For a moment, the office was perfectly silent as we stared at Leo and Leo stared straight ahead. Slowly, furiously, his face tightened.
“That son of a bitch,” he said finally. “He tried to kill Alex. Rosten. He — Christ — he owes his whole life to us. Everything. And he tried to kill Alex.”
Catching my eye, Friedman surreptitiously raised his chin to me. He wanted to ask the next question. I nodded. Friedman sat silent for a moment, studying Leo as he still stared straight ahead, plainly struggling to control himself. Finally Friedman cleared his throat, saying, “It didn’t sound like your mother had much information for you.”
Leo ignored him.
“That was probably because the FBI’s still with her,” Friedman said. “They’re interrogating her.”
Slowly — unwillingly — as if his head were being moved by some invisible, inexorable force, Leo turned to stare at Friedman.
“The FBI? Is that what you said?”
Friedman nodded cheerfully. “They’re also interrogating Rosten. They’ve been interrogating him for two or three hours, now. Your mother, too. As I say—” Airily, Friedman waved a casual hand. “As I say, that’s why she couldn’t say much to you, probably. The FBI can be pretty intimidating. As you’ll soon discover.”
“Without realizing it,” I said, “your mother gave us the key. Your father was a right-winger. You’re a right-winger, too. And so is Rosten, isn’t he? The two of you decided to kill Castro. And Alex found out about it.”
“So you ordered Rosten to kill Alex,” Friedman said. “Your own brother.” He spoke softly and regretfully, as if it saddened him to say it.
“How’d you find Mal Howard, Leo?” I asked. “How much did he charge you, for agreeing to kill Castro? That was his job, wasn’t it — his original job?”
“Who’s Howard’s replacement, Leo?” Friedman asked. “Give us a name.”
“You’re crazy,” Leo breathed, looking at each of us in turn. “Coming in here — asking these questions, making these accusations. You must be crazy. You — Christ — you’ll suffer for this. Both of you.”
But now he spoke without the flare of conviction. Without force or anger.
“Who’s ‘Twospot,’ Leo?” I asked.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Friedman said. “It’s your cover name.” He let a beat pass before he suddenly barked, “Isn’t it?”
Startled, Leo looked quickly at Friedman.
Picking up the remorseless tempo, I said, “Booker was murdered because he found out about the assassination plot. That was it, wasn’t it? Maybe he tried a little blackmail. That’d be his style. So you ordered him killed. Mal Howard carried the address of your town house in his pocket, with ‘Twospot’ signed to the note. You set Booker up. didn’t you — told him to meet you there, at Larkin Street. Then you sent Mal Howard to kill him.”
As we hammered at him, I could see Leo’s arrogant assurance slowly failing him. First he lost control of his mouth, then his hands, finally his dark, bold centurion’s eyes. Now, as if it were again tugged by some invisible force, his head began to sink slowly until he sat bowed over his desk.
Friedman took up the attack. “Mal Howard didn’t die instantly,” Friedman said softly. “He talked before he died. That’s why we’re here, Leo. Because he talked.”
To myself, I nodded approval. In court, the statement would hold up. Howard had died in the ambulance — after mumbling something about a woman named Sophie.
“And Rosten’s talking, too,” Friedman continued. “He’s talking right now, to the FBI. He’s not going to fall for attempted murder. Not alone. Not when he can make a deal, and take you along with him.”
“And not if he can be a hero, Leo,” I said. “That’s the deal the FBI’s offering him, right this minute. He can be a hero. He can be on the FBI’s side. You’d be surprised how attractive that is when you’re in custody.”
“He can blow the whistle on a plot to assassinate a visiting head of state,” Friedman said smoothly. “For that, he’ll get many, many brownie points — which, about now, he needs very badly. He’ll be a hero, like Frank says.”
Slowly, Leo’s head began to shake. This time, though, the volition was Leo’s, not some uncontrollable outside force. We watched him raise his head. His mouth was firmly set, his eyes defiant.
Somehow, for some reason, he’d recovered his arrogance, his self-control. For a few minutes we’d been pummeling him, seemingly scoring with ease. But, suddenly, he’d rallied.
Why?
What had changed? What mistake had we made?
Looking for the answer, I searched his face, his eyes. And then I saw it: a tiny sliver of manic light deep in his eyes — as if someone had opened a darkened door just a crack, to reveal a monstrosity behind.
“Paul won’t be a hero,” he said. “He’s a hireling, that’s all. Just a hireling.”
He spoke very softly. In his eyes the telltale gleam of mad light was gone, extinguished by force of will.
The message was clear: no matter what we did, he intended that Castro should die.
22
Friedman saw it, too: the quick, secret glint of mad purpose in Leo’s eyes. Saturday, Leo had played the role of the forceful, urbane executive, too busy to talk. A half hour ago, he’d played the same smooth, suave part.
Finally, though — cornered — Leo’s real persona had flashed through: the zealot, the true believer. Blinded to consequences, he saw only his goaclass="underline" the death of a despot.
Friedman and I exchanged a quick glance, then he looked meaningfully to the office door. We excused ourselves and stepped into the outer office, closing the door behind us. Leo’s secretary was at her desk, watching us with cold eyes. We turned our backs on her, whispering together.
“The son of a bitch really is going to try it,” Friedman said. “He’s going to kill Castro if he can.”
“I know.”
“I’ve got to call Dwyer, and the FBI, and maybe the Commissioner, too, if Dwyer won’t do it. We’ve got to have a change of Castro’s schedule.”
“It’s almost nine o’clock. Two hours isn’t much time.”
“Still,” he answered, “I’ve got to try. Someone’s got to call the mayor, too. For one thing, I want my ass covered. If Castro’s going to swallow a bullet, I’m not going to take the fall alone.” He gestured to Leo’s door. “You go back inside and keep working on him. He’s all we’ve got — him and Rosten. See if you can break him down — find the goddamn triggerman. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Maybe I should take him down to the Hall.”
Vehemently, Friedman shook his head. “We don’t have the time, Frank. We—”
“Shhh.” I held up my hand, moving a quick step toward Leo’s door. From inside the office I heard the rapid clicking of a telephone dial. “He’s trying to call someone.” I opened the door and entered the office. Holding the telephone to his ear, Leo stood behind his desk. When he saw me, his dark eyes blazed.
“This is a private call, Lieutenant,” he snapped. Then, to cover the flare of temper: “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Sorry,” I answered. “I’m afraid you aren’t going to be making any private calls for a while.”
As I approached the desk I heard the phone click and an indistinct voice answer. Instantly, I lunged for the phone, to hear the voice on the other end. But Leo was too quick for me, breaking the connection. As we momentarily confronted each other, fists clenched, breathing hard, I once more saw the zealot’s gleam flicker deep in his eyes.