Canelli exhaled loudly, irked with himself. “I forgot to tell you. Booker’s type is AB negative, which was most of it. The blood, I mean. The type at the garage door and on the sidewalk outside is O positive.”
“Alex’s type.” I pushed open the huge front door of the Yacht Club, gesturing for Canelli to precede me.
“Right,” he answered. “Except that I couldn’t find out about Howard’s type. And O positive is the most common. So I guess there’s a better than even chance that it could be Howard’s type, too. At least, that’s what I—” His voice trailed off. A middle-aged man who looked like a successful investment banker stepped forward to greet us, subtly blocking our progress into the club’s elegantly paneled interior hallway. The man was deliberately assessing Canelli, head to toe. Plainly, the verdict wasn’t favorable.
“We’re meeting Mr. Logan Dockstetter,” I said, stepping forward. “We’re expected.”
The man’s gaze transferred itself to me. Resignation clouded his voice as he asked for our names.
Dockstetter was sitting at a corner table facing the huge plate-glass windows that looked out on San Francisco Bay. Following his gaze, I was startled to see the long, slate-colored shape of an atomic submarine passing under the Golden Gate Bridge, slipping out to sea. Above the submarine, in front and behind, two outriding Navy helicopters hovered like giant dragonflies.
“They’re sinister looking, those submarines,” Dockstetter said. “They always remind me of crocodiles.”
“Because they only show their snouts, you mean.”
He nodded, and gestured us to seats across from him. When we declined his perfunctory offer of drinks, he was visibly relieved. Like the man who’d greeted us at the door, Logan Dockstetter was obviously pained at our presence in this high-ceilinged, richly carpeted, antique-furnished citadel of privilege.
I settled back in my chair and took a moment to survey the bar room. Red-jacketed waiters moved discreetly from table to table. Expensive glassware tinkled and sparkled. Conversation was slow and melodious. Laughter was muted. Seeing it all, I secretly winced. During the year I’d played professional football, I’d been married to an heiress. Early in our marriage, some of our best moments had been shared in places like this. At the end of our marriage, after football had ruined my knees and a “public relations” job in my father-in-law’s executive suite had robbed me of my self-respect, most of my worst moments had been spent in the same places.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” Dockstetter said, consulting a wafer-thin gold wristwatch.
“We won’t need much time, Mr. Dockstetter.” As I spoke, I placed my notebook on the table between us. “I just wanted to get a few facts straight.” I flicked my ballpoint pen. At the sound, Dockstetter seemed to start. He was a slightly built man of about forty. Height, average. Weight, not more than a hundred fifty pounds. His face was pale and narrow, drawn into prim lines of permanent disapproval. His mouth was pursed, his washed-out eyes distant and disdainful. He looked like an overbred English aristocrat. Canelli had told me that Dockstetter was the winery’s sales manager. It was hard to imagine this pale, fastidious man cajoling a customer.
Canelli had also said that Dockstetter was probably gay. That, I decided, was a good guess.
“You were present at the Cappellani winery on Thursday night, when Alex was attacked. Is that right?”
Sipping something that looked like a gin and tonic, he inclined his beautifully barbered head. “That’s right.”
“Who do you think was responsible for that attack, Mr. Dockstetter?”
Plainly, the question startled him. Frowning, he placed his glass on the table before him. “I… I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said carefully.
“It’s very simple.” As I spoke, I put a faint edge of patronizing contempt on my voice. If I could ruffle Dockstetter’s carefully preened feathers, I might learn something extra from him. “I’m asking you to tell me who you think tried to kill Alex.”
“But I—” He blinked. “I don’t know. How could I know?”
“Guess, then. I want input.”
“But that would be — slander, if I guessed.”
I shook my head. “Wrong. I’m a police officer, and I’m asking you a question in connection with a murder investigation. I want an answer to the question. In this case, I want you to make a guess. There’s a witness present—” I nodded to Canelli. “Technically, if you don’t do as I ask, you could be obstructing justice.”
“But I… I never heard of anything like that.” He stared at me for a moment, then dropped his eyes. His fingers tightened on the gin and tonic glass. I noticed that he wore two small golden rings, one on each of his little fingers.
I looked at my own watch. “I’m waiting, Mr. Dockstetter.”
“Well, I… ah—” His tongue tip circled pale lips. “I… ah… I’d have to guess Booker, then. Jason Booker.”
Across the table, Canelli grinned. “That’s a safe call, I guess, if you’re worried about slander. Since he’s dead, I mean.”
Both Dockstetter and I stared hard at Canelli — who promptly flushed, and began to fidget.
“Did you see anything or hear anything Thursday night that made you think it was Booker?” I asked Dockstetter.
“No. Nothing. I’m just guessing.” He flicked his hand in a small, petulant gesture. “That’s what you wanted, I thought — a guess.”
“Would you guess that Booker actually struck the blow? Or would you say he hired it done?”
“Well… ah if I had to choose, I’d say he hired it done. I mean, it’s hard to imagine Booker actually trying to kill anyone.” Again Dockstetter’s hand moved, fluttering now.
I slipped Mal Howard’s picture from my pocket. “Have you ever seen this man, Mr. Dockstetter?”
Annoyed, he drew a pair of horn-rimmed half-glasses from the inside pocket of his blue blazer. He glanced briefly at the picture, shook his head and quickly returned the glasses to his pocket. Obviously, reading glasses didn’t fit Dockstetter’s self-image.
“No, I’ve never seen him. Who is he?”
“The man who may have killed Booker,” I answered, staring him straight in the eye. “His name is Malcolm Howard. Mal, for short. His fingerprints were discovered at the murder scene.”
Peevishly, he blinked at the picture. I felt that he wanted to look at it again, now that he knew its significance. But he didn’t want to put on the glasses again.
“Some people figure,” Canelli said, “that Alex thought Jason Booker was trying to run some kind of a con on Rosa Cappellani, to maybe get some of her money. Maybe all of her money. So then, some people think, maybe Booker hired Mal Howard to get to Alex. Like, to warn him off, maybe, with a lump on the head. How does that sound, Mr. Dockstetter? For guessing, I mean?”
As Canelli had been talking Dockstetter had drained the last of his drink in two long, noisy gulps.
“But—” He gestured to the picture, still lying on the table. “But you said that he — Howard — killed Booker.”
Canelli raised his beefy shoulders, shrugging. “Maybe Booker didn’t pay Howard for the job Thursday night. Maybe that’s why they were going to meet yesterday, at the Cappellani house — so Booker could make the payoff. But maybe he didn’t make it, or couldn’t. So there was a fight. And Howard won.”
I looked thoughtfully at Canelli. Except for the fact that it didn’t account for Alex’s presence at the town house, it was a good, sound theory. I wondered whether it had just occured to him. If not, I wondered why I hadn’t heard about it.
“Do you think Booker was doing something illegal, Mr. Dockstetter?” I asked. “Something that might have been calculated to defraud Mrs. Cappellani?”