Rizzo’s Fire Page 25

Rizzo gave Jackson a discreet glance. Her face remained neutral.

  “No kiddin’?” he asked. “So the guy didn’t want the female character in the play?”

  “No, actually the presence of the character was acceptable to him. Thomas just didn’t want any romantic involvement for her. Anyway, Avery brought the problem to me. He said he’d be bound by my decision—in or out with the love angle?”

  Rizzo shrugged. “From what I hear, the play is gonna sweep some awards, so I guess you made the right call.”

  Kellerman laughed. “Awards are marvelous, Sergeant, the backbone of egotism needed in theater, but filling the seats … now that’s truly gratifying.”

  Rizzo smiled. “And sex sells,” he said.

  “Ah,” Kellerman said, “how I admire the pragmatism of policemen. Yes, Sergeant, sex does sell. The director has even managed to work in a nude scene. It’s quite titillating. But you see, Bradley thought the love triangle detracted from the intensity of the conflict between the father and his two sons, which he felt to be the heart and soul of the play.”

  “And did it?” Rizzo asked.

  “Absolutely,” Kellerman answered. “And still does.” He smiled conspiratorily. “But as you say, now the play has sex and nudity.”

  Priscilla spoke up. “From what I hear, business is pretty good. I saw the play a couple of months ago. Now there’s a three-month wait for tickets.”

  Again, Kellerman’s face clouded up. “Yes, apparently tragedy is as good for box office as nudity. Since Avery’s death, the wait has actually swollen to almost a year. It is, after all, the final work of an American master. In fact, I’ve been fending off phone calls from Hollywood—everyone is lining up to option the work for a movie.” Kellerman smiled sadly. “One fellow even guaranteed me an A-list actor in the role of the father.” He sighed. “Can you imagine? Casting the movie and Avery still warm in his grave?”

  “So I guess you haven’t made the deal yet?” Rizzo asked.

  “No, Sergeant, I’m not that ghoulish. Besides, I suppose I’ll have to clarify my legal standing. Avery and I operated on a handshake for over thirty years. Now I imagine I’ll have to reach some written agreement with the estate lawyers before I sign any contracts of option.”

  After a few more moments of silence, Rizzo spoke up again. “Well, at least Mallard broke out of his writer’s block. He went out on top of his game.”

  Kellerman’s face brightened. “At least it was finally broken, and Avery got to enjoy one last hurrah before … before his very last hurrah.” After a pause, Kellerman spoke once more. “But, forgive me, I must ask, what has all this to do with the case you’re working on?”

  “Not a thing,” Rizzo said, allowing a small smile. “You see, Mr. Kellerman, sometimes, cops just get nosy.”

  *

  BEFORE LEAVING the office complex, Rizzo and Jackson briefly interviewed Kellerman’s administrative assistant, Joy Zimmer. No, the name Robert Lauria meant nothing to her, and she certainly had no recollection of so distant a phone call. Yes, over the years, she had forwarded much correspondence to Avery Mallard, particularly since the opening of An Atlanta Landscape. When shown Lauria’s photograph, she denied ever having seen him, as Kellerman had earlier.

  “Do you remember anything bulky coming in for Mallard?” Rizzo had asked her. “Something in a large envelope, maybe eight-and-a-half-by-eleven with a bunch of papers in it?”

  No, she had answered. And in today’s climate, any such bulky package from a stranger would have caught her attention. There had been no such arrival.

  Later, as they sat in the idling Impala parked in a no-standing zone on Irving Place, Rizzo jotted in his note pad. Priscilla fidgeted in the driver’s seat, her finger tapping nervously on the wheel.

  “This guy would be a great suspect, Joe,” she said. “If it wasn’t for that, ‘Oh, by the way, I was in Paris,’ alibi.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s a pretty good friggin’ alibi,” Rizzo said, without looking up.

  “How ’bout this?” she suggested. “Kellerman flies to Paris, then turns around and flies back to whack Lauria, then Mallard. ’Cause Lauria sent A Solitary Vessel to Kellerman for representation, but instead Kellerman slipped it to Mallard to break his writer’s block. And when the shit hit the fan with Lauria, Mallard got panicky. So panicky that Kellerman is willing to whack his A-list client. Next thing you know, two dead bodies. Then Kellerman flies back to Paris.”

  Rizzo stopped writing and looked at his partner. “What the hell is that, Cil? Some old rerun of Columbo you saw back in high school?”

  Priscilla shook her head. “Did you see that silk shirt?” she asked. “Hadda set him back a buck, buck and a half at least. And those loafers, they were Italian, three bills minimum.”

  “So?” Rizzo asked.

  She shrugged. “So, a big ticket raincoat would be standard in a guy like Kellerman’s wardrobe.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, probably.”

  Priscilla turned in her seat. “So, except for the Paris thing, Kellerman looks good on this.”

  Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, and except for the son of God thing, Jesus was a hippie.”

  “I’m serious here, Joe,” she said.

  “Yeah, that’s what’s scarin’ me. Look, it’s good you’re thinkin’ about this, but let’s stay grounded, okay? The guy was in Paris. And there ain’t no evil twin, either. Kellerman was in Paris. Now, he might be behind the killings, maybe in concert with someone else. Or he mighta hired a pro. We can try gettin’ a look at his finances, just not right now. That would be tough without tippin’ Manhattan to what we’re up to. Maybe down the road, if we develop anything else. We’ll see. Relax.”

  Priscilla turned back in the seat, eyeing the street scene on East Sixteenth. “Yeah, Joe,” she said with resignation, “okay. Guess I’m a little wound up with all this. But … one more thing. Kellerman may be old, but he’s in real good shape.” She turned to face Rizzo. “I don’t see him havin’ a physical problem strangling these two guys, no problem at all.”

  Rizzo nodded while finishing up his notes, then flipped the pad closed. “Okay, duly noted. But most likely, Lauria sees Mallard’s play or he reads about it, what ever. Realizes it’s his play. Then somehow he finds out Kellerman is Mallard’s agent, so he calls and tries to get to Mallard. Joy Zimmer says, ‘Send us correspondence, we’ll get it to Mallard.’ So that’s what Lauria does. When Mallard gets Lauria’s letter, the rest of it plays out.”

  “Yeah, okay, Joe, so that leaves us right back where we started.”

  “Yep, that it does,” Rizzo said. “But seein’ Kellerman was pure gold. Pure fuckin’ gold.” He smiled and tapped his temple. “You find me a ratty, old, pissed-on raincoat to wear, I’ll be your Columbo.”

  Priscilla grunted and pulled the column lever into drive, glancing into the mirrors and easing away from the curb.

  “It’s almost three o’clock,” she said. “Let’s go do the DD-fives and call it a day. I need to think about all this.”

  “Well, we got two RDOs. You’ve got till Sunday to think.” Rizzo then leaned over, laying his left hand on Priscilla’s shoulder, speaking in an exaggerated tone of formality.

  “There will be a quiz.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  WHEN PRISCILLA ARRIVED AT the squad room on Sunday morning, she found Rizzo rummaging through various materials recovered from the Lauria apartment. She crossed the empty room and sat next to his desk.

  “Morning, Joe,” she said.

  “Good mornin’, Cil.”

  She thrust her chin at the papers in his hand. “Whatcha got there?”

  “Copies of those three rejection letters Lauria got on A Solitary Vessel,” Rizzo said. “They’re all dated within an eight-month period. Seems like he sent the manuscript to some agents, got these three turndowns, then put it aside.”

  Priscilla craned her neck, scanning the letter in Rizzo’s hand. She smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “I know how that works. Aft
er all those years sending out short stories, I have a drawer full of letters like that.”

  Rizzo frowned, his right eye twitching slightly. “Yeah,” he said distractedly, “but, what I’m wonderin’ is, how’d this play get out there to where Mallard or somebody close to him coulda gotten a look at it?”

  “Well,” Priscilla suggested, “off the top of my head? Maybe by one of those agencies he sent it to.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m thinkin’. Tell me something: How does a guy protect himself against this kinda scam?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I just used to mail stuff out and hope for the best. Then, once I hooked up with Karen, she advised me to use the poor man’s patent on anything I sent.”

  “The what?”

  “Poor man’s patent,” she repeated. “See, you take a copy of your work, mail it to yourself certified mail, return receipt requested. Then, when the post office delivers it, you never open the package. If it ever should become an issue, you put it before a judge with the dated receipt, and he opens it with everybody’s lawyers present. Then they have a copy to compare to the published work you figure somebody stole from you. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Rizzo said, “but we didn’t find anything like that in Lauria’s place or in his cousin’s garage.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, well, if there was a sealed package somewhere in Lauria’s apartment and the person who whacked him was in the business, he’d have known enough to take it.”

  “I figure if Lauria had a package like that, he’da put it in the garage and we’da found it,” Rizzo said.

  “Or locked it up in some safe-deposit box somewhere,” she said.

  Rizzo continued to rummage through the Lauria material, pulling papers free from the pile on his desk and scanning them. “Well,” he said, “we ran all his banking and finances. There is no safe-deposit box.”

  “Figures,” she said. “Guy probably never even heard of the poor man’s patent thing. Only reason I did was ’cause I was hooked up with a lawyer.”

  Rizzo dropped the financial reports, again picking up the rejection letters. “First thing tomorrow, we call these three agencies. Better still, we go up to their offices. These letters are all signed. We’ll talk to the signers, see if we can develop a link between any of them and Mallard or anybody associated with him.”

  She nodded. “Okay, Joe, so what’s on for today?”

  “Well,” he answered, “first, we spend an hour or two on the phones working our other cases. They’re getting backed up. Then we have two appointments in the city.”

  “We do?” she asked.

  “Yeah. On my RDO, I made a couple a calls. We’re gonna meet Mallard’s last girlfriend today. First, though, we’re goin’ to see the director of the play. I got him on the line Friday. It’s all set up.”

  “Okay,” Priscilla said. “I’ll get started on the prescription case and that auto vandalism thing on Ovington Avenue. Call me when it’s time to roll.”

  NEW YORK’S August Wilson Theatre was located on West Fifty-second Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. Rizzo and Jackson sat comfortably in two leather chairs before the small desk of the director’s office.

  Larry Thurbill, forty years old, had parlayed several successful off-Broadway musical productions into an opportunity to pursue his first love, legitimate dramatic theater. Now he was the overseer of Avery Mallard’s final work, An Atlanta Landscape. Thurbill smiled across his desk at the two detectives.

  “How is the coffee?” he asked.

  “Great,” Rizzo said over the rim of his cup. “Coffee always tastes better when it’s served in really good china.”

  “One of the perks of a big hit show,” the director said. “Believe me, I’ve had my share of coffee in cardboard.”

  Rizzo placed his cup down onto its saucer, then pulled the notepad from his jacket.

  “Well, Mr. Thurbill,” he said, “it was good of you to see us, we’ll try not to take up too much time.”

  Thurbill waved a hand. “Take all the time you need, Sergeant, the matinee begins at three, run-through at twelve. I have tons of time. And please, call me Larry.”

  “Okay, Larry,” Rizzo said clicking his Parker. “I’m Joe, this is Priscilla.”

  Rizzo began a slow, informal questioning, subtly reinforcing the deliberately misleading impression he had given the director, that he and Priscilla were merely revisiting the Mallard murder. They had identified themselves only as NYPD detectives, without mentioning precinct, allowing Thurbill to make assumptions.

  After nearly a half hour, Rizzo moved more toward the ground he had come to tread. Thurbill, relaxed and comfortable with the two amicable cops, answered readily.

  “So, the producer,” Rizzo asked. “What’s his name again?”

  “Bradley,” Thurbill said. “Thomas Bradley. He heads the group of investors who backed the play, so, technically, he’s the producer. But they all claim a bit of that role. Rightfully, I might add.”

  “Yeah,” Rizzo said, “there ain’t no art without the cash, I guess.”

  “Succinctly and quite accurately put, Joe,” Thurbill said.

  Rizzo continued. “I don’t know very much about this kinda stuff, Larry, but I think I read somewhere that directors and producers butt heads a lot on these kinda things. You know, plays, movies, television.”

  Thurbill nodded. “Yes, we do. I’m afraid our motivations are often at odds—a director’s quality and integrity of product versus a producer’s concern for commercial viability. It does become difficult at times.”

  “I’ll bet. How ’bout here, with Atlanta?” Rizzo asked. “Any problems between you and Bradley?”

  Priscilla leaned forward. “My partner gets nosy sometimes, Larry,” she said.

  “No, no, not at all,” Thurbill said. “I’m sure it’s one of the perks of your job. Obtaining inside info on a variety of professions and fields. Actually, to answer your question, there was a problem or two, but, of course, Avery was alive then and very much involved in preproduction, particularly with casting and story arc. Plays are not like movies, Joe. Hemingway once said the best way to sell your book to Hollywood was to go to the California-Nevada border, have them toss you the money, then toss them your novel. With a play, on the other hand, the author is very much involved, has quite a say. It is, after all, his vision which brings us all here.”

  “Yeah,” Rizzo said, “I can see that. So, you had a little problem with Bradley, and Mallard straightened it out?”

  “Not exactly,” Thurbill said. “Thomas Bradley is quite easy to work with actually, from a director’s point of view. In fact, we sort of reversed traditional roles a bit in one particular instance. It was more a … I don’t know, let’s say a situation, between Thomas and Avery. Thomas seemed to be pushing a bit, in my opinion. Overstepping his bounds, I think. He was adamant about the love triangle being written out of the play, and he pressed Avery right up to the actual start of rehearsals last year. It was interesting to watch the interplay. They seemed more coauthors than author-producer. Of course, in the end Avery prevailed, as he should have.”

  “So you figure the love angle added to the play? Artistically?” Rizzo asked.

  Thurbill smiled, leaning forward in his seat, speaking in an exaggerated tone of conspiracy.

  “Ah, Joe,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I never actually said that, now did I? No, the love angle’s merely fluff. To help fill seats. It’s a time-honored tradition in theater. Shakespeare himself inserted one or two superfluous scenes into his works. Some risqué lines and what passed as sexuality in those days. To fill the pit, you see, the area in front of the stage where the proletariat class would stand to view the production. It was good business then and remains so today.

  “Avery was hungry for a hit, and, frankly, so was I. Circumstances have delivered a successful run of musicals to me.” He smiled more broadly, fluttering his hands in parody of an exc
ited, stereotypical gay male.

  “Keeping me in character, you see,” he said cheerfully. Then he grew somber. “But my goal has always been serious direction. I require meaningful works to direct. An Atlanta Landscape is meaningful. Maybe Pulitzer caliber. No, if Avery’s little sexual triangle would get the play seen, get it some attention, that was fine with me. I encouraged Avery, and so, yes, I did bump heads with Thomas a bit. But by that point, I was pretty well entrenched, I enjoyed Avery’s full support as director. I wasn’t afraid of Thomas’s firing me. So”—he shrugged—“I could afford to make a noble gesture and give my support to Avery and his agent. The love affairs remained.”

  Rizzo sat back in his seat. “You really thought Bradley might want to fire you over it?”

  Thurbill stood and came around the desk, pouring fresh coffee for the two detectives. “Oh, yes. He may be easy to work with, Joe, but he’s also quite ruthless, you see.”

  *

  MAGGIE RICHARTE was thirty-two years old, a successful and influential buyer for a world-renowned New York fashion house. She had met Avery Mallard, nearly thirty years her senior, two years earlier while she was on a buying trip to Milan and he was touring Italy. They had become lovers, and their affair continued until six months prior to his death. The breakup had been amicable, and they remained friends.

  Maggie smiled sadly across the airy living room of her East End Avenue co-op apartment.

  “Is that what the fussy little wuss told you?” she asked with a laugh. “That Bradley is ‘ruthless’? My God, I’ll never get used to these people, no matter how many of them I work with. Larry Thurbill is a nice man, Sergeant, but he’s not the toughest Marine in the platoon, if you know what I mean. Avery and Thomas were at odds over that one aspect of the play, but Thomas certainly didn’t kill Avery because of it.”

  “I don’t think that’s crossed anyone’s mind, Ms. Richarte, unless maybe yours?” Rizzo asked.

  “No, Sergeant, not at all. Believe me, Thomas Bradley had nothing to do with Avery’s murder, and when last I spoke to Lieutenant Lombardi about this, he seemed convinced it was just a horrible, random killing. Just a wasteful, stupid, stupid thing.” She shook her head, her eyes moistening.