He nodded angrily. “I’ve just got off the phone with the FBI. They think the shipment was hijacked by mistake.” He shook his head disgustedly, as if someone had played a bad joke on him. “It seems that the hijackers were looking for a shipment of pocket calculators, for God’s sake. And they—” His phone buzzer sounded. Grimacing, he picked up the receiver. “Miss Farwell,” he said acidly, “I thought I told you to hold my calls.” He listened for a moment. “My wife?” As he listened again, frowning, I had a chance to assess him. He had his mother’s large, high-bridged nose and dark, restless eyes. His face was squared off, with a strong jaw, prominent cheekbones and heavy ridges above dark, full eyebrows. It was a willful, powerful face. Wearing a helmet and breastplate, he could have been a Roman centurion.
He had apparently agreed to talk to his wife. He listened impatiently for a moment, still frowning. I saw him clench his right hand hard into a fist, and begin rhythmically striking the desk — suffering her silently. The gesture revealed a strong, dominant man who bore frustration badly. Even from across the desk, I could hear a strident, metallic voice on the phone. Finally Leo interrupted.
“Listen, Angela, I simply don’t have time for this. Now, I’ve already told you to stay out of it. Rosa doesn’t need your help, and I don’t want your help. You’ll just — what?”
The frown became a furious scowl. The fist was white-knuckled now. On the phone, the metallic voice continued its shrill protestations. Again, he roughly interrupted her.
“What you’re doing, Angela, is trying to make a big production number out of this. But the facts — the simple, unvarnished facts — are that Booker got himself killed, which was good riddance, and Alex’s got himself in yet another scrape, which was inevitable. Now, if it’ll make you feel less left out, you can go downtown and buy yourself a black dress, just in case Alex is dead, too. But in the meantime, please — please — get off my back. And—” Suddenly he stopped speaking. He took the phone away from his ear, glared at it for a moment, then banged it down. His wife had hung up on him.
Immediately, the phone buzzed again.
“Goddamn son of a bitch.” He lifted the phone. Speaking in a low, dangerous voice, he said, “Miss Farwell, for the last time—” He paused, blinked, then sat for a moment in irresolute silence. Finally he said shortly, “All right. Tell her to wait for me. It’ll just be a few minutes.” As he hung up, he glanced quickly at me, as if to assess how much I’d heard — and guessed. Now he swiveled in his chair to face me squarely. He allowed a moment of silence to pass as he eyed me speculatively, taking my measure. As he stared, his hand strayed to his expensive silk tie, absently adjusting the knot. Finally:
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” His voice was clipped, his eyes cold. He could have been speaking to an employee — or a servant.
I matched his manner. “I’m looking for your brother. His car’s been located on Grant Avenue, near Telegraph Hill. Does he know anyone in the area?”
“Not so far as I can remember.” The answer came so quickly that he couldn’t have given it an instant’s thought. Before I’d asked the question, he’d decided on a negative reply.
I pointed to the phone. “I gather that you don’t keep very close track of your brother’s life.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked truculently.
“It means that you don’t exactly play the role of the devoted brother.”
“I don’t have time for role playing, Lieutenant. I’d rather just tell the truth. I’ve found that it saves a lot of time and energy. And the truth is that I’ve never really liked Alex very much. And he’s never liked me much, either. We’re two different people.”
“He could be dead, Mr. Cappellani. Or in danger. Aren’t you concerned?”
“Of course I’m concerned. But I’m not going to let his mistakes dominate my life. I learned that little trick a long time ago.”
As I rose slowly to my feet, I decided I didn’t like Leo Cappellani. I looked at him for a moment in silence before I asked quietly, “Do you know anyone named Mal Howard?”
“No.”
“Does the word ‘Twospot’ mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Do you think that Jason Booker intended to marry your mother?”
He drew a deep breath. “I think he intended to try and marry her. But he never would have succeeded. I can assure you that my mother would never have been taken in by Booker.”
I nodded. “I think you’re probably right.” I laid my card on the corner of his desk. “If you hear from your brother — or about your brother — I’d like you to call me.”
He didn’t reply. Realizing that I could expect nothing from Leo Cappellani, I turned and left the office. In the reception room outside, on a leather sofa, I saw a handsome young woman seated with her legs crossed, leafing through a copy of Time. She was wearing beige wool slacks, a Levi-styled jacket made of the same material and a brown turtleneck sweater. The close-fitting jacket modeled round, high breasts and a trim, exciting torso. When I opened the door, she lifted her head to look at me over the magazine. Her face was a classic oval, with a firm mouth, a straight nose and calm, level brows. She was a small, slim woman, almost petite. But the squared-off set of her shoulders and the arch of her neck suggested vitality, determination and strength. Her hair was dark auburn, cropped close. Her gray-green eyes were coolly appraising. Under my scrutiny, she lifted her chin a disdainful half inch. She held herself as if she was accustomed to having men look at her.
From Bill’s description, I could guess her identity.
“Are you Shelly Jackson?” I asked, at the same time slipping my shield case from my pocket. Watching my gesture, she raised her hand. “You don’t have to show me your badge. I know who you are.” She put the magazine aside, recrossed her legs and turned on the couch to face me fully. “I understand you want to talk to me.”
“Not especially. We want to talk to everyone who was at the winery Thursday sight. And I understand that you—” I hesitated, searching for the right phrase. “I understand that you participated.”
It was an awkward, ineffectual opening — a mistake. I should have begun with a question, putting her on the defensive. It was a basic police tactic, based on the premise that every interrogation is a contest.
Questioning desirable women, I always made the same mistake.
As if she sensed my momentary dissatisfaction with myself, her mouth moved in a small, condescending smile. The green eyes regarded me calmly, with an aloof, supercilious tolerance. Suddenly I knew how Canelli must feel, trying to cope with a constant succession of citizens who caused him to blush, or perspire, or otherwise surrender to confusion.
“How do you mean that, exactly?” she asked.
“I mean that you were apparently very helpful.” As I sat beside her on the sofa, I saw the inefficient Miss Farwell enter Leo Cappellani’s office. Shelly Jackson and I were alone in the reception room.
This time maintaining eye contact, I pitched my voice to a crisp, official note as I said, “I understand that you gave statements to the Napa County Sheriff’s office indicating that, except for the private detective, you didn’t see anyone in the vineyards Thursday night after the attack on Alex. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Is there anything you can add to what you told them?”
She raised her shoulders, shrugging. Her eyes were steady, never leaving my face. Her hands were clasped easily in her lap, relaxed. Innocent or not, most witnesses betray nervousness during questioning. Not Shelly Jackson. She was a cool customer.