Canelli. Please. No guessing games.”

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

“Well, what’s happened?”

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

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

“Marsten.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell him to interrogate Rosa,” Friedman whispered.

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

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

“Any results?” I felt asked flatly.

“I’ll check that, too. Out.”

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

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

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

I snorted.

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

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

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

“What’s happened?” I asked Canelli.,

“Nothing, Lieutenant.”

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

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

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

“No, sir.”

“Do it.”

“Right”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’d you go?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leo ignored him.

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

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

“The FBI? Is that what you said?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s ‘Twospot,’ Leo?” I asked.

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

Startled, Leo looked quickly at Friedman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

What had changed? What mistake had we made?

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

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

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

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

22

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

“Maybe I should take him down to the Hall.”

Vehemently, Friedman shook his head. “We don’t have the time, Frank. We—”

“Shhh.” I held up my hand, moving a quick step toward Leo’s door. From inside the office I heard the rapid clicking of a telephone dial. “He’s trying to call someone.” I opened the door and entered the office. Holding the telephone to his ear, Leo stood behind his desk. When he saw me, his dark eyes blazed.

“This is a private call, Lieutenant,” he snapped. Then, to cover the flare of temper: “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Sorry,” I answered. “I’m afraid you aren’t going to be making any private calls for a while.”

As I approached the desk I heard the phone click and an indistinct voice answer. Instantly, I lunged for the phone, to hear the voice on the other end. But Leo was too quick for me, breaking the connection. As we momentarily confronted each other, fists clenched, breathing hard, I once more saw the zealot’s gleam flicker deep in his eyes.

“Who were you talking to?”

He cradled the phone and sat down behind the desk. Now his eyes were veiled. For a long moment he simply stared at me. His expression was quizzical, almost genial. It was as if we were playing some delightful game, and he’d just scored a difficult point.

But why, then, had he tried so desperately to phone someone?

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I was talking to a lady. The same lady I was with last night. And the lady’s not my wife. So—” He raised both hands from the desk, palms up.

“You’re lying. You were trying to talk to your goddamn triggerman — trying to give him instructions.”

Still the easy, sardonic smile mocked me as he said, “Have it your way, Lieutenant.”

“We know you’re going to make a try for Castro, Cappellani. You might’ve thought you covered your trail. But you didn’t. You’re nothing but a goddamn amateur.”

Staring at me thoughtfully, he slightly inclined his head. It was a condescending nod, as if to indicate that he admired my spirit, but not my technique. With the clock running, he would pursue our delightful little game.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said reflectively, “that you’re really trying to run a bluff on me. I’ve been thinking that if you really had evidence linking me with Booker’s murder, or the attempts on Alex’s life, or — as it turns out now — a plan to kill Castro, I’d be on my way to jail. You may have suspicions, but that’s all. You don’t have anything else. Isn’t that right? Isn’t the fact that we’re sitting here proof that, really, no one’s incriminated me?”

Trying to shake him with a steady stare, I didn’t reply. I wished Friedman would return. A taut silence lengthened. Leo’s eyes held firm — as firm as mine. It had happened to me before. A true believer or a madman can’t be stared down. Finally I pointed to the phone.

“Tell me who you were talking to, if you’ve got nothing to hide. Give me the lady’s name.”

“Try to appreciate my problem,” he said reasonably. “The lady isn’t my wife, and she isn’t my mistress, either. She’s just a—” His sly smile shared a man-of-the-world joke with me. “She’s just a casual friend, I’m afraid.”

“Give me her name.”

“I thought you were investigating an assassination plot, not the state of my love life.”

I moved my head toward the door. “There isn’t going to be any assassination, Leo. Lieutenant Friedman’s taking care of it, right now. Castro’s schedule is being changed.”

The remark seemed to amuse him. “Really? In less than two hours, you’re going to change his schedule?”

Now it was my turn to smile. The next point was mine: “How’d you know when his plane was landing?”

“It was—” He hesitated, but only for an instant. Then: “It was in the paper.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. Try again.”

“It was—”

The office door opened. Secretly, I swore. Friedman had returned. At the wrong moment. He spoke to me, saying “It’s all set. No problem.”

But I knew Friedman too well — knew he was bluffing. He couldn’t order Castro’s schedule changed. He could only request, and wait for his superiors to make the decision. And high-level decisions take time.

I watched him stride directly to Leo. Gripping the edge of the rosewood desk with both hands spread wide, Firedman leaned toward Leo. It was a comradely gesture, implying that they were about to share a secret.

“Now,” Friedman said amiably, “we can talk. The reason I had to leave in such a hurry, I’m in charge of municipal security for Castro’s visit. And I had to make, ah, certain arrangements. They’ve been made. So now we can talk, no sweat.” Friedman remained braced against the desk for a moment, staring down at Leo Cappellani. Except for a small, tolerant smile, the other man chose not to respond.

Covertly, I glanced at my watch. The time was nine-twenty. I watched Friedman push himself away from the desk and sink down in an armchair. He sat for a moment in silence, staring at Leo — who readily returned the stare, unintimidated. Finally, in a light, bantering voice, Friedman began to speak.

“The arrangements I’ve made have, ah, de-fanged your plot, Leo, if you’ll excuse the metaphor. There’s no way you can kill Castro. So if I were you, Leo, I think I’d spill the beans. You’re new at lawbreaking, I gather, so maybe I should tell you how the game is played. It’s actually a combination of musical chairs and blindman’s buff. Or maybe it’s steal the bacon. Anyhow, the idea is to save your skin. You do that by copping. That’s what it’s called on the street. Your expensive attorney’ll call it plea bargaining. But the principle’s the same.” Friedman paused for emphasis, then said, “Basically, the one who gets caught, cops. He blows the whistle on his associates, in other words. Whereupon the D. A. recommends that the judge go easy on you — which he does. Now—” Friedman leaned forward, driving home the point: “Now, that’s what Rosten’s done, see. He’s copped — and he’s left you holding the bag, or left you without the bacon, or without a musical chair, or whatever. In other words, you’re stuck. So the best thing you can do is stick the next guy down the line. Or, preferably, up the line. See how it works?”

While Friedman talked, Leo had been studying him. The suspect’s eyes revealed nothing, but occasionally his mouth twitched, as if he were amused. He sat with his chin supported on a judicious steeple of fingers. I noticed that he wore a star sapphire on his left little finger.

Finally he dismantled the finger steeple, to point at me with a languid forefinger.

“I’ve just told Lieutenant Hastings that I think he’s trying to bluff me. And the same applies to you, Lieutenant Friedman. As they say on the street, you’re trying to jive me. Aren’t you?” Gently, Leo smiled.

Projecting an air of utter indifference, Friedman shrugged. “Suit yourself, Leo. I’m giving you a chance to salvage some of your expensive skin. Whether you do it or not, that’s up to you. But I can tell you this: you aren’t going to enjoy prison. A lot of inmates don’t change their underwear often enough, and some of them have terrible table manners.”

“I think I’ll take my chances, Lieutenant.”

“Hmmm.” As Friedman appeared to think it over, he turned to me, slightly shrugging. He seemed to be saying that he’d done his best for Leo, and now it was time for us to get back to work. As he was acting it out, Leo spoke.

“You see,” Leo said, “I have an advantage over you. I know Paul Rosten. And I know that he wouldn’t cop, as you call it.”

Again projecting total indifference, Friedman silently spread his hands.

“As for protecting myself,” Leo said, “I’ve been giving that some thought while you were talking, Lieutenant Friedman. And I’ve got a scenario for you. Would you like to hear it?” His genial glance included us both in the question.

“Let’s hear it,” I said.

“All right.” He paused a moment, as if to arrange his thoughts so as to make the most interesting story for us. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I’m in as much trouble as you suggest — that I’m deeply implicated in a plot to kill Castro. And let’s suppose, also for the sake of argument, that he’s going to be shot between eleven o’clock and noon. Now, if both those premises were correct, then your best move, it seems to me, would be to take me to jail. However, as I’ve already mentioned to Lieutenant Hastings, you apparently don’t have enough evidence to arrest me, despite the fact that it would seem to be your logical move.” He paused to look at us each in turn, then continued: “So what’s my best move? Obviously, if I wanted to establish my innocence, my best move would be to do just what I’m doing now—” His gesture included the three of us, and the game we were playing. “What better alibi could I have than—”

“Let’s go back to your ‘eleven o’clock and noon’ statement,” I cut in. “I still want to know how you learned what time Castro’s plane is scheduled to land.”

He smiled. “I’m glad you mentioned that, Lieutenant. Because, when I think about it, I realize that you’re right. I didn’t read it in the newspapers. Perhaps someone told me about it. Except that I can’t remember who, right now. Maybe it’ll come to me.”

As he spoke, I glanced at my watch. In an hour and ten minutes, Castro’s plane would land. I looked at Friedman, wondering what strange game of brinksmanship he was playing. Because if he intended to meet Castro’s plane, he’d have to leave within a half hour.

I watched Friedman rise to his feet. His eyes were cold, his voice harsh: “If you leave this office before one P.M.,” he said, “you’ll be arrested, and taken downtown and booked — and that, Leo, is a solemn promise, from me to you. The same applies if you try to leave town without notifying the police.”

Friedman turned on his heel and walked out of the office, gesturing for me to follow him. I had no choice but to obey.

23

I followed Friedman through the receptionist’s office and into the hallway outside, where Friedman walked quickly around the nearest corner, at the same time pulling his miniature walkie-talkie from inside his coat.

“What the hell’re you doing?” I demanded. “Christ, he probably phoned an accomplice, the first time we left him. You’re letting him—”

“Shhh.” He spoke urgently into the walkie-talkie. “Are you receiving it all right, Canelli?”

“Yessir. Everything came in fine. And a tape recorder finally got here, just this minute. So I can talk to you, no sweat.”

“Are you sure the recorder works? Did you check it?”

“Yessir, I checked. It works fine.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“I think he left the office. Anyhow, I think I heard a door open, after you left. But I don’t think it closed. So… oh, oh. Now it closed. I’m getting footsteps, coming closer. I guess the bug’s a little ways from the door, eh?”

“It’s under the front edge of the desk. Maybe twenty feet from the door.”

“Well, it sure works good, Lieutenant. Those new bugs, they’re really something, you know? Honest to God, I heard every little sound you guys made. It’s too bad I didn’t have the recorder, then.”

“Don’t worry about it, Canelli.” As he spoke, Friedman gestured for me to check Leo’s door. I stepped to the corner of the hallway, and peeped around.

“Stay there,” Friedman said to me. “Keep looking.” And to Canelli he said, “What’s he doing now?”

“He seems to be walking around his office, I’d say.”

“He hasn’t touched the phone? Hasn’t dialed?”

“Not that I heard, Lieutenant. Of course, the recorder probably got more than I got, especially since we’re talking. Want me to play it back? I can—”

“No,” Friedman barked. “Don’t fool with the goddamn recorder.”

“Well, jeeze, Lieutenant—” Canelli’s voice trailed off into reproachful silence. His feelings were hurt.

Friedman sighed. “Sorry, Canelli. I—”

“Hey. He’s doing it now. Dialing.”

“All right—” Relieved, Friedman exhaled. “Just make sure the recorder’s getting the clicks. That’s the whole purpose of this.”

“Yessir.”

It seemed as if interminable minutes passed, but I knew less than thirty seconds had elapsed before Canelli’s voice crackled:

“I got it, Lieutenant. But it isn’t much. All he said was, ‘Are you ready?’ Then, after a second or so, he said, ‘I’m out of it now. It’s all up to you.’ Something like that. Then he hung up.”

We were already breaking for the elevator as Friedman spoke sharply to Canelli: “Play back the tape and get the clicks. Call the phone company and ask for Supervisor Diane Sobel. Tell her the number’s for me. Tell her we need the location in seconds, not minutes. Got it?”

As I pushed the elevator’s “down” button, I heard Canelli say, “Yessir. Got it.”

“What the hell’s keeping Canelli?” Friedman scanned the parking lot, then glanced at his watch. “Christ, it’s five minutes after ten.” He looked anxiously in the direction Canelli had gone searching for a phone.

“You want to go look for him?” I asked. “I’ll stay here until we get some support.”

“If the phone company’s diddling him for a warrant—” Frustrated, Friedman tapped the roof of his cruisier with a clenched fist.

“Listen,” I said, “you should be on your way to the airport, right now.”

“I’m not so sure,” he answered. “It might be better if I—”

Canelli came trotting around the corner of the massive brick building. Cheerfully smiling, he was waving his notebook at us.

“I got it,” he called. “Sorry it took so long.” He drew up in front of us, panting heavily and shaking his head. “Jeeze, I must be out of shape, or something.” As he gulped for breath, he handed his notebook to Friedman. “That’s it, Lieutenant. 501 McAllister. It’s a pay phone on the first floor. In the lobby.”

Friedman swore. “501 McAllister. That’s on the corner of Polk Street.” As he spoke, two black and white cars pulled into the parking lot, stopping bumper-to-bumper beside us. I nodded to the uniformed officers, gesturing for them to stay in their cars. Friedman was still earnestly swearing. He was, I knew, trying to make up his mind, struggling with a no-win decision. It was the only time he ever seriously swore. Finally he turned abruptly to me.

“I’d better go to the airport. That’s my best shot. If I can do anything, it’ll have to be on the scene — with the goddamn motorcade. I’ll give a direct order to our men, and screw the goddamn bureaucrats, if they haven’t made up their minds.” He opened the door of his car.

“All you’ve got to do is route Castro away from that building,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

He was already in the car, starting the engine.

“The problem,” he said, “Is that I think 501 McAllister is across the Civic Center Plaza from the City Hall steps, in easy rifle range. That’s the problem. I can change the motorcade route, probably. I’ll catch some flack, but I can do it. But I don’t know whether I can do anything about changing what happens on the steps.” As he spoke, he thrust his hand into a pocket. “Here — take these.” He handed me a dozen small lapel badges. “That’s your security identification. They work for the FBI and the State Department security team.” He put his cruiser in gear. “You get down there, Frank. Collar the triggerman, and tell me when you’ve got him. I’ll be on channel twelve.”

Tires squealing, he pulled away.

“Park over there,” I ordered. “Around the corner, on Polk.” As I spoke, I checked the time: ten twenty-five.

Canelli started his turn, muttered when a woman in a bright orange Ford repeatedly blew her horn, and finally pulled to a stop in a loading zone. I reached for the microphone and got Halliday, in Communications.

“This is Inspectors Eleven,” I said. “We’re positioned at Polk and Golden Gate, on the northwest corner. Do you have our backup units under way?”

“That’s affirmative, sir. Three units. Six inspectors.”

“Give them our position. And tell them to hurry. Not code three. But hurry.”

“Yessir.”

I hung up the microphone and swung open the car door. “I’m going to the phone booth. You wait here until you’ve got all six men. Then come to the booth. If I’m not there, wait in the lobby. Bring walkie-talkies, but no shotguns. Clear?”

“Yessir, that’s clear.”

501 McAllister was an office building that had probably been built in the late twenties or early thirties. Standing on the sidewalk, I counted windows. The building was twelve stories tall, and faced the Civic Center Plaza. Friedman had been right: the front of the building commanded a clear view of the City Hall steps. The range would be about three hundred yards, optimum for a scope-sighted rifle. If the president were the visitor, every office facing the Plaza would have been evacuated, then secured. For Castro’s visit, security was a little less stringent.

A team of four patrolmen were erecting crowd-control barriers: heavily weighted steel stanchions with rope threaded through their eyebolts at waist height. Now, the rope was slack, lying on the pavement. As the crowd gathered, the ropes would be pulled taut. Across the street, in the Plaza, a group of demonstrators was gathered in a loose circle around two men who were hammering wooden handles on anti-Castro placards.

I nodded to one of the patrolmen, entered the building, quickly crossed the small lobby and went directly to three phone booths located next to the two elevators. Canelli’s information was correct. Leo had called the phone in the middle booth. Using my handkerchief, I closed the booth’s door. At the same moment one of the elevators opened, and two patrolmen stepped out. Both men were strangers to me. I identified myself, explained the situation and ordered one of the men to guard the booth against destruction of latent prints.

“What’s your name?” I asked the second man.

“Diebenkorn, sir.” He said it sheepishly, as if the sound of his name embarrassed him.

“Well, Diebenkorn, you’re my communications man.” I ordered him to park his unit directly in front of the building. As I was hastily outlining Friedman’s situation and coordinating communications channels, I saw Canelli entering the lobby, followed by six inspectors. All seven men were big and burly, momentarily evoking the incongruous image of seven football linemen dressed in business suits, shouldering their way through the doors toward bruising action on an imaginary line of scrimmage.

“Come over here—” I gestured for them to follow me into the farthest corner of the lobby, where they assembled around me in a loose circle. It was another football-style image: the huddle, everyone waiting for signals. As I handed out the lapel buttons Friedman had given me, I gave the orders.

“I don’t know how much Canelli told you,” I said, “but here’s the situation. For those of you who don’t know, Castro is landing at the airport in about twenty minutes, maybe less. He’s scheduled to drive in a motorcade through the Golden Gateway and the financial district to here” — I gestured toward the lobby doors and the plaza beyond — “the City Hall steps, where the mayor’ll welcome him. Now, Lieutenant Friedman is in charge of municipal security, and he and I have good reason to think that, somewhere in this building, there’s someone who’s going to try and kill Castro, probably when the mayor’s welcoming him. So—”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning sharply, I faced a tall, stooped, sad-faced man with a long nose, a prim little mouth and ice-cold eyes. He was dressed like a banker — and held a small badge in the palm of his hand.

“I’m Parsons,” he said. “FBI. What can I do for you?”

I tried to explain the situation while my men shifted restlessly around me. At my elbow, Canelli was muttering something unintelligible. As I talked, Parsons frowned disapprovingly.

“I haven’t got anything on this,” he said. “I just talked to Mr. Brautigan. Just a few minutes ago. And he had no problems to report.”

“Well, Lieutenant Friedman and I have been working with Brautigan all morning,” I said. “And half the night, too. And believe me, there’s a problem. Have you got this building secure?”

Holding his chin disdainfully high, Parsons nodded. “We were here at eight, when the doors opened.”

“How many men do you have?”

“Three,” he answered. “Including myself. We checked packages — anything big enough to hold a rifle, or rifle parts. All deliveries to the building have been impounded.”

“What about the offices facing City Hall? Are they evacuated?”

Parsons sighed. “We’ve checked them out. But they aren’t evacuated. Those weren’t my orders.”

“Do you mind if I have them evacuated?”

Nostrils pinched, mouth pursed, he said, “This building is my responsibility, Lieutenant. The FBI’s responsibility. I’ll have to check with my office before I can let you evacuate those offices. And, frankly, unless Mr. Brautigan has gotten some new information in the last minute or two, I doubt if he’ll issue the orders. I’d be glad to try. But—”

“Christ, I’m giving you new information right now. Right this minute.” I looked at my watch. “And, right about now, Castro is landing at the airport. He could be here in a half hour, for God’s sake.”

He stepped back, glancing speculatively toward a phone booth. I moved toward him. Looking him hard in the eye, I dropped my voice as I said, “Listen, Parsons. While you’re phoning Brautigan, I’m going to check out the offices for anything suspicious. I won’t evacuate them. I’ll just check them. I’m going to assign two men to each floor, beginning at the twelfth floor.” Still holding his eye I said, “We’ve gone to a lot of trouble over this, Parsons. Including myself, I’ve got ten men here, solely on my authority. And I, personally, have lost a night’s sleep. So I’m sure as hell not going to walk away from it. And you can tell Brautigan that. For me.”

Still with his chin high, neck stiff, he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Are there any empty offices?” I asked. “Or any locked up?”

“Five or six empty, I’d say, and a few locked up. All of which, incidentally, we checked out. In fact—” He permitted himself a small grimace that could have been a smile. “In fact, we checked out everything but the ladies’ room.” He reached in a vast pocket and produced a set of four keys, which he extended to me with thumb and forefinger fastidiously pinched. “There are the master keys. One key is for the office doors. One’s for the cleaning closet on each floor. The other two are bathroom keys.”

As I turned to my men, I felt another tap on my shoulder.

“Don’t forget to return those keys to me. They’re my responsibility, you know.”

I assigned my six men to the three top floors, ordering each team of two to check every third floor. Canelli and I, meanwhile, would investigate the locked offices, beginning at the top floor. We would coordinate our communications through Diebenkorn, outside. While the six men dispersed, I waited in the lobby until Parsons called Brautigan, at FBI headquarters. During the conversation I saw Parsons’s face become increasingly glum. Finally, hanging up, he turned to me and curtly announced that he’d been instructed to “cooperate” with me. Trying to conceal the satisfaction I felt, I ordered him and his men to secure the lobby. Canelli, meanwhile, was holding an elevator for me. Going up to the twelfth floor, the elevator ride seemed interminable.

“This is a pretty old elevator,” Canelli said. “Fifteen years, I bet. At least.”

When we finally stepped out into the twelfth-floor corridor, a team of inspectors was already at work, briefly questioning each person they found in every occupied office. Canelli and I momentarily hesitated, getting our bearings.

“How about the cleaning closet?” Canelli asked, gesturing to a pair of small blind doors set next to a door marked “Stairs.” “Should we check that?”

“Why not?” I stepped to the first of the small twin doors and tried each of my four keys, without success.

“I, ah, don’t think that’s the cleaning closet, Lieutenant. I think that’s, ah, probably for the electrical panel. There’s one for every floor. For the lights, and the elevator relays, and like that.” As he always did whenever he corrected me, Canelli spoke softly, apologetically. Beneath his scruffy car coat, he was probably sweating.

As I was opening the matching door on a jumble of mops and pushbrooms, Canelli walked quickly down the hallway, rattling office doors. The time was ten minutes after eleven. As we searched the empty offices I repeatedly called Diebenkorn, checking on Castro’s progress. The motorcade was now approximately two miles north of the airport, Diebenkorn reported, proceeding toward the city.

We’d worked our way down to the seventh floor when my walkie-talkie crackled to life. I could hear Friedman’s voice, but the transmission was hopelessly garbled. A moment later Diebenkorn cut in.

“Are you getting that, sir?”

“No,” I answered shortly, “I’m not.”

“It’s Lieutenant Friedman. He’s trying to contact you directly. There must be interference.”

“Get the message, then, Diebenkorn,” I said sharply. “Get it and relay it to me.”

“Yessir.”

I was fitting key into a door marked “Vista Vacations” when Diebenkorn came back on the air. “Well, what’s he say?” I asked irritably. I’d decided Diebenkorn was an officer who couldn’t accept responsibility.

“He says that he’s routing Castro around this building. But he can’t do anything about the ceremony on the steps of City Hall, he says. Because of the media. They’re going to televise the speeches, he says. So Castro won’t buy a change of schedule. Neither will the mayor. Or the FBI, either, because they don’t have a backup plan, I guess.”

Swearing under my breath, I answered, “All right. Give him a roger. Tell him that we haven’t found anything — that the building is about half searched.”

“Yessir.”

I slipped my walkie-talkie in my pocket and pushed open the “Vista Vacations” door. It was a small office, furnished with an oversized metal desk, a persimmon-colored plastic-covered couch and a matching armchair. Framed travel posters decorated the walls. A woven straw rug covered the floor, wall to wall.

As we’d done before, Canelli checked the office itself while I opened the clothes closet and the door to a tiny alcove containing a mirror and washbasin.

I’d just opened the lavatory door when I heard a sharp intake of breath. Whirling, I saw Canelli in a crouch, gun drawn, facing the metal desk.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey. Come out of there. Slow and easy.”

As I drew my own gun I saw a head of close-cut auburn hair rising form behind the desk. A face followed — a woman’s face.

Shelly Jackson.

24

“Drop it,” Canelli grated. “Drop the goddamn gun.”

As she slowly straightened I heard a heavy metallic thud as a pistol struck the carpeted floor behind the desk. Now she stood at her full height. Ignoring Canelli, she’d turned to face me. She wore a two-piece tweed dress. Her shoes were alligator, matching her purse. The silk scarf knotted at her throat was green, highlighting her eyes. She could have been dressed for lunch at the Fairmont. A small, ironic smile teased the corners of her provocatively shaped mouth. Her gray-green eyes mocked me with cool, controlled contempt.

“Drop that, too,” Canelli barked, stepping toward her. “Empty your hands. Put them on top of your head. Now.”

Instead, she moved a single step toward the big window behind the desk. She raised her right hand, fingers spread — showing us an empty palm. She rotated the hand, for both of us to see. She was pantomiming a magician’s now-you-see-it-turn.

Then she raised her closed hand to waist height. She took another slow, measured step toward the window. In the closed left hand she held something small and square, the shape and size of a cigarette package.

“If he shoots,” she said to me, “he’ll blow up a lot of innocent people.” She spoke in a cold, flat voice. Her eyes had never left mine. Now she rotated her left hand, allowing me to see what she held. It was an ordinary electronic garage door opener. When she was sure I’d seen it, she half turned away, aiming the opener at the window.

“There are bombs,” she said softly. “There are two bombs. And if you don’t do exactly as you’re told, I’ll explode them. Right now. With this.” She lifted the small plastic garage door opener.

Cautiously moving between Shelly and the desk, with his revolver trained on the girl, Canelli stooped down behind the desk, reappearing with a blued-steel automatic in his hand. At a nod from me, Canelli retreated, holstered his gun and disarmed the automatic. The gun was a 9mm Browning, the best of its type. There’d been a cartridge in the chamber. The small knurled hammer had been cocked. She’d been ready to kill us.

“You may as well put your gun away, too, Lieutenant. You aren’t going to shoot me.” Her eyes moved away from mine as she stared out the window. As she leaned on the window frame, her face was profiled against the glass. Dressed in her expensive brown tweed dress, with the silk scarf at ther throat, her pose was aloof, detached. She lowered the electronic opener until it angled down toward McAllister Street, then rotated it until it lined up on the City Hall steps.

Her purpose was plain. She’d hidden explosive devices somewhere on Castro’s route, either on the street or at the City Hall steps. When Castro appeared, she’d explode the bombs. It was a common terrorist tactic.

There was no rifleman. There’d never been a rifleman.

I realized that I still stood in a muscle-locked, self-defensive crouch. I straightened and holstered my revolver. With my eyes, I gestured for Canelli to step back, giving her room. In the silence, I could hear the sounds of a crowd in the streets below. Shrill voices were shouting in unison: “Castro nunca, Castro nunca.”

“It won’t work, Shelly,” I said. “We know the whole plan. We got it from Leo, an hour ago. We’ve had Castro’s car diverted. He taking another route. There won’t be a speech, either,” I lied.

Still with her face averted, staring down into the street, she smiled. It was a detached smile, eerily serene. Seen in perfect profile, the smile softened her face. She was a beautiful woman.

“Leo didn’t talk,” she said quietly. “Neither did Rosten.”

I looked at my watch. The time was eleven-forty. In twenty minutes, bypassing the building, Castro would have arrived at the City Hall steps.

During those twenty minutes words were my only weapon.

“Why do you think we’re here, if Leo didn’t talk?”

“You probably tricked him,” she answered. She spoke in a calm, reflective voice. “He might have let something slip, but he didn’t talk. Leo’s not really very smart. But he’s dedicated.”

“The perfect tool. Is that it?”

The small, curiously pensive smile returned. She nodded. “That’s it.” There was a short silence. Then, still looking down into the street, she said, “Has the motorcade really been diverted?”

Suddenly I knew why she asked — and suddenly realized that I’d made a terrible mistake, telling her that the route was changed. The electronic opener probably couldn’t operate much beyond a hundred feet. Its signal probably couldn’t carry across the Plaza, to the City Hall steps. The bombs, then, were close by, probably in the street below. So when Castro bypassed the building and reached the City Hall steps, three hundred yards away, it would all be over. She’d be defeated, vulnerable. The advantage would be mine.

But I shouldn’t have forewarned her — shouldn’t have surrendered the vital element of surprise.

“Has it been diverted?” she asked sharply.

“Yes.” Letting my eyes fall, I tried to put a note of duplicity in my voice — tried to make it sound like a desperate lie.

Her face was still in profile. I saw her mouth tighten, and her eyes slightly narrow. Now she turned to face me fully, searching my face for the truth.

“How many policemen are in the building?” she asked quietly. “Besides the FBI men?”

“Just us. Canelli and I.”

The ice-green eyes searched mine for a final moment. She was making her decision. She checked her watch, then again turned to look out the window. All the while, her thumb remained on the opener’s square plastic button.

“We’ll give it ten minutes,” she said finally. “I’m waiting for a call.”

“Who’s going to call you?”

She didn’t reply. But now I could see the first signs of tension working at her face. Her jaw was tightly clenched. Beneath the smooth, creamy skin of her neck, muscles were drawing taut.

“Are you worried about the getaway?” I asked. “Is that what the call’s about?”

She didn’t answer.

“If it’s Leo you’re waiting for,” I pressed, “forget it. He’s in custody. He told you so, on the phone — told you he was out of it.” I let a beat pass before I said, “Didn’t he?”

Still she didn’t answer. Profiled against the window, her face was impassive.

But now a muscle was jumping at the corner of her mouth. Her neck was corded.

I moved a slow, cautious step toward her. I didn’t have a plan. Certainly I couldn’t wrestle the opener away from her before she pushed the button. But I wanted to be closer to her as I began probing for weakness:

“How’d you get into this, Shelly? I can figure Leo. He’s a true believer. He’s the nut — the one with the wild eyes. There’s always one like him in an assassination. But you aren’t a true believer. And you’re certainly not a nut.”

This time, her smile was genuine: a small, smug little smirk of pleasure. “No, I’m not a nut, Lieutenant. I’m a business person. I work for people who’ll pay me a lot of money for this job.”

“Which people? Right-wingers?”

The question amused her. “Right-wingers are amateurs,” she answered contemptuously. “And it’s the amateurs that cost you in this business. I tried to tell them — tried to warn them about Leo. But they wouldn’t listen. Not until he had Howard kill Booker. And then it was too late.”

“Who’re they? Who’s paying you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Is it organized crime? Is that it?”

Again she refused to answer. But the small smile widened almost imperceptibly.

“Organized crime,” I said. “The Mafia. They hired you for the job. You found Leo, who’ll work for free. Then you turned up Mal Howard. He’s always been for sale.”

Still she didn’t respond. But the truth was plain in her face. Years ago, the Mafia had vowed to kill Castro. And the Mafia never forgot. Castro had deprived them of their greatest prize: Cuba, crime capital of the world. For that, they’d promised, Castro would die.

Here. In San Francisco. At the hands of a slim girl in a stylish tweed suit.

Trying to get her talking, to find a wedge, I said, “I should’ve connected you with Mal Howard. You were both in Florida at the same time. Christ, it should’ve been obvious. He has a background in explosive devices, too. It all fits.”

She nodded indifferently. My theorizing didn’t interest her.

“You’re an enforcer,” I said. “A goddamn lady enforcer.”

She glanced at me. Once more, the smile teased the provocative corners of her mouth. Finally she spoke.

“You’re lucky there were two of you,” she said. “I would have shot one. But I couldn’t risk trying for both of you.”

She’d started to talk. I must keep her talking.

“Have you shot many people, Shelly?”

“Not many.” As she spoke, she glanced sharply at ther watch. The time was ten minutes to twelve. She looked at the phone, still silent. The ten minutes she’d allowed herself were gone.

Suddenly she wheeled on Canelli. “Get back against the wall,” she ordered. Her voice was harsh, her manner decisive. She’d made her decision. Instinctively, I knew she’d decide to cut her losses.

“Move, you fat slob.” She gestured with the opener. “Now.”

As he obeyed, Canelli’s soft brown eyes reproached her. Canelli was sensitive about his weight.

She turned to me. “Come here,” she ordered. She pointed to a spot on the floor less than a yard from where she stood. “Stand there. I want to show you something.”

Moving slowly and deliberately, careful not to startle her, I obeyed. She pointed down at the intersection of Polk and McAllister. The intersection was packed with people. During the past fifteen minutes the crowd-control officers had raised their rope barricades. Two mounted officers rode on smartly prancing horses, patrolling the barricades.

“You were right about Mal Howard,” she said. “You were exactly right.”

Staring straight into her eyes, I only nodded.

“Howard made a bomb,” she said. “Two bombs.”

Still I didn’t respond.

“Look down there,” she ordered, pointing with her free right hand. “Do you see those two trash containers on either side of Polk Street? At the corner.”

Following her gesture, I felt my stomach suddenly contract. Two small boys were sitting on one of the big metal canisters. Across the street, a pretty teenage blond girl stood leaning against a matching canister. She held a sandwich in one hand and a pop-top can of Coke in the other. She was squinting as she stared up Polk Street, trying to catch sight of the motorcade.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “You can’t do that. You’ll never sleep again if you do that.”

Momentarily her eyes blazed. “You son of a bitch,” she whispered. “Shut up. Listen.”

“But they’re children. They—”

“Shut up!” Now her eyes were wild. Her free right hand was suddenly shaking violently. “I’m getting a half-million dollars for this. So listen.”

Holding the opener, her left hand was shaking, too.

She forced herself to speak slowly, choosing her words. “Those canisters,” she said huskily, “both contain explosives. The explosives are inside two four-inch steel pipes. The pipes are closed on one end and open on the other. The pipes are packed with dynamite and shrapnel. They’re like two mortars, pointing toward each other. We put the cans there last night, Leo and I. When Castro’s car gets between the canisters, I press the button. Then I—”

“Shelly— Jesus. It won’t happen. He’s not coming this way. You—”

“If he comes,” she said, speaking now in a low, deadly voice, “it’ll be in the next five minutes. I was going to blow the canisters from here and escape in the mess. Leo was going to pick me up, a block from here. But you changed that, you son of a bitch. So I’m leaving. I’m going to leave this office, and get on the elevator and go down to the street. I’ll blow the canisters from the street. And if you try to stop me any time between now and then, I’ll press the button. I’ll—”

“But Castro’s not—”

“If you come after me, I’ll press this button. Do you understand? So if anyone dies, it’s your fault. Not mine. You’re the one who’ll kill them. It’s your decision.” Suddenly she stepped away from the desk, moving toward the office door.

“Listen, lady—” Canelli stepped cautiously toward her. “I can tell you that—”

“Shut up.” It was a low, half-strangled shriek. “And remember, stay inside, here. Stay in this office. If you don’t they’ll die. All of them, down there — they’ll all die. Because they’re my ticket out of here. Those kids. They’re my insurance.” In front of the door now, green eyes blazing, she looked at me for a last long, terrible moment.

Then, while I watched, she transformed herself before stepping out on stage to play the part of a beautiful young matron, she drew a long, deep breath. She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, lifted her breasts. Magically, her face smoothed. She gave me a last small, smug smile — and stepped out into the hallway. Her shadowed shape lingered a moment on the frosted glass door, then disappeared.

Instantly, I reached for my walkie-talkie-just as Canelli brushed past me, bounding desperately for the desk.

“What—?”

“Get to the door,” Canelli hissed. “Open it a crack. See when she gets on the elevator. Tell me when she’s in it.”

“But—”

“Do it, Lieutenant. I was an electrician. Tell me when she’s in the elevator.” At the desk now, he snatched up potted plant and emptied the plant and dirt on the floor.

“Listen, Canelli. You—”

“Shut up, Lieutenant. Just do it.” Moving soundlessly, he sprang to the door of the lavatory and jerked it open. Now filling the pot with water, he turned to me, pleading: “Please, Lieutenant. Do like I say. I can stop her. Once she’s in the elevator, the opener won’t work. She’ll be surrounded by steel and concrete. The signal won’t carry three feet. Honest.”

Three strides took me to the office door. One cautious millimeter at a time, I cracked the door until I could see her standing in front of the elevators. Above her head, a white plastic arrow lit up. One of the two elevators was coming up. She glanced impatiently at the arrow, then looked quickly back toward me. I held the door motionless, open just a fraction of an inch. I knew she couldn’t see me watching her.

Behind me, I heard water furiously running — then diminishing, finally stopping. Footsteps approached as Canelli came to stand close beside me.

“What’s happening?” he whispered.

“Nothing. She’s waiting for the elevator.” As I spoke, I saw a red arrow flashing, pointing down. Gripping the opener in her left hand, holding the alligator bag with her right hand, she was tensed for escape. I heard the elevator doors come open. She threw a last glance in my direction, then stepped forward — gone.

“She’s in the elevator.”

Beside me, Canelli drew the office door slowly open. The moment the elevator doors thudded shut, he leaped into the hallway. “Come on, Lieutenant. Quick.” Hugging the planter pot filled with water close to his bulging stomach, with his muffler trailing behind, he was running awkwardly for the two small twin doors: one to the cleaning closet, the other to the electrical panel. Holding the planter pot out to me, he ordered, “Put your finger in the drainage hole.”

Like characters in a comedy sketch, each trying to staunch the flow of water from the bottom of the pot with a clumsy finger, we juggled the planter between us. Finally, with his hands free, Canelli drew his revolver. “Watch the goddamn floor indicator,” he said.

Holding the heavy water-filled pot, I stepped back. Over the elevator she’d taken, numbers were flashing as she descended from the sixth floor to the fifth.

Beside me, a shot crashed. Another. And another. Throwing down his revolver, Canelli was struggling with the door to the electrical panel, his fingers jammed between the door and the frame. I saw blood on his fingernails.

Above the elevator, the number “3” flashed — and remained lit The elevator had stopped for passengers.

The door splintered and came open. Frantically, Canelli grabbed for his pistol, aimed at a locked metal panel inside, fired twice. As the panel door came open, the “3” blinked out.

“The water.” Canelli held out his hands.

Number “2” winked on.

I handed Canelli the planter, saw him throw the water on the exposed bank of switches and relays. Instantly, electricity sizzled, sparks showered down on the floor around us.

The number “2” winked out.

But the “1” was out, too.

The elevator was stopped between the first and second floors.

“Whew.” Shaking his head, Canelli stooped to retrieve his revolver. Still shaking his head — exhaling loudly — he holstered his revolver. Beneath the stocking cap, his face was sweat-streaked.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Lieutenant,” he said earnestly. “See, I used to be an electrician, like I said. So I knew that—”

“Wait, Canelli.” I raised my hand — and saw my fingers trembling. “Wait. Be quiet. Listen to me.” My voice, I knew, was hardly more than whisper.

Gulping for breath, mopping his face with the end of his stadium-style scarf, he silently nodded.

“You’ve got to get the second-floor elevator door open,” I said. “You’ve got to make sure she doesn’t get out through the escape door in the ceiling of the elevator. And I’ve got to get the bomb squad out here. I’ll send some men to help you. Clear?”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. That’s clear.”

As I watched him lumbering toward the stairway door, I wondered whether the bomb squad would find the two small boys still sitting on the trash canister.