“Who were you talking to?”
He cradled the phone and sat down behind the desk. Now his eyes were veiled. For a long moment he simply stared at me. His expression was quizzical, almost genial. It was as if we were playing some delightful game, and he’d just scored a difficult point.
But why, then, had he tried so desperately to phone someone?
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I was talking to a lady. The same lady I was with last night. And the lady’s not my wife. So—” He raised both hands from the desk, palms up.
“You’re lying. You were trying to talk to your goddamn triggerman — trying to give him instructions.”
Still the easy, sardonic smile mocked me as he said, “Have it your way, Lieutenant.”
“We know you’re going to make a try for Castro, Cappellani. You might’ve thought you covered your trail. But you didn’t. You’re nothing but a goddamn amateur.”
Staring at me thoughtfully, he slightly inclined his head. It was a condescending nod, as if to indicate that he admired my spirit, but not my technique. With the clock running, he would pursue our delightful little game.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said reflectively, “that you’re really trying to run a bluff on me. I’ve been thinking that if you really had evidence linking me with Booker’s murder, or the attempts on Alex’s life, or — as it turns out now — a plan to kill Castro, I’d be on my way to jail. You may have suspicions, but that’s all. You don’t have anything else. Isn’t that right? Isn’t the fact that we’re sitting here proof that, really, no one’s incriminated me?”
Trying to shake him with a steady stare, I didn’t reply. I wished Friedman would return. A taut silence lengthened. Leo’s eyes held firm — as firm as mine. It had happened to me before. A true believer or a madman can’t be stared down. Finally I pointed to the phone.
“Tell me who you were talking to, if you’ve got nothing to hide. Give me the lady’s name.”
“Try to appreciate my problem,” he said reasonably. “The lady isn’t my wife, and she isn’t my mistress, either. She’s just a—” His sly smile shared a man-of-the-world joke with me. “She’s just a casual friend, I’m afraid.”
“Give me her name.”
“I thought you were investigating an assassination plot, not the state of my love life.”
I moved my head toward the door. “There isn’t going to be any assassination, Leo. Lieutenant Friedman’s taking care of it, right now. Castro’s schedule is being changed.”
The remark seemed to amuse him. “Really? In less than two hours, you’re going to change his schedule?”
Now it was my turn to smile. The next point was mine: “How’d you know when his plane was landing?”
“It was—” He hesitated, but only for an instant. Then: “It was in the paper.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. Try again.”
“It was—”
The office door opened. Secretly, I swore. Friedman had returned. At the wrong moment. He spoke to me, saying “It’s all set. No problem.”
But I knew Friedman too well — knew he was bluffing. He couldn’t order Castro’s schedule changed. He could only request, and wait for his superiors to make the decision. And high-level decisions take time.
I watched him stride directly to Leo. Gripping the edge of the rosewood desk with both hands spread wide, Firedman leaned toward Leo. It was a comradely gesture, implying that they were about to share a secret.
“Now,” Friedman said amiably, “we can talk. The reason I had to leave in such a hurry, I’m in charge of municipal security for Castro’s visit. And I had to make, ah, certain arrangements. They’ve been made. So now we can talk, no sweat.” Friedman remained braced against the desk for a moment, staring down at Leo Cappellani. Except for a small, tolerant smile, the other man chose not to respond.
Covertly, I glanced at my watch. The time was nine-twenty. I watched Friedman push himself away from the desk and sink down in an armchair. He sat for a moment in silence, staring at Leo — who readily returned the stare, unintimidated. Finally, in a light, bantering voice, Friedman began to speak.
“The arrangements I’ve made have, ah, de-fanged your plot, Leo, if you’ll excuse the metaphor. There’s no way you can kill Castro. So if I were you, Leo, I think I’d spill the beans. You’re new at lawbreaking, I gather, so maybe I should tell you how the game is played. It’s actually a combination of musical chairs and blindman’s buff. Or maybe it’s steal the bacon. Anyhow, the idea is to save your skin. You do that by copping. That’s what it’s called on the street. Your expensive attorney’ll call it plea bargaining. But the principle’s the same.” Friedman paused for emphasis, then said, “Basically, the one who gets caught, cops. He blows the whistle on his associates, in other words. Whereupon the D. A. recommends that the judge go easy on you — which he does. Now—” Friedman leaned forward, driving home the point: “Now, that’s what Rosten’s done, see. He’s copped — and he’s left you holding the bag, or left you without the bacon, or without a musical chair, or whatever. In other words, you’re stuck. So the best thing you can do is stick the next guy down the line. Or, preferably, up the line. See how it works?”
While Friedman talked, Leo had been studying him. The suspect’s eyes revealed nothing, but occasionally his mouth twitched, as if he were amused. He sat with his chin supported on a judicious steeple of fingers. I noticed that he wore a star sapphire on his left little finger.
Finally he dismantled the finger steeple, to point at me with a languid forefinger.
“I’ve just told Lieutenant Hastings that I think he’s trying to bluff me. And the same applies to you, Lieutenant Friedman. As they say on the street, you’re trying to jive me. Aren’t you?” Gently, Leo smiled.
Projecting an air of utter indifference, Friedman shrugged. “Suit yourself, Leo. I’m giving you a chance to salvage some of your expensive skin. Whether you do it or not, that’s up to you. But I can tell you this: you aren’t going to enjoy prison. A lot of inmates don’t change their underwear often enough, and some of them have terrible table manners.”
“I think I’ll take my chances, Lieutenant.”
“Hmmm.” As Friedman appeared to think it over, he turned to me, slightly shrugging. He seemed to be saying that he’d done his best for Leo, and now it was time for us to get back to work. As he was acting it out, Leo spoke.
“You see,” Leo said, “I have an advantage over you. I know Paul Rosten. And I know that he wouldn’t cop, as you call it.”
Again projecting total indifference, Friedman silently spread his hands.
“As for protecting myself,” Leo said, “I’ve been giving that some thought while you were talking, Lieutenant Friedman. And I’ve got a scenario for you. Would you like to hear it?” His genial glance included us both in the question.
“Let’s hear it,” I said.
“All right.” He paused a moment, as if to arrange his thoughts so as to make the most interesting story for us. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I’m in as much trouble as you suggest — that I’m deeply implicated in a plot to kill Castro. And let’s suppose, also for the sake of argument, that he’s going to be shot between eleven o’clock and noon. Now, if both those premises were correct, then your best move, it seems to me, would be to take me to jail. However, as I’ve already mentioned to Lieutenant Hastings, you apparently don’t have enough evidence to arrest me, despite the fact that it would seem to be your logical move.” He paused to look at us each in turn, then continued: “So what’s my best move? Obviously, if I wanted to establish my innocence, my best move would be to do just what I’m doing now—” His gesture included the three of us, and the game we were playing. “What better alibi could I have than—”