“The boys grew up well,” Rosten said, speaking for the first time since he’d introduced himself. “Differently, but well.”
“I suppose so.” But, plainly, she didn’t believe it — didn’t choose to delude herself. “Actually, after only a few years, Leo took over a lot of the winery management. I made the major decisions, but Leo handled day-to-day matters — and very well, too.”
“What about Alex? What was he doing during that time?”
Lips compressed, she hesitated before saying, “Alex tried — different things. From the first, it was obvious that he and Leo couldn’t work together — not as equals, anyhow. So, for several years, Alex drifted. First there was college. Or rather—” She shook her head, remembering. “Rather, a succession of colleges. Then he lived in the East for a while. But then, a few years ago, he came back to California.”
“And now he’s working under Leo’s direction. Is that right?”
She nodded. “That’s right.” There was a note of finality in her voice. The subject of the two brothers and their rivalry was closed.
So I said: “Alex was very concerned about your-friendship with Jason Booker. That’s apparently how all this started.” I decided to say nothing more. She knew why I’d said it. Either she would respond, or she wouldn’t.
A long, uncomfortable moment passed while she studied me. Then, having made her decision, she spoke calmly and concisely.
“Jason began working for us about six months ago. We became — friendly. From the first, Alex didn’t like Jason. I knew it, but there was nothing I could do about it. I—” Again, the glance at Rosten. “I’ve always lived my own life, especially since my husband died. I don’t interfere with my sons’ lives. I don’t expect them to interfere with mine.”
“It’s my understanding that you and Jason Booker were more than just ‘friendly.’” I hesitated. Then: “You were close friends. Very close friends. Is that right?”
She lifted her chin and stared at me with scornful defiance before she finally spoke. “Yes, Lieutenant. If it’s any concern to your investigation — yes, we were very close friends.”
Disconcerted by her obvious scorn for my policeman’s grubby duties, I self-defensively asked, “Did you know that Alex retained a private investigator to look into Booker’s past?”
She stared at me coldly for a moment before she said, “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true, though.”
For the second time, Rosten spoke. “The man at the winery, Thursday night,” he said. “The one who found Alex — who was wrestling with Shelly, out in the vineyards. It must be him.”
Rosa questioned me with a single haughty look. Silently, I nodded.
“He might have saved Alex’s life,” Rosa said. She spoke quietly, thoughtfully.
“Your son trusted him,” I said. I waited, hoping she’d say something more.
Instead, Rosten spoke again. His brown, weather-seamed face was impassive as he said, “This private detective — he seems to know a lot about us. About the winery, and the family. Everything.”
“Alex gave him a rundown, I’m sure.”
“He shouldn’t have done it,” Rosten said. “It was wrong, hiring someone to spy on his own mother.”
Thoughfully, I turned my full attention to this strangely implacable man, who didn’t hesitate to criticize Alex Cappellani, even to his mother.
“Do you have any ideas, Mr. Rosten?” I asked quietly. “Do you know why Alex might have been attacked, or Booker murdered?”
For a long, silent moment he held my gaze. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “Those are things for Rosa to tell you,” he said. “Not me.”
Rosa, he’d said. Not Mrs. Cappellani.
At that moment my phone rang. Impatiently, I lifted receiver. At the same moment, Rosa rose decisively to her feet, motioning for Rosten to do the same.
“Just a minute,” I said into the phone. And to Rosa: “Where can I get in touch with you, if anything develops?”
“At the winery. In St. Helena.”
I passed her one of my cards, asking to her to call me if Alex contacted her. “Will you do that?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered gravely. “Yes, I’ll do that.”
“By the way, do you happen to know Alex’s blood type?”
Half turned toward the door, she turned back, staring at me. “Blood type?”
“For the record.”
“It’s the same as mine,” she said. “O positive. For the record.” She spoke in a low, bitterly mocking voice. I hadn’t fooled her.
I waited for them to leave the office, then spoke into the phone: “Yes. Sorry.”
“It’s Canelli, Lieutenant. Did I interrupt you?”
“It’s all right. What is it?”
“I just wanted to tell you that the only ones I could find are Logan Dockstetter, who’s the Cappellanis’ sales manager, and Leo Cappellani and Shelly Jackson. They work at the winery’s offices in the city here, as I understand it. Mr. Cappellani wasn’t very anxious to see us, but I finally, ah, insisted. So he said we could see him about two o’clock, at his office. And the Jackson woman, too.”
“What about Dockstetter?”
“He’s going to have lunch at the San Francisco Yacht Club. He said he’d meet us there, at noon.”
“All right. Fine.”
“I’ve never been inside that yacht club,” he said. “I hear it’s pretty fancy.”
“It is.”
9
Canelli pulled into a parking place, switched off the engine and sat for a moment staring out over the yacht harbor.
“Jeeze, Lieutenant, did you ever stop to think how much money there is in San Francisco? I mean, every once in a while when I’m downtown, I can’t believe how many Cadillacs I see. Not to mention Lincolns, and Mercedes, and all. And then this—” He gestured to the long rows of pleasure boats moored side by side to wharves ranked endlessly along the shore. The Yacht Club was built on a stone breakwater that protected the harbor. The largest, most expensive yachts were moored closest to the club. The smaller craft, mostly sailboats, lost definition in the distance: a constantly criss-crossing tangle of masts and rigging lines, gently shifting with the swell.
For a moment we sat staring out across the harbor. Last night’s fog had burned off; sunlight sparkled on the water. To our left, a small sailboat, bright white, was just clearing the breakwater, heading out into the bay.
Marveling, Canelli shook his head. “It’s another world, you know that, Lieutenant? It’s a whole other world.”
Instead of replying, I glanced at my watch. The time was exactly noon. I reached for our microphone and pressed the “transmit” button.
“This is Inspectors Eleven,” I said. “Lieutenant Hastings.”
“Yessir, Lieutenant.” It was Halliday, my favorite communications man.
“We’ll be in the San Francisco Yacht Club for thirty or forty minutes. Any messages?”
“No, sir.”
“Any developments on either Mal Howard or Alex Cappellani?”
“No, sir.”
I sighed. In addition to the six men looking for Howard, I’d detailed two men to watch the Cappellani house and another two men to watch the Cappellani offices. Including Canelli and myself, twelve men were assigned to the case. For a “routine homicide,” I’d reached the departmental manpower limit.
I signed off and got out of the car. As we walked across the parking lot I asked, “Is there anything yet on those blood types?”