“I’ve got to get a couple of hours’ sleep,” Friedman said as we rode up in the elevator to our office. “You’re going to have to cover for me. I’m sorry, but I’m out of gas. Wake me up, though, if something happens.”
I waved a hand. “Sleep. Either we find him, or we don’t. If we don’t find him, and if Rosten doesn’t talk, there’s not much we can do. Not until Castro arrives, anyhow.”
“I think we’ve got to call Chief Dwyer,” Friedman said. “We should do that now. And he should call the Commissioner. We can’t take the whole responsibility for this.”
“Is that why you’re going to sleep?” I asked sourly. “So I’m the one who calls Dwyer at four in the morning?”
Friedman smiled. It was an exhausted attempt at humor. Beneath dark stubble, his face was gray with fatigue. His eyes were lusterless. In the last hour, the lines of his face had deepened.
“Go to sleep,” I said, pointing to the door marked Dormitory. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll call him. Sleep.”
At ten minutes to eight, Friedman knocked once on my office door and entered without being invited.
“For those four hours’ sleep,” he said, sinking into my visitor’s chair, “many, many thanks.”
“No problem. I slept a little myself, in fact. An hour, almost.”
“I’m getting old,” Friedman said. “This is the first time it’s really hit me. Honest to God, for the first time in my life, tonight, I just — just ran out of gas.” He shook his head. “I’m getting old,” he repeated. “Too damn old for all this crap.”
“You’re not getting old,” I said. “You’re getting fat. Too damn fat. It’s no wonder you get tired, carrying all that extra weight around.”
“Ah — now comes the lecture. For the four hours’ sleep, it turns out I got to hear a lecture.” He spoke with a Yiddish patois, burlesquing the ancient resignation of the race.
“Look at the medical statistics. Look at the relationship between overweight and heart disease. Think of Clara, for God’s sake.”
He shrugged. “If I didn’t eat so much, I wouldn’t be so amiable. And, next to Clara and my kids, you’re the one who’d suffer most, if I turned into a grouch.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re so amiable. Does Clara know?”
“She knows.” He stretched, yawned, sat up straighter in the chair. “What’s happening? What’d Dwyer say?”
“He said he’d talk to the Commissioner.”
“That’s all? He didn’t think we should change Castro’s route, for instance? Or at least delay him at the airport for a half hour?”
“I don’t think,” I answered slowly, “that Dwyer believes anyone who’s in the social register could commit murder.”
Ruefully, Friedman guffawed. “You’re right,” he answered. “Sure as hell, you’re right. Also, as always, Dwyer is covering his ass. I knew he’d do it.”
“How do you mean?”
“He doesn’t want to get directly involved in the anti-assassination planning. That way, if something goes wrong, he’s got a patsy.”
“You.”
He smiled — then shrugged. “Me. Us. Take your choice.”
“You.”
Again, he yawned. “So what else has happened?”
“There’s nothing from the FBI. And, so far, I haven’t got a license number for Leo’s Lincoln. It’s newly registered, and apparently it’s not in the computer yet. There won’t be anyone in Sacramento until nine o’clock, to run a manual check for us.”
“Wonderful.”
“I’ve got four teams in the field — one at Leo’s house, one at his office, one at his girlfriend’s and one at the Cappellani town house. Canelli’s coordinating all four teams. He’s at Leo’s office.”
“The town house is still sealed, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But Leo might not know it.”
“I hope,” Friedman said, “that the FBI is smart enough to question Rosa. My last waking thought, four hours ago, was that they might get more from Rosa than Rosten.”
“Maybe we should—”
My phone rang. I lifted the receiver to hear, “It’s Canelli, Lieutenant. Hey, you’ll never guess what happened.”
“Canelli. Please. No guessing games.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant. I forgot you’ve been up all night, and everything.”
“Well, what’s happened?”
“Leo just arrived at his office. In his Lincoln, as advertised. He just drove up and parked in his parking place and went into the building, cool as anything. What d’you want me to do?”
“Who’ve you got with you?” As I spoke, I unlocked my desk drawer and took out my gun and cuffs.
“Marsten.”
“Is Leo inside the building now?” I was trying to visualize the big brick building. Were there side entrances, as well as entrances in the front and back? I couldn’t remember.
“He sure is, Lieutenant,” Canelli said cheerfully.
“All right, you and Marsten cover the front and back, outside. Stay out of sight of Leo’s office, which is on the third floor, the southeast corner. Have you got that?”
“Yessir. Third floor, southeast corner. Except that—” A pause. “Except that, I gotta tell you, he could’ve already eyeballed me, if that’s where he is.”
“It can’t be helped. If he tries to leave, collar him. Otherwise, wait for orders. Clear?”
“Yessir, that’s clear. Are you coming down?”
“Both of us are coming down. Right now.”
As Friedman drove, I worked with Communications, trying to reach Brautigan through the FBI switchboard. Just as we were pulling into a parking place beside Leo’s Lincoln, Brautigan came on the air, talking from his mobile phone.
“Don’t tell him we’ve located Leo,” Friedman hissed. “Not yet. They’ll just come barging in and maybe screw everything up.”
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Brautigan’s static-sizzled voice was demanding. “What’ve you got?”
I reported that we were still looking for Leo, then asked Brautigan what his agents had learned from Rosten.
“This isn’t exactly a secure line, Lieutenant.” Even through the sizzling I could hear the weary condescension in Brautigan’s voice.
“We need the information,” I countered. “Castro’s plane arrives at eleven. That’s less than three hours from now. We’re trying to decide whether to change the arrival schedule.”
“All right. I’ll check and get back to you. Where are you?” He spoke sharply: the commander, giving orders.
“We’re in the field. You’ll have to go through Communications.”
“Tell him to interrogate Rosa,” Friedman whispered.
“We’re wondering whether your men questioned Rosa Cappellani,” I said. “We have reason to believe that it might pay off.”
“Naturally we’ve questioned Mrs. Cappellani, Lieutenant. We’ve been questioning her for two hours.” Now he was the longsuffering commander, forced to endure an underling’s tedious questions. I felt myself getting angry.
“Any results?” I felt asked flatly.
“I’ll check that, too. Out.”
“Good show,” Friedman said amiably. “You really stuck it to him. You’re learning, my boy.”
“That supercilious bastard. I always forget how he talks.”
“He’s been to Yale. For only two years, though. I checked.”
I snorted.
“He doesn’t sound like he’s exactly worried about an assassination,” Friedman mused. “Whatever he’s heard from the interrogation, he must not think it’s damaging to Leo.”
“Brautigan never sounds worried. That’s not his style.”