Grunting disgusted agreement, Friedman heaved himself out of the car as Canelli came to stand beside us. It was a cold, raw morning, overcast and damp. Unshaven, Canelli wore an old car coat. A brightly striped muffler was wrapped around his neck, dangling to his waist in front and back. A blue stocking cap was pulled down around his ears. He could have been going to a football game.
“What’s happened?” I asked Canelli.,
“Nothing, Lieutenant.”
I glanced up at Leo’s office. The curtains were open, but I saw no movement inside. I turned to Friedman, asking, “Shall we have Canelli and Marsten stand by while we talk to him?”
Friedman nodded, at the same time slipping a tiny, short-range walkie-talkie from his pocket and rectifying channels with Canelli.
“Did you call off the other surveillances, Canelli?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“Do it.”
“Right”
As Friedman and I walked across the parking lot toward the building’s rear entrance, Friedman said, “I’ve never met the gentleman, but it seems to me that we should try and finesse Leo, instead of butting heads with him.”
“You want to lead off? It’s fine with me. You’re better at finessing than I am.”
As he held the door open for me, he shook his head. “You know him. You start. I was thinking, though, that we should make sure he knows he’s got two lieutenants on his tail.”
“Right.” I walked across the small lobby that served the rear of the building and pushed the elevator button.
“Also,” Friedman said, “it occurred to me that, since Rosten is in custody, Leo might not know whether Alex is alive or dead.”
“You think we should try to make him think Alex is dead — and that Rosten confessed?”
“I think we should keep him guessing. If he’s ready to assassinate Castro, he’s going to be under pressure. And people under pressure don’t like to play guessing games.” Friedman stepped into the empty elevator as I pushed ‘3.’ “I also think,” he said, “that time could be on our side — to a point. Let’s assume that they’re going to try and shoot Castro on the City Hall steps at noon. If we’re still talking to him at eleven-thirty, Leo’s going to start twitching.”
The elevator was stopping. I reached across Friedman to depress both the “close” button and the “3” button. “Maybe we should take him downtown. We’ve got Alex’s testimony. That’s plain grounds for detention. If Leo plans to do the job himself, we solve the problem when we arrest him.”
Friedman considered for a moment, thoughtfully frowning. Then: “That’d take time, though, taking him downtown. And, when we booked him, he’d call his lawyer, and then clam up. Besides, the odds are that he’s found another triggerman. And that’s what we need from Leo: the name of the triggerman and his location. So let’s play it by ear — see what he’s got to say, and see whether we can get him twitching. Are you going to start off asking him where he spent the night?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He nodded to the elevator doors, still closed. “Let’s see how it goes.”
21
I’d expected to find Leo Cappellani a different-looking, different-acting man than I’d confronted two days earlier. I was wrong. He was just as impeccably dressed, just as clean-shaven, just as clear-eyed and alert. Wherever he’d been last night, he’d gotten some sleep.
Stressing the “lieutenant,” I introduced Friedman. If Leo was disconcerted, facing two ranking officers, he gave no sign. Instead, he gestured us to chairs, smiling as he resumed his seat behind his rosewood desk. Looking at him closely, I was sure his white shirt was fresh. His sharkskin suit was unwrinkled. His tie was crisply knotted.
“I understand,” he said, “that you — yourself — killed Booker’s murderer, Lieutenant.” As he said it, he smiled at me. It was a wide, affable smile. When he chose, Leo could be charming.
I let a long, deliberate beat pass before I asked, “Who told you that I killed him?” I wanted to throw him off balance — wanted him to wonder whether the details of Howard’s death had been in the papers.
But his answer came easily, plausibly: “Alex told me Saturday night.” As he spoke, Leo’s dark, vivid eyes held my own, as if to encourage my questions. Today, he was on our side.
“What time did you leave the winery last night, Mr. Cappellani?” I asked.
His muscular shoulders rose as he gracefully shrugged. “It was about ten-thirty, I guess. Maybe ten-fifteen.” Now the smile slowly faded, replaced by a friendly, puzzled frown. If he was trying to project an innocent man’s perplexity, his portrayal was flawless. “Why? Why do you want to know? Is something wrong?”
For the first time, Friedman spoke: “I gather that you haven’t talked to anyone at the winery since ten-fifteen last night, then. Your mother or anyone else. Is that right?”
Leo turned to Friedman and took a long, deliberate moment to study him. Then: “That’s right, Lieutenant Friedman. But my question still stands. Why’re you asking?” As he spoke, his voice lowered to a deeper, more purposeful note. Resting before him on the rosewood desk, his fingers tightened into loose fists. His eyes narrowed as he studied us. The smile was gone — permanently. The message was clear: he was a busy man. He’d asked us a question. He expected an answer.
“If something’s wrong,” he said finally, “I want to know about it. I’d assumed that you’d come to give me a progress report on your investigation. But that’s not it, is it? There’s something else.”
“Before I answer that,” Friedman said, “I’d like you to tell us exactly what you did from the time you left the winery last night until you arrived here at this office this morning.”
Instead of responding, Leo turned to look at me, as if to discover how we were trying to trick him. His eyes were hard now, studying me shrewdly. Then, deliberately, he turned again to Friedman. He’d decided how to deal with us.
“And before I answer that, Lieutenant, I’m afraid I’ll have to know exactly why you’re asking.” His voice was tight, dead level. His eyes were cold and hard. Leo was in command.
“Why?” Friedman asked blandly. “I’m not trying to make this a contest. As a matter of fact, you’re exactly right about the reason we’ve come. We’re here to give you some information — some very important information, that’s got nothing to do with Mal Howard. But before we can tell you about it, simply as a matter of police procedure, we’ve got to have an account of your movements last night.” Friedman paused, then added quietly, “If you went home, for instance, all you’ve got to do is tell us.”
“The point is,” Leo said, “that I didn’t go home. Which is the reason I can’t tell you.”
“Where’d you go?”
Slowly and deliberately, still in control, Leo shook his head. “I can’t tell you. Sorry.”
“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Cappellani,” I said. “There was another attempt made on Alex’s life last night. And it looks very much like you’re involved.” I let a moment pass before I added, “Deeply involved.”
“Another—” He looked at me, looked at Friedman, finally looked again at me. “Another ‘attempt,’ you say. What d’you mean, ‘attempt’?” His voice rose. His dark eyes snapped. The loosely clenched fists were knotted now. “What the hell are you telling me? Is Alex dead? Hurt?”
“Before I answer that, I want you to—”
“Goddammit.” Suddenly he reached for the phone. Involuntarily, I moved to stop him, but Friedman quickly shook his head as Leo began dialing. I sank back, listening to Leo harshly command someone to put his mother on the line. Peremptorily, he asked her what happened last night. Listening to the faint buzz of Rosa’s voice, I studied Leo’s face. His expression was inscrutable. After less than a minute, he curtly thanked his mother, told her that he would call her shortly, and hung up.