Rizzo’s Fire Page 22

  “Never thought I’d be so glad to see you, Joe. I had myself a hell of a day yesterday.”

  “Well, if that ain’t the most half-assed compliment I ever got,” he said cheerfully. “But, what the hell, I’ll take it.” He shook his head. “My day wasn’t much better. Two hundred friggin’ rounds through my Colt, a twelve-year-old cop on each side of me on the line, blazin’ away with those goddamned Glocks. I swear, Cil, I ever get shot on this job, it’s gonna be at the friggin’ range by one of those kids.”

  “I hear you. They’re gettin’ younger every year.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “and stupider, too.”

  He dropped his eyes to the reports Priscilla had given him. He sighed. “Don’t make me have to read all this crap. Tell me.”

  Priscilla quickly filled him in, responding to an occasional question, pointing to a DD-5 or lab report when necessary.

  “And Vince?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “He seemed okay with what I told him.”

  “Which was?” he asked.

  “What we talked about, that Lauria was a closet writer, had a buncha stuff in his apartment we figured maybe we could use to turn up a lead to a friend or somebody who might have more info or somebody we could make as a suspect in his killing.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Good. Vince is no dummy, though. He may start smellin’ Mallard eventually, but, for now we can leave him outta this.”

  Rizzo picked up the sparse telephone record obtained by Detective Bobby Dellosso. “Guy barely needed a friggin’ phone. You I.D. these numbers?”

  Priscilla leaned inward, pointing a finger to the computer printout.

  “This is the shoe store where he worked, that one’s his cousin, MaryAnn Carbone. This one here’s his bank’s automated line, the other two his doctor and a pharmacy. I checked it out, he had a sinus infection back in early October.”

  Rizzo nodded. “No cell phone, right?”

  “None that I could find,” she said. “But see that one incoming call on October thirtieth at eight-o-five p.m.? That’s from a pay phone up on Fourteenth Avenue. That could be the perp calling to see if Robbie was home.”

  “Last outgoing call was made on October thirtieth, too, at eleven a.m. That’s twenty days ago.” Rizzo shook his head. “Friggin’ Dellosso. I told you, he takes great witness statements but he ain’t the most thorough detective in town. He shoulda got at least two months of these records. Lauria’s been dead since God knows when, and Dellosso figures this is good enough. We need to go back further.” He paused, looking again to the telephone record. “What’s this one?” he asked. “And these three.”

  “Those three nine hundred numbers are phone sex lines. You know, pay your money and get some sixty-year-old grandmother to talk dirty to you in a sexy, young voice. The other one is the Magic Massage Emporium.”

  “Let me guess,” Rizzo said. “For thirty bucks you get half a massage, for a hundred you get some immigrant to blow you.”

  Priscilla gave a wide smile. “Exactly, Joe. The joint is over in the Six-Oh, near the aquarium. I called the squad, and they told me it’s run by some Russians. The Six-Oh is waiting for Borough to bust it and try to close it down.”

  “Well, I guess old cousin MaryAnn was wrong about Lauria’s sexuality,” Rizzo said wryly. “Now we need to check out the joint, show Lauria’s picture around, see if any of the hookers can help us out.”

  Priscilla shrugged. “Waste of time, if you ask me.”

  “Probably, but it’s gotta get done. We need to find somebody in this guy’s life, Cil. If there is anybody, that is. And if there isn’t, well, we need to establish that, too.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I had a thought yesterday. Want to hear it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, that coat fiber they found at the scene. The lab says it doesn’t match any of Lauria’s clothes, and there’s no junkie runnin’ around in a thousand-dollar raincoat. No b and e men workin’ in them, either. That could point to Mallard.”

  “Yeah,” Rizzo concurred.

  “But it could also point to a pro,” she said. “Maybe Lauria was leanin’ on Mallard about this play situation, so Mallard hires a pro to whack Lauria. Mallard pays the pro and figures it’s over and done with.”

  Rizzo picked up. “But then the pro figures he don’t need some screwy artistic genius a witness to his crime, so he takes Mallard’s hit money, then whacks him, too.”

  “Exactly,” Priscilla said.

  “We can look at that,” he replied.

  “How?”

  “Manhattan South probably got an access order for Mallard’s finances. Pretty standard in a homicide, even if they figure it for a random breakin murder. Hell, I put in a slip to legal to get us access to Lauria’s finances, though I don’t expect to see anything. Anyway, I’ll give Mike a call, see if Mallard’s account had any unusual cash activity last two or three months.”

  “Okay, Joe.”

  “Far as the big ticket raincoat, we’ll have Mallard’s address in the file once Mike hands it to us. Then we can go check out his place, look for a blue raincoat. If we find one, we grab a sample and let the lab check it out. If it matches, we got the Lauria end of this case solved.”

  Priscilla smiled broadly. “There’d be some headlines for that one,” she said. “ ‘Famous playwright slays unknown writer—film at eleven.’ ”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I guess. But the big question would still be out there: Who killed Mallard? If we backdoor it by solvin’ Lauria’s case and hangin’ it on Mallard, Manhattan South boots our asses out of the picture and goes forward with that end.”

  “I guess it’s like they say, Joe: That’s showbiz.”

  “Yeah. Showbiz.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “And you got nowhere at the shoe store?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s like he was a ghost. They sensed he was there, saw him even, but nobody connected. He said hello, he said goodbye, he said it looks like rain, it’s a nice day, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, yes sir, no sir, and out the door. Never even went to lunch with any of his coworkers.”

  “Okay,” Rizzo said, “so, I’m thinkin’, this guy is a legit loner. We’ll spend a day or two on it, but it ain’t gonna go anywhere. There’s no avenging butt-buddy gonna turn up here, Cil, but we still gotta look.”

  “And where’s that leave us?”

  Rizzo shrugged. “Interested third party killin’ both vics, your hit man theory, maybe amateur hour. Or maybe Mallard and one of his butt-buddies go kill Lauria, then the buddy starts thinkin’ about it too much and figures, ‘Fuck Mallard, I gotta protect my own ass,’ so he kills Mallard.”

  “What’s the motive for an interested third party?” Priscilla asked. “How would a third party benefit from two such totally different people dying?”

  “Beats me,” Rizzo answered. “But one thing’s for sure: if this ain’t the biggest, most improbable, coincidental bullshit ever happened in the history of time, it’s a double homicide tied together by that friggin’ play. That’s the key, the play. That’s the motive, whether the killer was Mallard, Lauria’s imaginary friend, a hit man, or the ghost of William fuckin’ Shakespeare. The play is definitely tied to the motive in this.”

  Priscilla shook her head and sighed. “Jesus, Joe, we don’t even know when this guy got killed.”

  Rizzo picked up the medical examiner’s report, scanning it briefly, then dropped it back to the desktop.

  “Doctor Voodoo puts the date of death between October twenty-nine and November one. October thirty-first was a Friday night. Not a good time to plan on killin’ anybody ’cause street traffic is heavier than durin’ the week. Plus, it was Halloween—the little kids would be out in the daytime, the older kids at night, trick or treatin’ and throwing eggs at one another. November first was a Saturday, plenty of pedestrian traffic day and night. The last outgoing phone call from Lauria’s apartment was to his bank on the thirtieth at eleven a.m. So I’m going with Thursday, October
thirtieth, some time after the incoming phone call at eight-o-five p.m.” He paused for a moment. “We should do a weather check, see when it was raining. Let’s assume that fancy raincoat wasn’t just a fashion statement. Let’s assume the killer wore it ’cause it was actually raining.”

  Priscilla stood. “I’ll go online, get the weather for those few nights. Bet it rained on the thirtieth.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll call Mike, get an ETA on the Mallard file. Then we can take a look at his finances and check out his place for a match on that coat. The rest of today, we’ll take a look at that cat-house in the Six-Oh, see where that goes. Plus, we still need to follow up on that prescription fraud case. I got a feeling we can clear that one soon. While you’re on that weather, I’ll order those additional phone records for Lauria. And I wanna call Mark Ginsberg at home, see how those street robbery cases went down with that kid Doyle. I heard it was clean, the kid copped, but I need to hear the details from Ginsberg myself.”

  Priscilla stretched her arms and neck muscles. “Okay. And I gotta say it’s real good to have you back, baby.”

  “See, it’s like my grandfather always said, Cil.” Rizzo leaned forward, winking at her. “Every little gal needs a man in her life.”

  Priscilla smiled sweetly, then bent slightly, sliding a top side drawer from Rizzo’s desk. Slowly and deliberately, she dumped the messy contents onto his lap.

  “Get your grandfather to help you clean that shit up, Joe,” she said, smiling and returning Rizzo’s wink.

  *

  THE MAGIC Massage Emporium stood in a double storefront in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, a few blocks from the New York City Aquarium.

  Rizzo and Jackson stepped into the dimly lit interior and crossed to the small reception area. An attractive middle-aged woman at the counter smiled as they approached. Rizzo flipped his shield case open, briefly displaying its contents.

  The woman’s smile broadened.

  “So,” she said cheerfully, “now they are to send the mean-looking police and the pretty one, too?” Her words held a distinct Russian accent.

  Rizzo glanced over his shoulder at Priscilla, then back to the woman.

  “Yeah,” he said, leaning both forearms on the countertop. “Now that you mention it, she does look sorta mean.”

  The woman gave a genuine laugh, bending and placing her own forearms onto the counter, positioning her face level to Rizzo’s.

  “I am Nadia,” she said, her beautiful violet eyes shimmering in the dim lighting. “How is it for me to be of ser vice for you, Sergeant?”

  “Well, Nadia, I’m Sergeant Joe Rizzo, this here is Priscilla Jackson. Detective Priscilla Jackson. Are you the owner of this establishment?”

  “Ah, Sergeant,” she said, moving her face a bit closer to his, her musky perfume dancing around his nostrils. “That is very complicated in America, yes? In America, only sometimes the lawyers can figure it out who is owner.”

  “But—it’s possible—you may be one of ’em,” Rizzo said with a smile.

  Nadia shrugged. “Is possible,” she answered pensively.

  “Yeah. Well, who can I speak to who can help me out?”

  Her eyes twinkled. “It is to be my plea sure, Sergeant. I will help you out.”

  Priscilla sounded a derisive laugh from behind him. “You need me to go get you a bottle of wine here, Joe?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her and winked, then turned back to Nadia, producing a photo of Robert Lauria. He laid it down on the counter, turning it to face the woman and sliding it closer to her.

  “Take a look, Nadia,” he said. “Then tell me.”

  She looked at the photo, then raised her eyes to Rizzo. “I do not like to discuss the business of peoples, Sergeant. This man, this man in the picture, he is an American, no? He has all the rights, no?”

  “Yes, he does,” Rizzo said pleasantly. “Now how about you weigh his rights against your business license, take another look at that picture, then tell me.”

  Nadia bobbed her head. “Ah, yes,” she said. “I remember him now. His name is Robbie. He has been here three or four times a year, since around time we open.”

  Rizzo smiled. “And when was that?”

  “Three years, almost. Two and half.”

  “What’s his story?” Priscilla asked.

  Nadia glanced at Priscilla, still smiling, then cupped her chin in the palm of her hand and moved her eyes back to face Rizzo. He caught the sweet scent of peppermint permeating from her mouth when she spoke.

  “Very nice man, very nervous,” she said sweetly. “Always want same girl. If she not here, he leave and come back tomorrow. If she busy, he wait for her.” Nadia let her smile deepen and her violet eyes widen. “She give very good massage, I think,” she said to Rizzo playfully.

  “Yeah, I bet,” he said. “Who is this girl, what’s her name?”

  “Name Bogdana. Is Ukrainian name.” Nadia glanced at Priscilla. “Means ‘given by God,’ ” she told her.

  “He ever come in here with anyone else?” Priscilla asked. “A buddy, maybe?”

  “No. Alone all time. Nice man, very quiet. Not like some to come to here. Have respect for place. Nice man. But always come alone.”

  Rizzo interjected. “Anybody else ever work this counter, Nadia?”

  “Just is me or Efim only.”

  “Efim?” Rizzo asked. “Is that a male?”

  “Yes, is male.” She smiled. “Like you.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Yes, in back, with the meal before he start to work. I leave now soon for the day.”

  Rizzo nodded. “I’d like to speak to him, and to the girl. What was her name? Bogna?”

  “Bogdana,” she said. “Yes, she is too here. I will get them. But you tell me, okay? Why are you asking these about Robbie?”

  “Well,” Rizzo said, “I’ll tell you all about that. After I talk to the two of them.”

  Nadia straightened up and turned to leave. “Okay, Sergeant. I will get them.” She paused at the doorway leading to the rear, turning over her shoulder and smiling warmly at Rizzo.

  “Be nice please to Efim,” she said. “He is husband to me. Very jealous.”

  She fluttered her lids and then left the room.

  Rizzo turned and looked at Priscilla.

  She shook her head, her lips pursed.

  “Women,” she said. “Jesus H. Christ.”

  THAT EVENING, seated on the recliner in his home, Rizzo opened the FedEx package which had arrived at the house late that afternoon. Marie had obtained a copy of the play.

  Rizzo smiled at the handwritten note from his daughter that accompanied it. Although he had not asked her to, he was glad Marie had gone the extra mile and FedExed the package to him.

  “Good kid,” he muttered, opening the bound copy and beginning to read the three-act play.

  The story was set in modern-day Atlanta, Georgia, and centered around an old-money family headed by an aged patriarch. His two sons, his wife, and the daughter of a family friend who was romantically involved with both brothers rounded out the cast of characters. The father’s emotional, physical, moral, and legal corruption drove the plot. The older son was complicit in the business and personal ambiguities of the father. This, and the idealism and alienation of the younger son, combined with the ultimately tragic love triangle and the quiet desperation of the unhappy matriarch, completed the drama.

  When Rizzo finished reading the play, his head ached slightly. He had a vague, nagging feeling that the story was familiar: characters, setting, plot, all of it. And not from anything Lauria had written, since Rizzo hadn’t yet read his copy of Lauria’s A Solitary Vessel. No, Rizzo thought. It wasn’t Lauria.

  “Damn,” he said aloud with sudden realization. “It’s Tennessee Williams.” Reincarnate a thirty-year-old Paul Newman, and he could play either brother, Rizzo thought. An equally young Joanne Woodward or Elizabeth Taylor could be the female lead.

  Je
nnifer entered the room, her hair tied behind her head, flannel pajamas loose about her body.

  “Coming to bed soon, Joe?” she asked.

  He glanced at the small clock on the table beside him. “Wow, I didn’t realize so much time had passed.”

  Jennifer moved closer and sat on the arm of the recliner, placing a hand on his shoulder and peering down at the play on his lap.

  “It must have been pretty good to hold your interest,” she said. “The last thing I saw you reading was …” She thought for a moment. “I can’t even remember.”

  “Not really,” he said. “Reminded me of some old movies I’ve seen. But, according to Cil, the critics loved it, and it’s a sure thing for the big awards. They can’t print the tickets fast enough on Broadway. Probably make a friggin’ movie in a couple a years.” He shrugged. “Like I said, sounded a little old to me, familiar. Sorta like, ‘Screwballs on a Hot Tin Roof,’ if anybody asks me.”

  Jennifer laughed. “Well, I don’t think anyone will ask you.” Her smile faded. “And once more, just for the record, I’m against this scheme of yours. If these two cases are connected, you should report it to D’Antonio. Let him make the call on it. Cover your butt.”

  “Vince would punt this whole thing right over to Manhattan South, with a cc to the Plaza.”

  “As well he should,” Jennifer said sternly. “Haven’t you had enough excitement lately? Haven’t we all? That whole Daily business and the I.A.D. thing with Morelli? Wasn’t all that a close enough brush for you? I swear you’re like a reckless teenager with a new car, tearing around like a lunatic, defying the odds. I’m just saying …”

  Rizzo reached up and stroked her cheek. “I know, hon, you already said what you had to say. I get it. But I’m on top of this, believe me. Cil and I struck out today on trying to find a life for this guy Lauria. We’ll follow up, but I’m not expecting anything to turn up. Next, we’ll start to look at Mallard. On the Q.T. Then, we’ll see. We can always drop it in Vince’s lap. But first, let’s see how it goes. Okay?”

  She shook her head. “No. Not okay.”

  “Think about this for a minute, Jen. I’m not being reckless, in fact the complete opposite. If I nail Mallard’s killer, I’m gold. It buys me a pass with that whole Daily situation, the thing that has you so worried. Don’t you see that? Mallard is my insurance, mine and Mike’s. It’s not reckless, hon. It’s just good business.”