But I shouldn’t have forewarned her — shouldn’t have surrendered the vital element of surprise.
“Has it been diverted?” she asked sharply.
“Yes.” Letting my eyes fall, I tried to put a note of duplicity in my voice — tried to make it sound like a desperate lie.
Her face was still in profile. I saw her mouth tighten, and her eyes slightly narrow. Now she turned to face me fully, searching my face for the truth.
“How many policemen are in the building?” she asked quietly. “Besides the FBI men?”
“Just us. Canelli and I.”
The ice-green eyes searched mine for a final moment. She was making her decision. She checked her watch, then again turned to look out the window. All the while, her thumb remained on the opener’s square plastic button.
“We’ll give it ten minutes,” she said finally. “I’m waiting for a call.”
“Who’s going to call you?”
She didn’t reply. But now I could see the first signs of tension working at her face. Her jaw was tightly clenched. Beneath the smooth, creamy skin of her neck, muscles were drawing taut.
“Are you worried about the getaway?” I asked. “Is that what the call’s about?”
She didn’t answer.
“If it’s Leo you’re waiting for,” I pressed, “forget it. He’s in custody. He told you so, on the phone — told you he was out of it.” I let a beat pass before I said, “Didn’t he?”
Still she didn’t answer. Profiled against the window, her face was impassive.
But now a muscle was jumping at the corner of her mouth. Her neck was corded.
I moved a slow, cautious step toward her. I didn’t have a plan. Certainly I couldn’t wrestle the opener away from her before she pushed the button. But I wanted to be closer to her as I began probing for weakness:
“How’d you get into this, Shelly? I can figure Leo. He’s a true believer. He’s the nut — the one with the wild eyes. There’s always one like him in an assassination. But you aren’t a true believer. And you’re certainly not a nut.”
This time, her smile was genuine: a small, smug little smirk of pleasure. “No, I’m not a nut, Lieutenant. I’m a business person. I work for people who’ll pay me a lot of money for this job.”
“Which people? Right-wingers?”
The question amused her. “Right-wingers are amateurs,” she answered contemptuously. “And it’s the amateurs that cost you in this business. I tried to tell them — tried to warn them about Leo. But they wouldn’t listen. Not until he had Howard kill Booker. And then it was too late.”
“Who’re they? Who’s paying you?”
She didn’t answer.
“Is it organized crime? Is that it?”
Again she refused to answer. But the small smile widened almost imperceptibly.
“Organized crime,” I said. “The Mafia. They hired you for the job. You found Leo, who’ll work for free. Then you turned up Mal Howard. He’s always been for sale.”
Still she didn’t respond. But the truth was plain in her face. Years ago, the Mafia had vowed to kill Castro. And the Mafia never forgot. Castro had deprived them of their greatest prize: Cuba, crime capital of the world. For that, they’d promised, Castro would die.
Here. In San Francisco. At the hands of a slim girl in a stylish tweed suit.
Trying to get her talking, to find a wedge, I said, “I should’ve connected you with Mal Howard. You were both in Florida at the same time. Christ, it should’ve been obvious. He has a background in explosive devices, too. It all fits.”
She nodded indifferently. My theorizing didn’t interest her.
“You’re an enforcer,” I said. “A goddamn lady enforcer.”
She glanced at me. Once more, the smile teased the provocative corners of her mouth. Finally she spoke.
“You’re lucky there were two of you,” she said. “I would have shot one. But I couldn’t risk trying for both of you.”
She’d started to talk. I must keep her talking.
“Have you shot many people, Shelly?”
“Not many.” As she spoke, she glanced sharply at ther watch. The time was ten minutes to twelve. She looked at the phone, still silent. The ten minutes she’d allowed herself were gone.
Suddenly she wheeled on Canelli. “Get back against the wall,” she ordered. Her voice was harsh, her manner decisive. She’d made her decision. Instinctively, I knew she’d decide to cut her losses.
“Move, you fat slob.” She gestured with the opener. “Now.”
As he obeyed, Canelli’s soft brown eyes reproached her. Canelli was sensitive about his weight.
She turned to me. “Come here,” she ordered. She pointed to a spot on the floor less than a yard from where she stood. “Stand there. I want to show you something.”
Moving slowly and deliberately, careful not to startle her, I obeyed. She pointed down at the intersection of Polk and McAllister. The intersection was packed with people. During the past fifteen minutes the crowd-control officers had raised their rope barricades. Two mounted officers rode on smartly prancing horses, patrolling the barricades.
“You were right about Mal Howard,” she said. “You were exactly right.”
Staring straight into her eyes, I only nodded.
“Howard made a bomb,” she said. “Two bombs.”
Still I didn’t respond.
“Look down there,” she ordered, pointing with her free right hand. “Do you see those two trash containers on either side of Polk Street? At the corner.”
Following her gesture, I felt my stomach suddenly contract. Two small boys were sitting on one of the big metal canisters. Across the street, a pretty teenage blond girl stood leaning against a matching canister. She held a sandwich in one hand and a pop-top can of Coke in the other. She was squinting as she stared up Polk Street, trying to catch sight of the motorcade.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “You can’t do that. You’ll never sleep again if you do that.”
Momentarily her eyes blazed. “You son of a bitch,” she whispered. “Shut up. Listen.”
“But they’re children. They—”
“Shut up!” Now her eyes were wild. Her free right hand was suddenly shaking violently. “I’m getting a half-million dollars for this. So listen.”
Holding the opener, her left hand was shaking, too.
She forced herself to speak slowly, choosing her words. “Those canisters,” she said huskily, “both contain explosives. The explosives are inside two four-inch steel pipes. The pipes are closed on one end and open on the other. The pipes are packed with dynamite and shrapnel. They’re like two mortars, pointing toward each other. We put the cans there last night, Leo and I. When Castro’s car gets between the canisters, I press the button. Then I—”
“Shelly— Jesus. It won’t happen. He’s not coming this way. You—”
“If he comes,” she said, speaking now in a low, deadly voice, “it’ll be in the next five minutes. I was going to blow the canisters from here and escape in the mess. Leo was going to pick me up, a block from here. But you changed that, you son of a bitch. So I’m leaving. I’m going to leave this office, and get on the elevator and go down to the street. I’ll blow the canisters from the street. And if you try to stop me any time between now and then, I’ll press the button. I’ll—”
“But Castro’s not—”
“If you come after me, I’ll press this button. Do you understand? So if anyone dies, it’s your fault. Not mine. You’re the one who’ll kill them. It’s your decision.” Suddenly she stepped away from the desk, moving toward the office door.