“Listen, lady—” Canelli stepped cautiously toward her. “I can tell you that—”
“Shut up.” It was a low, half-strangled shriek. “And remember, stay inside, here. Stay in this office. If you don’t they’ll die. All of them, down there — they’ll all die. Because they’re my ticket out of here. Those kids. They’re my insurance.” In front of the door now, green eyes blazing, she looked at me for a last long, terrible moment.
Then, while I watched, she transformed herself before stepping out on stage to play the part of a beautiful young matron, she drew a long, deep breath. She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, lifted her breasts. Magically, her face smoothed. She gave me a last small, smug smile — and stepped out into the hallway. Her shadowed shape lingered a moment on the frosted glass door, then disappeared.
Instantly, I reached for my walkie-talkie-just as Canelli brushed past me, bounding desperately for the desk.
“What—?”
“Get to the door,” Canelli hissed. “Open it a crack. See when she gets on the elevator. Tell me when she’s in it.”
“But—”
“Do it, Lieutenant. I was an electrician. Tell me when she’s in the elevator.” At the desk now, he snatched up potted plant and emptied the plant and dirt on the floor.
“Listen, Canelli. You—”
“Shut up, Lieutenant. Just do it.” Moving soundlessly, he sprang to the door of the lavatory and jerked it open. Now filling the pot with water, he turned to me, pleading: “Please, Lieutenant. Do like I say. I can stop her. Once she’s in the elevator, the opener won’t work. She’ll be surrounded by steel and concrete. The signal won’t carry three feet. Honest.”
Three strides took me to the office door. One cautious millimeter at a time, I cracked the door until I could see her standing in front of the elevators. Above her head, a white plastic arrow lit up. One of the two elevators was coming up. She glanced impatiently at the arrow, then looked quickly back toward me. I held the door motionless, open just a fraction of an inch. I knew she couldn’t see me watching her.
Behind me, I heard water furiously running — then diminishing, finally stopping. Footsteps approached as Canelli came to stand close beside me.
“What’s happening?” he whispered.
“Nothing. She’s waiting for the elevator.” As I spoke, I saw a red arrow flashing, pointing down. Gripping the opener in her left hand, holding the alligator bag with her right hand, she was tensed for escape. I heard the elevator doors come open. She threw a last glance in my direction, then stepped forward — gone.
“She’s in the elevator.”
Beside me, Canelli drew the office door slowly open. The moment the elevator doors thudded shut, he leaped into the hallway. “Come on, Lieutenant. Quick.” Hugging the planter pot filled with water close to his bulging stomach, with his muffler trailing behind, he was running awkwardly for the two small twin doors: one to the cleaning closet, the other to the electrical panel. Holding the planter pot out to me, he ordered, “Put your finger in the drainage hole.”
Like characters in a comedy sketch, each trying to staunch the flow of water from the bottom of the pot with a clumsy finger, we juggled the planter between us. Finally, with his hands free, Canelli drew his revolver. “Watch the goddamn floor indicator,” he said.
Holding the heavy water-filled pot, I stepped back. Over the elevator she’d taken, numbers were flashing as she descended from the sixth floor to the fifth.
Beside me, a shot crashed. Another. And another. Throwing down his revolver, Canelli was struggling with the door to the electrical panel, his fingers jammed between the door and the frame. I saw blood on his fingernails.
Above the elevator, the number “3” flashed — and remained lit The elevator had stopped for passengers.
The door splintered and came open. Frantically, Canelli grabbed for his pistol, aimed at a locked metal panel inside, fired twice. As the panel door came open, the “3” blinked out.
“The water.” Canelli held out his hands.
Number “2” winked on.
I handed Canelli the planter, saw him throw the water on the exposed bank of switches and relays. Instantly, electricity sizzled, sparks showered down on the floor around us.
The number “2” winked out.
But the “1” was out, too.
The elevator was stopped between the first and second floors.
“Whew.” Shaking his head, Canelli stooped to retrieve his revolver. Still shaking his head — exhaling loudly — he holstered his revolver. Beneath the stocking cap, his face was sweat-streaked.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Lieutenant,” he said earnestly. “See, I used to be an electrician, like I said. So I knew that—”
“Wait, Canelli.” I raised my hand — and saw my fingers trembling. “Wait. Be quiet. Listen to me.” My voice, I knew, was hardly more than whisper.
Gulping for breath, mopping his face with the end of his stadium-style scarf, he silently nodded.
“You’ve got to get the second-floor elevator door open,” I said. “You’ve got to make sure she doesn’t get out through the escape door in the ceiling of the elevator. And I’ve got to get the bomb squad out here. I’ll send some men to help you. Clear?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. That’s clear.”
As I watched him lumbering toward the stairway door, I wondered whether the bomb squad would find the two small boys still sitting on the trash canister.
Epilogue
The Private Detective
At ten past seven that Monday night Frank Hastings and I were sitting in a back booth in Marlowe’s, a tavern on Bryant Street across from the Hall of Justice where cops and police reporters and bail bondsmen congregated. I had been there for fifteen minutes, nursing a beer, and Hastings had just come in.
He ordered a glass of tonic water from the waitress — for reasons of his own he did not drink anything alcoholic — and ran a hand heavily over his stubbled cheeks. He looked about the way I felt: tired, emotionally drained, in need of a dozen hours of uninterrupted sleep. I had spent all of last night and most of this morning answering police and FBI questions at the winery, and even though I had taken a four-hour nap after returning to San Francisco, it was going to be a while before my internal clock was functioning properly again.
“We just finished interrogating Shelly Jackson,” he said.
“She gave us most of the story, on advice from an expensive attorney.” His mouth quirked. “She’s going to cop a plea.”
“That figures,” I said.
“Right. Everybody plea-bargains these days — except for fanatics like Rosten and Leo Cappellani.”
“You didn’t get anything from Leo?”
“Not a word. As soon as we arrested him and told him Shelly was in custody and Castro was safe, he shut up tight. Just name, rank and serial number.”
I nodded.
“But like I said, we got most of the story from Shelly. Apparently both Leo and Rosten have been active in right-wing paramilitary politics for years — quietly and secretly. They were both recruited, if that’s the right word, by Frank Cappellani when he was alive.”
The waitress came back with Hastings’s drink, and while she was setting it out I thought about Rosa. She had told us last night that she suspected Leo had followed in his father’s political footsteps, but that he would never discuss the matter with her; neither would Rosten, who she knew was a disciple of her late husband. Whatever her feelings about Leo’s involvement in the attempted Castro assassination, she had hidden them behind a fresh cloak of imperiousness. But I got the impression that, despite appearances, Alex had always been her favorite son and that she would not stand by Leo; his political fanaticism might be forgiven, his murder of Booker might be forgiven, but the attempts on Alex’s life could never be.