“No. When you’ve got the search for Howard organized, I want you to see how many people involved with the Cappellanis are in San Francisco. You got the names from Bill, last night. Right?”
“Yessir. Right. I was just typing up my report on his statement, as a matter of fact.”
“Okay. When you get the names, set up an interrogation schedule for you and me. Beginning in, say, an hour. Clear?”
“Yessir, that’s— Oh. Say. I forgot.”
I sighed. “Forgot what?”
“Mrs. Rosa Cappellani and a guy named Paul Rosten just came in. He’s the foreman up at the Cappellani Winery, according to that private detective. I was just going to call you, when you called me. You want to see them?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Bring them in.”
Canelli tapped on my door, opened it and ushered Rosa Cappellani and Paul Rosten into my office. After making his awkward introductions, Canelli moved his blue-stubbled chin toward the interior of my office, silently asking whether he should stay. Surreptitiously, I shook my head. I wanted Mal Howard found.
Friedman remained long enough to covertly form his own impression of the woman and man, then excused himself, mumbling something about “Fidel” under his breath.
Wearing a mink coat over a dark woolen dress, with her hair coiled regally on her head, Rosa Cappellani was plainly a woman accustomed to center stage. She moved with calm, concise assurance. Still in her fifties, slim and full-breasted, she held her head high and proud. Her face was aristocratically lean, with a prominent nose, high cheekbones and a decisive mouth. On appearance, she was a woman who set her own style. Her simply cut dress must have been made especially for her. She wore no visible makeup; her hair was untinted, strikingly gray-streaked. The effect was elegant indifference to fashion — and to the pandering to opinion. Her gray eyes moved quickly and shrewdly, compelling attention.
“Have you found out who killed Jason?” she asked abruptly.
“It’s too early to say for sure, Mrs. Cappellani. But I can tell you that we’ve got a prime suspect.”
“Who?”
“A man named Malcolm Howard.” As I said it, I glanced quickly at both Rosa and Rosten, looking for a reaction. I saw them exchange a puzzled look, nothing more.
“You don’t know him,” I said. “Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Rosa answered impatiently. “Who is he? Is he the one who tried to kill Alex, Thursday night?”
I countered with a question: “We have reason to believe that the murderer had the address of your own house on his person when he struggled with Booker. A slip of paper was found with the address of your house and the word ‘Twospot’ typed on it. Does ‘Twospot’ mean anything to either of you?”
Again, the two exchanged a glance — with the same negative result.
“Who is this Malcolm Howard?” the woman asked.
“He’s a professional criminal, Mrs. Cappellani — a man with a long arrest record that includes attempted murder.” Letting her think about it, I watched her closely. Her eyes wandered thoughtfully past mine as she asked, “Do you think Howard came to rob the house, and killed Jason in the process? Is that what you suspect?”
I shook my head. “No, Mrs. Cappellani, that’s not what I think. Howard isn’t a petty hoodlum. He isn’t a burglar, either.”
“Then why was he there? Why did he kill Jason?”
“He was probably there,” I answered, “because someone hired him to be there. If he killed Jason Booker, he probably did it for money. Plenty of money.”
“Why do you say ‘plenty of money’?” The question came quickly, shrewdly.
“Because,” I answered, “Howard apparently has some money already. So he wouldn’t come cheap.”
“I don’t understand this,” she said. “I don’t understand any of it.” She spoke angrily. Her eyes snapped impatiently; her head moved with restless exasperation. Faced with frustration or uncertainty, it was her nature to strike back.
Still watching her closely, I said, “I think that the attempt on Alex’s life and the murder of Jason Booker might be connected.”
“Connected?”
I nodded.
“Why? How?”
“I have no idea. However, on two successive nights, they were both attacked. They could have been attacked by the same person. Or else—” I let it go unfinished.
“Or else what?” she asked. As she spoke, her eyes narrowed.
I decided not to answer. I wanted her to think about the other possibility: that, directly or indirectly, Alex was responsible for the attack on Booker.
Rosa Cappellani drew a slow, measured breath. “I’m here for two reasons, Lieutenant,” she said, speaking with deliberate emphasis. “I’m here because Jason and I were friends. Good friends.” As she said it, I saw Paul Rosten stiffen almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t liked Booker.
“But more important,” Rosa continued, “I’m here because of Alex. Where is he? What’s happened to him?”
As concisely as I could, I told her everything I knew about Alex Cappellani’s movements, finishing with the stark, brutal statement that Booker, while probably intending to meet Alex at the Cappellanis’ town house, had been murdered. After the murder, I continued, Alex had apparently run — or else been taken away. As I spoke, Rosa Cappellani’s eyes burned into mine with an intensity so fierce that I dropped my own gaze to the desk.
Her voice was low and tight as she said, “You’re telling me that my son might be either a murderer or a murder victim, Lieutenant.” It sounded like a warning — or a threat.
“No, Mrs. Cappellani, that’s not what I’m telling you. I’m simply giving you the facts. I’m hoping you can tell me what they mean.”
“They mean that Alex is trouble — that you’ve got to help him, not hunt him for a murderer.”
“I’ve got to find him before I can help him, Mrs. Cappellani. And that’s why I’m questioning you. Because I want to find him.” I let a beat pass before I added, quietly, “I’d hoped you could help me.”
Silently, remorselessly, her eyes continued to challenge me. Then I saw the firm, uncompromising line of her mouth weaken. For the first time, her eyes shifted uncertainly.
“How can I help you?” she asked finally.
“By telling me everything you can about your son. About your family life. Everything. Because that’s where this whole thing seems to have started — with your family.”
She looked at me for a last long, speculative moment, making up her mind. Then, speaking slowly and steadily, she began:
“Until my husband died, thirteen years ago, Alex was always happy — always smiling. He was never very serious, not like his brother Leo. Alex took life as he found it. Leo was like his father — always trying to change things. And often succeeding, too.”
“Did it bother Alex? That Leo succeeded?”
“I don’t think it bothered him. But, to be honest, I don’t really know.” Under the mink, her shoulders lifted. Slowly, she shook her head. It was a regretful gesture, an admission of parental helplessness. “After my husband died, I had my hands full, running the winery and handling my husband’s—” Momentarily, she hesitated. Then: “My husband’s other affairs.”
“What ‘other affairs’ do you mean?”
“He was very active in politics.”
“How about you?” I asked. “Were you active in politics, too?”
“Not to the extent my husband was involved. I had only the interest. He had the conviction — the fire.” As she said it, she exchanged a quick, meaningful look with the man beside her. “In any case,” she continued, “the fact is that I was never able to get close to either of the boys after my husband’s death. Leo, of course, was already in his twenties. He didn’t need me. Alex, though—” Again, she shook her head. “Alex had his problems. I knew it, and tried to help. But I had my problems too.”