Twospot

by Bill Pronzini

  “By the way, do you happen to know Alex’s blood type?”

  Half turned toward the door, she turned back, staring at me. “Blood type?”

  “For the record.”

  “It’s the same as mine,” she sand. “O positive. For the record.” She spoke in a low, bitterly mocking voice. I hadn’t fooled her.

  I waited for them to leave the office, then spoke into the phone: “Yes. Sorry.”

  “It’s Canelli, Lieutenant. Did I interrupt you?”

  “It’s all right. What is it?”

  “I just wanted to tell you that the only ones I could find are Logan Dockstetter, who’s the Cappellanis’ sales manager, and Leo Cappellani and Shelly Jackson. They work at the winery’s offices in the city here, as I understand it. Mr. Cappellani wasn’t very anxious to see us, but I finally, ah, insisted. So he said we could see him about two o’clock, at his office. And the Jackson woman, too.”

  “What about Dockstetter?”

  “He’s going to have lunch at the San Francisco Yacht Club. He said he’d meet us there, at noon.”

  “All right. Fine.”

  “I’ve never been inside that yacht club,” he said. “I hear it’s pretty fancy.”

  “It is.”

  9

  Canelli pulled into a parking place, switched off the engine and sat for a moment staring out over the yacht harbor.

  “Jeeze, Lieutenant, did you ever stop to think how much money there is in San Francisco? I mean, every once in a while when I’m downtown, I can’t believe how many Cadillacs I see. Not to mention Lincolns, and Mercedes, and all. And then this—” He gestured to the long rows of pleasure boats moored side by side to wharves ranked endlessly along the shore. The Yacht Club was built on a stone breakwater that protected the harbor. The largest, most expensive yachts were moored closest to the club. The smaller craft, mostly sailboats, lost definition in the distance: a constantly criss-crossing tangle of masts and rigging lines, gently shifting with the swell.

  For a moment we sat staring out across the harbor. Last night’s fog had burned off; sunlight sparkled on the water. To our left, a small sailboat, bright white, was just clearing the breakwater, heading out into the bay.

  Marveling, Canelli shook his head. “It’s another world, you know that, Lieutenant? It’s a whole other world.”

  Instead of replying, I glanced at my watch. The time was exactly noon. I reached for our microphone and pressed the “transmit” button.

  “This is Inspectors Eleven,” I said. “Lieutenant Hastings.”

  “Yessir, Lieutenant.” It was Halliday, my favorite communications man.

  “We’ll be in the San Francisco Yacht Club for thirty or forty minutes. Any messages?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any developments on either Mal Howard or Alex Cappellani?”

  “No, sir.”

  I sighed. In addition to the six men looking for Howard, I’d detailed two men to watch the Cappellani house and another two men to watch the Cappellani offices. Including Canelli and myself, twelve men were assigned to the case. For a “routine homicide,” I’d reached the departmental manpower limit.

  I signed off and got out of the car. As we walked across the parking lot I asked, “Is there anything yet on those blood types?”

  Canelli exhaled loudly, irked with himself. “I forgot to tell you. Booker’s type is AB negative, which was most of it. The blood, I mean. The type at the garage door and on the sidewalk outside is O positive.”

  “Alex’s type.” I pushed open the huge front door of the Yacht Club, gesturing for Canelli to precede me.

  “Right,” he answered. “Except that I couldn’t find out about Howard’s type. And O positive is the most common. So I guess there’s a better than even chance that it could be Howard’s type, too. At least, that’s what I—” His voice trailed off. A middle-aged man who looked like a successful investment banker stepped forward to greet us, subtly blocking our progress into the club’s elegantly paneled interior hallway. The man was deliberately assessing Canelli, head to toe. Plainly, the verdict wasn’t favorable.

  “We’re meeting Mr. Logan Dockstetter,” I said, stepping forward. “We’re expected.”

  The man’s gaze transferred itself to me. Resignation clouded his voice as he asked for our names.

  Dockstetter was sitting at a corner table facing the huge plate-glass windows that looked out on San Francisco Bay. Following his gaze, I was startled to see the long, slate-colored shape of an atomic submarine passing under the Golden Gate Bridge, slipping out to sea. Above the submarine, in front and behind, two outriding Navy helicopters hovered like giant dragonflies.

  “They’re sinister looking, those submarines,” Dockstetter said. “They always remind me of crocodiles.”

  “Because they only show their snouts, you mean.”

  He nodded, and gestured us to seats across from him. When we declined his perfunctory offer of drinks, he was visibly relieved. Like the man who’d greeted us at the door, Logan Dockstetter was obviously pained at our presence in this high-ceilinged, richly carpeted, antique-furnished citadel of privilege.

  I settled back in my chair and took a moment to survey the bar room. Red-jacketed waiters moved discreetly from table to table. Expensive glassware tinkled and sparkled. Conversation was slow and melodious. Laughter was muted. Seeing it all, I secretly winced. During the year I’d played professional football, I’d been married to an heiress. Early in our marriage, some of our best moments had been shared in places like this. At the end of our marriage, after football had ruined my knees and a “public relations” job in my father-in-law’s executive suite had robbed me of my self-respect, most of my worst moments had been spent in the same places.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” Dockstetter said, consulting a wafer-thin gold wristwatch.

  “We won’t need much time, Mr. Dockstetter.” As I spoke, I placed my notebook on the table between us. “I just wanted to get a few facts straight.” I flicked my ballpoint pen. At the sound, Dockstetter seemed to start. He was a slightly built man of about forty. Height, average. Weight, not more than a hundred fifty pounds. His face was pale and narrow, drawn into prim lines of permanent disapproval. His mouth was pursed, his washed-out eyes distant and disdainful. He looked like an overbred English aristocrat. Canelli had told me that Dockstetter was the winery’s sales manager. It was hard to imagine this pale, fastidious man cajoling a customer.

  Canelli had also said that Dockstetter was probably gay. That, I decided, was a good guess.

  “You were present at the Cappellani winery on Thursday night, when Alex was attacked. Is that right?”

  Sipping something that looked like a gin and tonic, he inclined his beautifully barbered head. “That’s right.”

  “Who do you think was responsible for that attack, Mr. Dockstetter?”

  Plainly, the question startled him. Frowning, he placed his glass on the table before him. “I—I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said carefully.

  “It’s very simple.” As I spoke, I put a faint edge of patronizing contempt on my voice. If I could ruffle Dockstetter’s carefully preened feathers, I might learn something extra from him. “I’m asking you to tell me who you think tried to kill Alex.”

  “But I—” He blinked. “I don’t know. How could I know?”

  “Guess, then. I want input.”

  “But that would be—slander, if I guessed.”

  I shook my head. “Wrong. I’m a police officer, and I’m asking you a question in connection with a murder investigation. I want an answer to the question. In this case, I want you to make a guess. There’s a witness present—” I nodded to Canelli. “Technically, if you don’t do as I ask, you could be obstructing justice.”

  “But I—I never heard of anything like that.” He stared at me for a moment, then dropped his eyes. His fingers tightened on the gin and tonic glass. I noticed that he wore two small golden rings, one on each of hi
s little fingers.

  I looked at my own watch. “I’m waiting, Mr. Dockstetter.”

  “Well, I—ah—” His tongue tip circled pale lips. “I—ah—I’d have to guess Booker, then. Jason Booker.”

  Across the table, Canelli grinned. “That’s a safe call, I guess, if you’re worried about slander. Since he’s dead, I mean.”

  Both Dockstetter and I stared hard at Canelli—who promptly flushed, and began to fidget.

  “Did you see anything or hear anything Thursday night that made you think it was Booker?” I asked Dockstetter.

  “No. Nothing. I’m just guessing.” He flicked his hand in a small, petulant gesture. “That’s what you wanted, I thought—a guess.”

  “Would you guess that Booker actually struck the blow? Or would you say he hired it done?”

  “Well—ah if I had to choose, I’d say he hired it done. I mean, it’s hard to imagine Booker actually trying to kill anyone.” Again Dockstetter’s hand moved, fluttering now.

  I slipped Mal Howard’s picture from my pocket. “Have you ever seen this man, Mr. Dockstetter?”

  Annoyed, he drew a pair of horn-rimmed half-glasses from the inside pocket of his blue blazer. He glanced briefly at the picture, shook his head and quickly returned the glasses to his pocket. Obviously, reading glasses didn’t fit Dockatetter’s self-image.

  “No, I’ve never seen him. Who is he?”

  “The man who may have killed Booker,” I answered, staring him straight in the eye. “His name is Malcolm Howard. Mal, for short. His fingerprints were discovered at the murder scene.”

  Peevishly, he blinked at the picture. I felt that he wanted to look at it again, now that he knew its significance. But he didn’t want to put on the glasses again.

  “Some people figure,” Canelli staid, “that Alex thought Jason Booker was trying to run some kind of a con on Rosa Cappellani, to maybe get some of her money. Maybe all of her money. So then, some people think, maybe Booker hired Mal Howard to get to Alex. Like, to warn him off, maybe., with a lump on the head. How does that sound, Mr. Dockstetter? For guessing, I mean?”

  As Canelli had been talking Dockstetter had drained the last of his drink in two long, noisy gulps.

  “But—” He gestured to the picture, still lying on the table. “But you said that he—Howard—killed Booker.”

  Canelli raised his beefy shoulders, shrugging. “Maybe Booker didn’t pay Howard for the job Thursday night. Maybe that’s why they were going to meet yesterday, at the Cappellani house—so Booker could make the payoff. But maybe. he didn’t make it, or couldn’t. So there was a fight. And Howard won.”

  I looked thoughtfully at Canelli. Except for the fact that it didn’t account for Alex’s presence at the town house, it was a good, sound theory. I wondered whether it had just occured to him. If not, I wondered why I hadn’t heard about it.

  “Do you think Booker was doing something illegal, Mr. Dockstetter?” I asked. “Something that might have been calculated to defraud Mrs. Cappellani?”

  Dockstetter’s pale eyes narrowed. “Is this another guess you’re asking for?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d say that, definitely, Booker was up to no good, as the saying goes. Rosa—Mrs. Cappellani—is very—” He paused, searching for the word. “She’s very susceptible,” he said finally. “She’s very vain. And according to the rumors, she’s very—” Again he hesitated. Finally: “She’s very hot-blooded.” Saying it, he registered disdainful disapproval.

  “Sexually, you mean.”

  He nodded primly. “That’s her business, of course. However, when her, ah, appetites affect the welfare of the winery, then others become involved. And that’s what’s happening.”

  “Is the winery in trouble?”

  “Not serious trouble. Not yet. But it could happen. Both Rosa and Leo have had other things on their minds, lately. And it’s beginning to show. Cappellani wines used to have a reputation for quality. That’s no longer true.”

  I thought about what he’d told me, then decided to say, “Rosa came to see me this morning, along with with Paul Rosten. She said that Leo has taken over the management of the winery—and is doing a good job.”

  He sniffed. “Leo was doing a good job, up until a year or so ago. Then he began to get involved in politics, just like his father. It’s the same pattern, all over again. As soon as the old man got a little power—a little money—he immediately began to think of himself as a kingmaker. The same thing is happening with Leo. If it weren’t so—so ludicrous, it would be funny. Basically, they’re nothing but grape growers who got lucky. In the fifties, the old man was constantly flying off to Texas, or New York, or God knows where, instead of tending to business. The real kingmakers must have laughed at him—and used him, too.”

  Obviously, the thought gave Dockstetter a certain malicious pleasure. He was a man who enjoyed minimizing the achievements of others. I saw him raise a finger to a passing waiter, point to his empty glass. He didn’t ask whether Canelli or I would join him.

  “Paul Rosten is another—” Dockstetter hesitated, searching for the word. “He’s another strange one,” he finished lamely.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean—” Again, he hesitated, this time while the red-jacketed waiter took away his glass. “I mean that as a winemaker, he’s impossible. He simply has no feeling for the job. But Rosa would never think of firing him.”

  “Why not?”

  Dockstetter looked at me shrewdly. I thought I knew why. He was about to pass on more gossip—gratuitously, for his own selfserving purpose.

  “Rosten was very close to the old man—birds of a feather. That’s one theory. There’s also a theory that Rosten and Rosa were lovers after the old man died. Or maybe—” He permitted himself a small, self-satisfied smirk. “Or maybe before, others, say.”

  At my belt, a small electronic pager buzzed. I pressed the button and heard Halliday requesting that I phone Communications, code two.

  “I used to have one of those,” Dockstetter said, pointing to the pager. “But I eventually decided it was a terrible nuisance. Simply terrible.”

  I rose to my feet. “That’s negative thinking, Dockstetter,” I said. “You should’ve thought of it as a status symbol.”

  He didn’t return my departing smile.

  I’d seen a phone outside the Yacht Club, at dockside. As we walked toward the phone, Canelli said, “That Dockstetter’s sure a pris.”

  “A what?”

  “A pris. You know—for prissy.”

  “Have you got a dime?” I asked.

  “How’s two nickels?”

  “Fine. Thanks.” I dialed Communications and asked for Halliday.

  “I hope I didn’t disturb you, Lieutenant,” he said. “But Lieutenant Friedman is out, and Canelli is with you, I gather. And I’ve got a couple of things that I thought you should know about, on the Booker homicide.”

  “It’s all right, Halliday. What’ve you got?”

  “First,” he said, “a black and white car spotted Alex Cappellani’s car. It’s on upper Grant Avenue, near Greenwich. They’re keeping it under survelliance. I thought I’d better notify you.”

  “I’m glad you did. Are you in contact with the team watching the Cappellani offices?”

  “Yessir, I am.”

  “All right. On my authority, tell them to proceed to Alex’s car and relieve the uniformed officers. Tell them to stay well back, out of sight. Clear?”

  “Yessir, that’s clear.”

  “What else’ve you got?”

  “The team that’s looking for Mal Howard drew a couple of blanks, but now they’re sure they’ve located his present address. They found someone who got burned by Howard on a dirty movie transaction, and he’s willing to cop, out of spite. It looks pretty solid. I thought I should tell you.”

  I took out my ballpoint pen. “What’s the address?”

  “1976 Scott Street. Near Pine.”

 
“I’ll send Canelli to take charge. Have a sector car pick him up at the Yacht Club, outside. I’m going to the Cappellani offices. I shouldn’t be there for more than an hour. Then, if nothing else develops, I’ll go downtown.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re doing a good job, Halliday. Are you going to be on duty for a while today?”

  “I’ll stay as long as you want me, Lieutenant, if that’s the question.”

  “That’s the question, Halliday. Thanks.”

  10

  The receptionist’s face was expressionless as she examined my badge. She was a pale, fussy woman of about thirty, with a narrow head and a scrawny body. A bright red mouth accented the unhealthy pallor of her face. A tight sweater clung to a torso that was barely pubescent. Dark eyeshadow enlarged eyes that were already protuberant.

  “Is Mr. Cappellani expecting you?”

  “He’s expecting me at two. I’m early, but I hope he’ll see me. I’m having a—busy day.”

  Plainly displeased, she lifted her phone and spoke in a hushed voice. She handled the phone as if it where covered with germs.

  “He’ll see you, Lieutenant.” Disapprovingly, she gestured to a tall walnut door with brushed chrome fittings. A matching chrome nameplate was inscribed L. CAPPELLANI. The effect was understated elegance.

  “Go right in, please.”

  The Cappellani offices occupied a suite on the third floor of one of the huge brick warehouses that had been built close to the waterfront at the turn of the century. As shipping declined, the fortresslike warehouses had fallen vacant. Then, during the last decade, developers had profitably restored the old buildings, remodeling them to accent worn wooden beams and the timeless texture of natural brick. Leo Cappellani had a corner office. On two sides, big plate-glass windows set into the massive exposed-brick walls offered a magnificent view of San Francisco Bay.

  Leo Cappellani sat behind an oversized rosewood desk. As I entered the office he rose to his feet and gestured me to an armchair placed about five feet from the desk. As I sat down, I realized that my chair was several inches lower than Leo’s. He didn’t offer to shake hands.