Rizzo’s Fire Page 21

  “Couldn’t be better, kiddo, couldn’t be better. You got a minute?”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Well, me and Cil got us a situation here. I’d like to discuss it with you. Face-to-face.”

  There was a pause. “Everything okay?” McQueen asked, the caution in his tone not fully disguised by the superimposed casualness.

  “Right as rain, buddy, right as rain. You workin’ tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, Joe, I’m steady eight-to-fours, weekends off.”

  “Well, good for you, banker’s hours. Good for you. Listen, how ’bout lunch? Down at Pete’s maybe, like last time, or I can come into the city. I’m off tomorrow.”

  “Sure, Pete’s is fine, just five minutes across the bridge from the Plaza. How about one o’clock?”

  “Great. Looking forward to it. See you then.”

  “Okay,” McQueen said. “Is Cil comin’?”

  Rizzo hesitated. “Not this time, Mike. Next time, maybe.”

  Now it was McQueen who hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “But everything is all right?”

  “Yep, everything is just fine,” Rizzo said. “But we don’t need Cil along this time.”

  Another hesitation. “Well, okay, Joe. See you tomorrow.” The line went dead.

  Everything was just fine, Rizzo thought. Just fine.

  FRIDAY AT one o’clock, Rizzo smiled across the table in Pete’s Downtown Restaurant. “Well, you sure look fancy today, Mike. Another new suit?”

  “Yeah,” McQueen said. “To celebrate my bump up to second grade.” He waved for a waiter, then turned to Rizzo.

  “Double Dewar’s, rocks?” Mike asked Rizzo.

  “Sure.”

  With drinks before them and their lunch orders placed, Rizzo raised his glass.

  “To us, Partner. And to the future.”

  After sipping his drink, McQueen rotated the Manhattan glass slowly between his fingers, then asked, “So, what’s up?”

  Rizzo filled him in on the Lauria case, stressing its possible connection to the murder of internationally acclaimed playwright Avery Mallard.

  “Think about it, Mike,” he said softly. “What other explanation could there be for Lauria having that play stashed at his sister’s, and not one copy of it in his apartment? What possible explanation could there be for the existence of that manuscript? No matter how you slice and dice, it comes back to one simple fact: Lauria and Mallard were somehow connected. Connected by that play. And whoever killed Lauria most likely searched the apartment, specifically lookin’ for the play, found it and took it. Lauria was a real low-tech guy, there ain’t any cyberspace copies of that play floatin’ around. The killer felt confident he had the situation under control.”

  Rizzo smiled at McQueen. “We just fell into it, kid.”

  “Well,” Mike replied, “it may be quite a lucky stumble for you.”

  “You bet,” Rizzo said. “Like Yogi Berra once said, I’d rather be lucky than good.”

  McQueen laughed. “Or better yet, good and lucky.”

  Rizzo took a sip of his Scotch, then continued.

  “If this is Mallard whackin’ Lauria, and then somebody evening the score by killing Mallard, or even if it’s just an interested third party killed them both, there’s gotta be a link between the two victims.”

  McQueen nodded. “Yeah, well, good luck with that. Some Brooklyn loser and a celebrated Pulitzer Prize–winning New York playwright. Shit, I studied Mallard in English lit class at NYU. The guy is—was—a friggin’ living legend.”

  “Yeah, so I hear.” Rizzo drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “So what’s the word at the Plaza, Mike? About the Mallard case.”

  “Not much. Manhattan South is on it, with some Major Case support. The brass is all over it. Lots of pressure to nab somebody, and time is passing. The case is getting cold.”

  Rizzo nodded. “What angle are they playin’?”

  “Far as I know,” McQueen replied, “they make it as a breakin. Perp came in a window at Mallard’s brownstone on a Sunday night, there was a struggle, Mallard got strangled. Manhattan South is rousting junkies and b and e guys all over the city. They’re squeezing stoolies and getting the word out to the jails. Any skell lookin’ for a deal comes forward with a name on this case, the guy can write his own friggin’ ticket. According to my A.D.A. friend, Darrel Jordan, the Manhattan D.A. would sell his only child to make this case. He’s got his eye on the governor’s chair, and he thinks prosecuting this case will help put him there.”

  “Yeah, figures,” said Rizzo. “Better government through better bullshit. Same ole, same ole.” He took a sip of his drink as the waiter reappeared, placing their appetizers before them. When he left, Rizzo continued.

  “Let’s get to the point, Mike. I need the Mallard file. I want the contacts—the guy’s wife, mother, girlfriend, boyfriend, all of it. I wanna try to cross his path with Lauria’s. I do that, I got a lead to the killer. Or killers. The M.O.s are the same. There’s a connection between these cases, I’d bet two years of Marie’s Cornell tuition there is. And I wanna be the one makin’ that connection.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.” McQueen reached for a fork, looking casually down at his stuffed shrimp. “Now I’ve got a question, Joe.”

  “Yeah, I figured,” Rizzo said. “What’s in it for you? Let me answer that. You get me the file, raid that computer you’re drivin’ all day. Me and Cil do the leg work. If it breaks right, we tie you into it. Success would force the brass to overlook the—let’s call it, unofficial—help you gave us. Mike, we crack this, Cil writes her own ticket—Homicide, Task Force, what ever she wants. I finish up my career a fuckin’ superstar, the guy who cracked the Pulitzer Prize murder case. They get Joe Hollywood to play me in the movie of the week.”

  He leaned across the table. “Just thinka how proud my mother’ll be, Mike.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” His face turning serious, McQueen added, “But I gotta tell you, I see myself maybe out in the cold here. Officially, I’ll have had nothing to do with it. Plus I might have a pissedoff supervisor to deal with, maybe some other brass, too.”

  Rizzo waved a hand.

  “Bullshit. It’s me and Cil taking all the risk. If this goes well, anybody remotely near you will be wrappin’ his arms around your shoulder and lookin’ for the nearest photographer. There’ll be plenty of glory to go around, Mike, real and invented. Believe me.”

  McQueen frowned. “You really think so?”

  Rizzo took a sip of water, then put the glass down and folded his hands, leaning in on the table, closer to his former partner. He lowered his voice.

  “Let me tell you a story, Mike. A story about this lazy, not-too-bright patrolman from the Six-Two. It was way back when, before my time even. Son of Sam was runnin’ around the city, shooting kids parked in cars on lovers’ lanes. The last shooting was in the Six-Two, down by the highway. This patrol cop, he tags a car parked by a hydrant around midnight, just before the shooting went down. So he writes his ticket, rides back to the house, and goes home. Forgets all about it. Next day, the detectives are canvassing the neighborhood and they see a woman walkin’ her dog. They approach her. Yeah, she says, she was out with the dog last night. ’Round midnight. No, didn’t see nothin’ suspicious. Is she sure? Yeah, she said. All she saw was some fat ol’ cop writin’ a ticket for some car parked near the johnny pump about a block from the scene. So the detectives go back to the precinct and pull the house copy of the summons. They run the plate through, and guess what? The car ain’t local. It belongs to some guy David Berkowitz, lives in Westchester County, north of the city.”

  Rizzo paused, draining his Dewar’s.

  “And that’s how the case got cleared. The patrol cop was too dumb to make the connection, but the brass bumped him up to detective third grade anyway. For writin’ a parking ticket he never even realized the significance of.”

  He looked at McQueen. “What do you figure they’ll do for you when I crack this c
ase and tell ’em how I’da never been able to do it without your help?”

  A slow smile had formed across Mike’s face. “I don’t know, but I’m beginning to think I’d like to find out.”

  Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, I bet. And you know, it was a detective named Zito made that Son of Sam case. Half the cops working today, including you, weren’t even born yet when Zito made that case, but plenty of them know the name. You never know, Mike,” Rizzo added affably. “Maybe forty years from now some cops’ll be schemin’ out a scheme somewhere and one of them’ll bring up Joe Rizzo.” He waved for a second round of drinks.

  “Now I see why you didn’t want Cil along today, Joe.”

  “Oh?” Rizzo said, arching his brows, “and why’s that?”

  Lowering his voice, McQueen said, “Daily. Councilman William fuckin’ Daily. We pull this off, we’re untouchable. We couldn’t discuss that aspect of all this in front of Cil. But you and I know, we pull this off, we could nail that prick Daily and not give a goddamn if anybody realizes it was us who did it. That’s your motivation here. We’d be fuckin’ untouchable.”

  “Okay, kid,” Rizzo said with satisfaction. “You’re a good learner. We find Mallard’s killer, we’re the fair-haired boys of the news media. There ain’t a boss or a politician in the whole fuckin’ city who’d tangle with that. Not just to avenge that scumbag Daily.”

  He gazed across the table and into the intent, steely blue eyes of McQueen.

  “Get me that file, Mike,” he said. “Without it, I’m blind.”

  McQueen pursed his lips. “Okay, I’ll do it. But it’ll take me a few days to figure out how to do it clean, so no one notices and starts asking questions.”

  The waiter appeared once again and placed fresh drinks on the table, then moved away. Rizzo raised his second Dewar’s in another toast to McQueen.

  “Just get the file, Mike, and leave the rest to me.

  “Me and Cil, that is.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SATURDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 15, the gray chill of the last two days gave in to bright, crispy, late fall splendor. Returning from the supermarket, Rizzo unloaded the trunk of his Camry, glancing upward at the deep blue, cloudless sky.

  “Beautiful day outside, Jen,” he said as he set the bags down in the kitchen. “We should go down to Shore Road, take a walk along the water.”

  Jennifer looked up from her seat at the kitchen table, note pad before her, pen in hand.

  “Good idea. I’ve just about completed the Thanksgiving menu.”

  Laying his hands on her shoulders and peering down at the notepad, he asked, “How’s it look?”

  “Great. The girls and I will make the antipasto and the turkey with all the trimmings. Your mom is bringing the manicotti, mine is doing the gravy meat—sausage, meatballs, and braciole.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Don’t forget the watermelon for Cil,” he said, smiling.

  Jennifer slapped at his hand. “Stop it,” she said. “I told your mom to make some extra manicotti, so there’ll be plenty to go around. I’m glad Priscilla and her friend are coming.”

  “Yeah, so is Cil. It helps her sidestep that whole mother situation.”

  “That’s a shame, really,” Jennifer said, with a shake of her head. “I hope they can work that out someday.”

  Rizzo frowned. “Yeah, well, mind your own business. She hears enough shit from Karen, so don’t be takin’ sides. Stay out of it.”

  He glanced at the clock. It was ten-thirty a.m. “You think Marie’s up yet? I have to call her.”

  Jennifer shrugged. “Probably. Try her.”

  Rizzo went to the den, dropping into the leather double recliner. He picked up the cordless and punched in Marie’s number at her dormitory.

  “Hey, honey, it’s me,” he said.

  “Hi, Daddy. What’s going on?”

  Rizzo smiled into the mouthpiece, visualizing his oldest daughter’s dark beauty.

  “Not much,” he said. “We’ll see you on the twenty-sixth?”

  “Yep. Figure about three o’clock.”

  “Good. I’m off that day, I’ll pick you up at Grand Central.”

  “Great,” she said. “Saves me a subway ride.”

  “Okay,” he answered. “I’ll tell you why I called, honey. I need a favor.”

  “Really? What?”

  “Well, I’m on a case and I need something. A copy of a play. I stopped at Barnes and Noble this morning, and the guy told me it hasn’t been put into general release yet, since it’s new on Broadway, but it went out to some of the universities. It’s that new play by Avery Mallard, An Atlanta Landscape.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of it.” Marie paused. “Are you working on his murder, Daddy? The graduate lit majors are totally bummed about it.”

  Rizzo shook his head. “No, not exactly. It’s somethin’ else, it’s complicated. I’ll tell you about it when you come home for Thanksgiving.”

  “Okay, Dad, I’ll stop by the English department and try to track one down.” She paused. “You know, if Jess gets it at Hunter, you can have it sooner. She could give it to you by Monday.”

  “I know, I asked her yesterday. Hunter doesn’t have it yet. I figured maybe Cornell does.”

  “Okay, Daddy, I’ll call you later and let you know.”

  “Good, thanks.” He hesitated. “And Marie, one more favor: Don’t mention this to Carol, okay?”

  “Why not, Daddy?” she asked flatly.

  Rizzo answered with a sigh. “The last thing I want right now is for Carol to start helpin’ out with police work. No matter how superficial. And if she finds out I asked you and Jessica and not her, I’ll have more trouble with her than I already got. So it’s our secret, okay?”

  “Sure, Dad,” Marie said. “Stay in denial. That’ll help.”

  “Okay, kiddo, back off. Just get me the friggin’ play, okay? Please?”

  “Of course, Dad. But as far as Carol is concerned after that blowup you had, you really have to just—”

  “Okay, honey, thanks,” Rizzo said. “Your mother’s callin’ me, I gotta go. See you on the twenty-sixth.” He hung up gently.

  Everybody’s got an opinion, he thought. Everybody.

  MONDAY MORNING, as Rizzo stepped into a point at the police range during his annual firearms qualification cycle, Priscilla Jackson sat at her desk in the Six-Two squad room, a full day of work before her. The fingerprint team was on its way to dust the suitcase, its contents and some other items she and Rizzo had secured in the precinct property office on Thursday.

  Priscilla needed to prepare and finalize DD-5 reports for her confirmation of the unbroken Air Force deployment of Lauria’s cousin in Kuwait and the apparent noninvolvement in any aspect of the case by Lauria’s Long Island and New Jersey relatives.

  She also needed to update Vince D’Antonio with carefully worded half-truths on their continuing investigatory work on Lauria’s possessions. When the print team was finished, she would then have to inventory, label, and resecure the confiscated items, carefully preparing a paper trail, detailing the chain of possession for what might eventually develop into key pieces of evidence—evidence which must maintain its integrity throughout any courtroom challenges that might be raised by a competent defense attorney.

  Priscilla dropped her eyes to the faxes on her desk. Some additional reports from the Medical Examiner’s Office put Lauria’s time of death as not before Wednesday, October 29, nor later than Saturday, November 1. Priscilla learned that Avery Mallard’s date of death had been established as Sunday, November 2.

  Samples taken from Robert Lauria’s clothing and the kitchen floor revealed blood from only one human source. If, as Rizzo had indicated, the killer’s hands had been cut by the garrote, traces of his blood would probably have been found at the scene. The absence of blood tended to confirm that the killer wore gloves, helping to eliminate possible DNA evidence.

  Police lab results provided by CSU indicated that a blue fiber strand found on
Lauria’s T-shirt was an imported blend of high-quality cotton mix. Concentration levels of water repellent chemical substances indicated a strong probability that the fiber came from an expensive, top-of-the-line raincoat. Further cross-referencing had found the fiber and chemicals to match both Burberry and Theory brand coats at the uppermost end of their product lines. None of the samples of Lauria’s wardrobe matched the blue fiber.

  Next, Priscilla turned to the DD-5 reports prepared over the last three days by various detectives from the Six-Two squad. As Rizzo had predicted, they showed meaningless results for license plate runs on vehicles parked in the vicinity of the Lauria apartment on the day the body was discovered. Follow-up neighborhood canvasses were equally unproductive for leads or significant information, as were field and squad room interviews with known local drug addicts. A computer scan of criminal records indicated none of the private homes surrounding Lauria’s apartment housed any known criminals. An additional interview of the Annasias and subsequent criminal background checks had failed to produce a potential suspect within the circle of family and friends of Lauria’s landlords.

  Beneath the DD-5s Priscilla found a computer printout of the prior month’s phone calls made to and from the number registered to Robert Lauria. She scanned it quickly, noting its sparseness and repetitive pattern, and put it aside for later analysis.

  The print team arrived and approached her desk. She rose to greet them, making a small note to revisit the shoe store manager and workers where Lauria was last employed. She was hoping to develop a lead to someone who might fit the role of Lauria’s phantom friend and thus be considered an avenging copy cat murder suspect in the Avery Mallard homicide.

  As she shook hands with Detective Cynthia Morrow, fingerprint technician, Priscilla silently wished that Joe Rizzo hadn’t been absent on this of all days.

  The weight of the investigation, she was finding, was too great to be borne by one set of shoulders. Although she was appreciative of the team effort mounted by the squad, she felt Rizzo’s absence more keenly than she would ever care to admit.

  TUESDAY MORNING, Priscilla greeted Rizzo.