“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?”