Twospot

by Bill Pronzini

  “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.

  “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 ex pensive 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 interestin
g 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—”

  “Let’s go back to your ‘eleven o’clock and noon’ statement,” I cut in. “I still want to know how you learned what time Castro’s plane is scheduled to land.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad you mentioned that, Lieutenant. Because, when I think about it, I realize that you’re right. I didn’t read it in the newspapers. Perhaps someone told me about it. Except that I can’t remember who, right now. Maybe it’ll come to me.”

  As he spoke, I glanced at my watch. In an hour and ten minutes, Castro’s plane would land. I looked at Friedman, wondering what strange game of brinksmanship he was playing. Because if he intended to meet Castro’s plane, he’d have to leave within a half hour.

  I watched Friedman rise to his feet. His eyes were cold, his voice harsh: “If you leave this office before one P.M.,” he said, “you’ll be arrested, and taken downtown and booked—and that, Leo, is a solemn promise, from me to you. The same applies if you try to leave town without notifying the police.”

  Friedman turned on his heel and walked out of the office, gesturing for me to follow him. I had no choice but to obey.

  23

  I followed Friedman through the receptionist’s office and into the hallway outside, where Friedman walked quickly around the nearest corner, at the same time pulling his miniature walkie-talkie from inside his coat.

  “What the hell’re you doing?” I demanded. “Christ, he probably phoned an accomplice, the first time we left him. You’re letting him—”

  “Shhh.” He spoke urgently into the walkie-talkie. “Are you receiving it all right, Canelli?”

  “Yessir. Everything came in fine. And a tape recorder finally got here, just this minute. So I can talk to you, no sweat.”

  “Are you sure the recorder works? Did you check it?”

  “Yessir, I checked. It works fine.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “I think he left the office. Anyhow, I think I heard a door open, after you left. But I don’t think it closed. So—oh, oh. Now it closed. I’m getting footsteps, coming closer. I guess the bug’s a little ways from the door, eh?”

  “It’s under the front edge of the desk. Maybe twenty feet from the door.”

  “Well, it sure works good, Lieutenant. Those new bugs, they’re really something, you know? Honest to God, I heard every little sound you guys made. It’s too bad I didn’t have the recorder, then.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Canelli.” As he spoke, Friedman gestured for me to check Leo’s door. I stepped to the corner of the hallway, and peeped around.

  “Stay there,” Friedman said to me. “Keep looking.” And to Canelli he said, “What’s he doing now?”

  “He seems to be walking around his office, I’d say.”

  “He hasn’t touched the phone? Hasn’t dialed?”

  “Not that I heard, Lieutenant. Of course, the recorder probably got more than I got, especially since we’re talking. Want me to play it back? I can—”

  “No,” Friedman barked. “Don’t fool with the goddamn recorder.”

  “Well, jeeze, Lieutenant—” Canelli’s voice trailed off into reproachful silence. His feelings were hurt.

  Friedman sighed. “Sorry, Canelli. I—”

  “Hey. He’s doing it now. Dialing.”

  “All right—” Relieved, Friedman exhaled. “Just make sure the recorder’s getting the clicks. That’s the whole purpose of this.”

  “Yessir.”

  It seemed as if interminable minutes passed, but I knew less than thirty seconds had elapsed before Canelli’s voice crackled:

  “I got it, Lieutenant. But it isn’t much. All he said was, ‘Are you ready?’ Then, after a second or so, he said, ‘I’m out of it now. It’s all up to you.’ Something like that. Then he hung up.”

  We were already breaking for the elevator as Friedman spoke sharply to Canelli: “Play back the tape and get the clicks. Call the phone company and ask for Supervisor Diane Sobel. Tell her the number’s for me. Tell her we need the location in seconds, not minutes. Got it?”

  As I pushed the elevator’s “down” button, I heard Canelli say, “Yessir. Got it.”

  “What the hell’s keeping Canelli?” Friedman scanned the parking lot, then glanced at his watch. “Christ, it’s five minutes after ten.” He looked anxiously in the direction Canelli had gone searching for a phone.

  “You want to go look for him?” I asked. “I’ll stay here until we get some support.”

  “If the phone company’s diddling him for a warrant—” Frustrated, Friedman tapped the roof of his cruisier with a clenched fist.

  “Listen,” I said, “you should be on your way to the airport, right now.”

  “I’m not so sure,” he answered. “It might be better if I—” Canelli came trotting around the corner of the massive brick building. Cheerfully smiling, he was waving his notebook at us.

  “I got it,” he called. “Sorry it took so long.” He drew up in front of us, panting heavily and shaking his head. “Jeeze, I must be out of shape, or something.” As he gulped for breath, he handed his notebook to Friedman. “That’s it, Lieutenant. 501 McAllister. It’s a pay phone on the first floor. In the lobby.”

  Friedman swore. “501 McAllister. That’s on the corner of Polk Street.” As he spoke, two black and white cars pulled into the parking lot, stopping bumper-to-bumper beside us. I nodded to the uniformed officers, gesturing for them to stay in their cars. Friedman was still earnestly swearing. He was, I knew, trying to make up his mind, struggling with a no-win decision. It was the only time he ever seriously swore. Finally he turned abruptly to me.

  “I’d better go to the airport. That’s my best shot. If I can do anything, it’ll have to be on the scene—with the goddamn motorcade. I’ll give a direct order to our men, and screw the goddamn bureaucrats, if they haven’t made up their minds.” He opened the door of his car.

  “All you’ve got to do is route Castro away from that building,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

  He was already in the car, starting the engine.

  “The problem,” he said, “Is that I think 501 McAllister is across the Civic Center Plaza from the City Hall steps, in easy rifle range. That’s the problem. I can change the motorcade route, probably. I’ll catch some flack, but I can do it. But I don’t know whether I can do anything about changing what happens on the steps.” As he spoke, he thrust his hand into a pocket. “Here—take these.” He handed me a dozen small lapel badges. “That’s your security identification. They work for the FBI and the State Department security team.” He put his cruiser in gear. “You get down there, Frank. Collar the triggerman, and tell me when you’ve got him. I’ll be on channel twelve.”

  Tires squealing, he pulled away.

  “Park over there,” I ordered. “Around the corner, on Polk.” As I spoke, I checked the time: ten twenty-five.

  Canelli started his turn, muttered when a woman in a bright orange Ford repeatedly blew her horn, and finally pulled to a stop in a loading zone. I reached for the microphone and got Halliday, in Communications.

  “This is Inspectors Eleven,” I said. “We’re positioned at Polk and Golden Gate, on the northwest corner. Do you have our backup units under way
?”

  “That’s affirmative, sir. Three units. Six inspectors.”

  “Give them our position. And tell them to hurry. Not code three. But hurry.”

  “Yessir.”

  I hung up the microphone and swung open the car door. “I’m going to the phone booth. You wait here until you’ve got all six men. Then come to the booth. If I’m not there, wait in the lobby. Bring walkie-talkies, but no shotguns. Clear?”

  “Yessir, that’s clear.”

  501 McAllister was an office building that had probably been built in the late twenties or early thirties. Standing on the sidewalk, I counted windows. The building was twelve stories tall, and faced the Civic Center Plaza. Friedman had been right: the front of the building commanded a clear view of the City Hall steps. The range would be about three hundred yards, optimum for a scope-sighted rifle. If the president were the visitor, every office facing the Plaza would have been evacuated, then secured. For Castro’s visit, security was a little less stringent.

  A team of four patrolmen were erecting crowd-control barriers: heavily weighted steel stanchions with rope threaded through their eyebolts at waist height. Now, the rope was slack, lying on the pavement. As the crowd gathered, the ropes would be pulled taut. Across the street, in the Plaza, a group of demonstrators was gathered in a loose circle around two men who were hammering wooden handles on anti-Castro placards.

  I nodded to one of the patrolmen, entered the building, quickly crossed the small lobby and went directly to three phone booths located next to the two elevators. Canelli’s information was correct. Leo had called the phone in the middle booth. Using my handkerchief, I closed the booth’s door. At the same moment one of the elevators opened, and two patrolmen stepped out. Both men were strangers to me. I identified myself, explained the situation and ordered one of the men to guard the booth against destruction of latent prints.