“That’s clear.”
“If it comes to shooting, I’ll shoot first. I don’t want you shooting toward me.”
“Right.”
Moving on delicately tiptoeing feet that looked ludicrously small for his outsize body, Canelli scampered up the stairs, down the hallway and into the safety of the doorway. I was flexing my legs, ready to follow him, when my paging device suddenly buzzed. Swearing, I switched the box off. Then, drawing a deep breath and mopping my streaming forehead one last time, I slipped off the shotgun’s safety. A dozen strides took me up the last of the three steps and down the hallway to the window. I was breathing heavily — from fear.
At short range, only a shotgun does more damage than a .45.
I looked toward the bedroom door and saw Canelli peeking around the doorjamb, exposing half his broad, swarthy face. Canelli was sweating, too. I nodded. He nodded in return. We were ready.
I heard Marsten’s voice on Canelli’s walkie-talkie, but couldn’t make out the words. Softly answering, Canelli momentarily drew back his head.
At that moment, the big square barrel of a .45 automatic came slowly through the window, poking against the billowing curtains. Next came a hand, gripping the gun. Deliberately, inexorably, a forearm followed.
I set the shotgun’s safety, raised the barrel and brought it crashing down on the forearm. Bone snapped. The .45 roared, leaped from the disembodied hand, fell to the floor. The hand disappeared.
“Oh… shit.”
Without exposing myself, I ripped the curtains free of the window. With my breath coming in short, ragged gulps, with sweat still in my eyes, I forced myself to wait a long, deliberate moment, listening. I heard a ragged shuffling of feet, moving away from the window. I placed the shotgun on the floor, drew my revolver and cautiously looked through the window. I saw a man crouched on the edge of the flat roof, facing away from me.
“Hold it,” I yelled. “Hold it right there.”
He gathered himself and leaped toward a huge redwood that grew close beside the roof. I saw him disappear, heard a crash.
I climbed out on the roof. As I cautiously approached the edge, I heard Marsten calling, “It’s okay. We’ve got him. It’s all right.”
I looked over the edge. With Marsten and another detective standing over him, surrounded by broken branches, he lay on his back, staring up at me. His hair was dark, worn medium long. His face was almost as swarthy as Canelli’s, with a broad jaw and thick, full lips.
Not Mal Howard.
“Where the hell is Howard?” I shouted down at him. “Tell me, or it’s your ass.” I heard my voice shrilling, then cracking ineffectually. It was the hysterical backlash of tension and fear. “It’s his ass, Marsten,” I shouted. “Tell him. Tell the son of a bitch.”
Still lying flat on his back, the swarthy man called, “Howard’s gone. He’s been gone for an hour, pig. And he ain’t coming back.”
I recognized the truth in his voice, saw truth in his face. Furious, I holstered my revolver. “Search him and cuff him,” I called down to the men on the ground. “We’ll call for an ambulance.”
“Is it him?” Holding the shotgun, Canelli was framed in the open window behind me.
“No, goddammit.” I climbed back through the window. “Is there a phone?”
“I saw one in the bedroom.”
I dialed Communications. After a delay of almost a minute, Halliday came on the line.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. I was talking to the phone company. I didn’t think I’d gotten through on the buzzer, and I was getting the phone number of 1976 Scott Street.”
“What is it, Halliday?” Wearily, I sank down on the bed, closing my eyes. I was thinking that, with every year that passed, it became harder for me to face a gun.
“We just got a call from Alex Cappellani,” Halliday was saying. “He asked for the officer in charge of the Booker investigation. He’s in an apartment on Telegraph Hill. It’s 2851 Greenwich, a rear apartment. It’s a half block down from upper Grant, near Coit Tower. He wants you to go see him.”
“How’s he sound?”
“He sounds nervous.”
“Did he give you a phone number?”
“No. He gave me the message, made sure I had it, then hung up. There’s a phone in the apartment, though. I checked.”
“I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone.
“What’s happening, Lieutenant?” Canelli was standing beside me.
“Alex Cappellani called in. He’s on Telegraph Hill.”
“You want me to go with you?”
I stood up. “No,” I answered. “I want you to stay here, and finish up. I want you to take both these characters downtown. But before you do that, I want you to get the story on Mal Howard from them. I want to know everything about Howard. I don’t care how you do it — the hard way or the easy way, it’s all the same to me. Just find out about Howard.”
“You want me to lean on them, you mean? Really lean on them?”
“I want the information, Canelli. If you have to bend the rules to get it, I’ll back you up. I don’t have to tell you that we’re shorthanded. Which is why I’m leaving it to you. Understand?”
He frowned, thinking it over. “You want me to make a deal? Like that? Let these guys off, if they cop?”
“Goddammit, Canelli, I’m telling you what I want. How you do it, that’s up to you. I want Mal Howard. I don’t care what you do with these two. They’re nothing. I want Howard. Is that so hard to understand?”
I knew I’d hurt his feelings, but I didn’t have time to worry about it — or to apologize.
“Tell Marsten to follow me to 2851 Greenwich,” I said shortly. “Tell him to bring a walkie-talkie, tuned to channel ten.” I was already walking down the hallway to the stairs. “I’ll meet him in front of 2851 Greenwich. Got it?”
“2851 Greenwich. Channel ten.” Looking at me with reproachful brown eyes, he nodded. “Got it,” he sighed.
12
With Marsten a half block behind me, I drove slowly past 2851 Greenwich. During the fifteen-minute drive from Scott Street, I’d ordered Halliday to contact both Leo and Rosa Cappellani, asking whether the Greenwich Street address was known to the family. It wasn’t, apparently.
Like the Cappellani town house, 2851 Greenwich was an example of choice six-figure San Francisco real estate. It was a “lowrise” apartment building, built to the city’s code that protects an owner’s right to a view. The building was new: a stark, squared-off stucco box, architecturally undistinguished. But it was located on the north slope of Telegraph Hill. From the rear of the building, floor-to-ceiling windows would command a vista of San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, with the low green hills of Marin County for a background and Alcatraz and Angel Island in the foreground. Full-width balconies would allow affluent tenants to drink martinis and barbecue steaks while they admired the view.
Two entrances fronted on Greenwich, designating two large flats, numbered 2847 and 2849. The number 2851 was fixed to a gate on the uphill side of the building, and marked a garden apartment with a rear entrance and access through the gate. The front windows of the two flats showed no signs of life. Circulars littered the two entrances, and the mailboxes were full. The gate on the uphill side was closed — but not littered with the same circulars.
The building was only two blocks from Alex’s car, still parked on Grant Avenue. He’d probably borrowed the apartment from a friend, to hide. He’d parked his car close enough to get it in a hurry — but not close enough to betray his hiding place.