Rizzo’s Fire Page 3

  Priscilla shrugged. “Don’t know, Partner, I’m new at this, remember?”

  Approaching Seventy-first Street, Rizzo slowed the car and carefully negotiated the thin crowd of onlookers, police cars, and uniformed officers milling in and around the expanse of Thirteenth Avenue. Nearing the sidewalk area cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, he double parked the Chevy and shut it down.

  Rizzo and Jackson approached a short, squat man wearing a weathered overcoat, a blue and gold detective badge dangling upside down from the lapel.

  “Hello, Anthony,” Rizzo said to the man. “How you doing tonight?”

  Detective Anthony Sastone smiled. “Fine, Joe. How about you?”

  “Good. This here is my new partner, Priscilla Jackson. Cil, Anthony Sastone, Six-Eight squad. Our neighbor.”

  They shook, then Rizzo turned to the business at hand.

  “Tell me,” he said to Sastone.

  “Male white, twenty-four, gets into a fight with the perp over at Vinny’s on Seventieth Street. The vic wins. Perp says, ‘I’m gonna kill you.’ Our hero says, ‘Well, I’ll be on the corner, hanging out by the candy store. Come and kill me there.’ Two minutes later, the perp shows up with a rifle. There’s a struggle, gun goes off, blows half the guy’s foot off. Look here, see? Round went right through his foot and into the sidewalk, ricochetin’ across the street and blowing out the storefront fluorescent on the bakery. I took a look. Bullet may be lodged in the mortar between the bricks. Probably beat to hell, though. No ballistic value, other than maybe caliber.”

  Rizzo looked down at the sidewalk. A chunk of cement had been pulverized, leaving a gaping hole the size of a paddle ball, blood splattered all around it. Puddles of blood sat at the bottom of the hole and on the rough cement surrounding the area of impact.

  Rizzo looked up to Sastone. “I got a question, Anthony,” he said, his voice neutral.

  “Shoot,” Sastone answered, with a sly smile.

  “Why do I care about this? I’m standing on the west side of the avenue. This is Six-Eight territory.” He pointed over Priscilla’s shoulder to the other side of Thirteenth. “That’s the Six-Two over there. Feel free to cross over and dig that bullet out, paesan. I’m always willing to cooperate.”

  Sastone laughed. “Yeah, I figured there might be an issue. When I rolled up and got the story from the Six-Eight uniform, I got on the horn. My boss called your boss. You ever hear the term ‘continuous stream,’ Joe?”

  Rizzo nodded and reached for his cigarettes. “Yes,” he said, “yes, I have. It means if shit flows across the street and pools up, some lazy cop might want me to walk over and step in it.”

  Again Sastone laughed. “The bosses, Joe. They decided between them. Your shift commander agreed: the assault which resulted in the shooting was part of one criminal action, and that action started over there”—he reached around Rizzo and pointed one block north to Vinny’s Pizzeria—“on the east side. The Six-Two side.”

  Rizzo lit a cigarette and turned to Priscilla. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Call the house and check this out.”

  “Okay,” she said, reaching for her cell and walking away to make the call.

  “What,” Sastone said in mock disbelief, “you don’t believe me?”

  Rizzo laughed. “Well, you know, Anthony, I been a cop over twenty-six years and not once in all that time has another cop ever lied to me. I’m figurin’ the law of averages gotta catch up sometime. Maybe to night’s the night.”

  “Okay,” Sastone said with a shrug. “Knock yourself out. But just so you know, the Six-Two sector is holding the two eyeballs over there. The vic got bussed to Lutheran Hospital. He lost a lot of blood, but he should be okay. His waltzin’ days may be over, though.”

  Rizzo looked again at the bloody hole in the concrete. “That there hole didn’t get punched by a twenty-two, that’s for sure.”

  Sastone shook his head. “No. More like a thirty-oh-six, at least.”

  Rizzo scanned the scene. “Find any shell casing?”

  “No. Time the sector got here, the place was crawlin’ with citizens. Lotsa kids, too. Casing coulda got grabbed for a souvenir. If there even was a casing, that is. Only semiautomatics throw casings after a single shot, and I haven’t ID’d the weapon yet.”

  “You talk to the witnesses?” Rizzo asked.

  “Just a little. I figured this for a Six-Two case, Joe. Didn’t want to contaminate the investigation for you.”

  Rizzo grunted and blew smoke at Sastone. “Very considerate of you,” he said.

  Priscilla returned to Rizzo’s side.

  “Boss says it’s ours,” she said, her face expressionless.

  Rizzo shrugged. “Okay. Let’s do it, then. Anthony, you get a description of the shooter?”

  “Yeah,” Sastone answered, pulling out his note pad and flipping it open. “Male white, about forty, six feet even, ’bout one-ninety. Brown hair, short. Wearing a plain dark jacket and camouflage fatigue pants with dark brown boots.”

  Rizzo frowned, reaching absentmindedly to rub at a slight eye twitch. “What kinda fatigues?” he asked.

  “Military fatigues,” Sastone said.

  Rizzo shook his head and flipped the Chesterfield into the street. “No shit?” he said. “Military fatigues? I thought sure theyda been prom fatigues.”

  Sastone furrowed his brow. “What?” he asked.

  “Were they brown and tan desert fatigues or green and black jungle fatigues?”

  Sastone shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s the fuckin’ difference? The guy had on fatigues. Me, I was in the Navy. We dressed like gentlemen.”

  “Okay, Anthony. Thanks. I’ll take it from here. Leave the two Six-Eight sectors here. I can use the help, okay? Professional courtesy.”

  Sastone nodded. “No problem. Glad to help. You want my notes?”

  Rizzo shook his head. “I’ll make my own. See you ’round.” He turned to Priscilla. “Let’s go and talk to the two eyeballs. Call the house again, see if they can send some bodies over here. Watch where you step, there’s blood behind you.”

  Rizzo crossed the street to the blue-and-white Six-Two radio car, idling softly, its light bar flashing white and red. He approached the uniform leaning against its front fender.

  “Hey, Will,” he said. “I need a minute with the witnesses.”

  The cop shrugged. “Go ahead, Joe. I got nowhere to go.”

  Rizzo climbed in behind the wheel, turning to face the two men in the rear seat. They appeared in their mid-twenties, casually dressed and nervous, a distinct odor of alcohol on their breath.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Rizzo,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Jimmy Cocca,” one said.

  “Andy Hermann,” said the other.

  “Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning, the pizza store or whenever this thing got started. One at a time.”

  Rizzo looked them over and decided on Cocca. “You start,” he said, pointing at the man. “And you. Don’t interrupt him. Let him tell me what he saw, then you can tell me what you saw. It might not be the same thing.”

  “Okay,” Hermann said.

  “And Jimmy. Don’t get dramatic. Just stay calm and tell me, okay?”

  “Okay,” Jimmy answered.

  Rizzo smiled, trying to relax the young man. “What do they call you, Jimmy?” he asked. “Your buddies, I mean.”

  The man smiled weakly. “Coke,” he said. “They call me Jimmy Coke. But not causa the drug or nothin’. Because of my name, Cocca. So Jimmy Coke.”

  “Yeah,” Rizzo said. “I figured. Okay, Coke. Tell me.”

  At that moment, Priscilla climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Shift boss is sending another radio car. When Schoenfeld and Rossi finish up what they’re doing, they’ll come by and help.”

  “Cil, it’d be nice for you to sit in on this interview, but I need you on the street till Schoenfeld gets here. Get the uniforms organized. Canvass the crowd, s
ee if anybody knows anything. Most of ’em probably live in the apartments above the storefronts. Maybe somebody was lookin’ out the window and saw something. Get plate numbers on all the cars parked within a block of that pizza place. And notify CSU. I’d like somebody to dig that bullet outta the wall and take some shots of that hole in the sidewalk.”

  “Okay, Joe. I’m on it.” Priscilla climbed from the car.

  Rizzo then turned back to Coke. “Go ahead. Tell me.”

  When the man was done, Andy Hermann gave his version. It was the same as Coke’s.

  “So neither of you ever saw the shooter before Vinny’s, right? He was a stranger to you both?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Never saw the guy before.”

  Rizzo turned to Coke. “And the rifle was a bolt action?”

  “Yes,” Coke answered. “Absolutely.”

  Rizzo nodded. Priscilla returned then, climbing back into the passenger seat of the radio car.

  “Nobody else coming forward,” she reported. “CSU said either them or Borough Recovery will be here by midnight. Uniforms are working the license plates. Still no Schoenfeld or Rossi.”

  Rizzo turned back to the men in the rear seat. He addressed Coke. “We’ll call you chasin’ the guy heroic, Coke,” he said. “But somebody else might call it a little dumb.”

  Coke shrugged, but remained silent.

  Rizzo continued. “Where exactly was the guy when you saw him jack that fresh round into the chamber?”

  Coke thought a moment before responding. “I ducked behind a parked black Buick. He was maybe three cars up from me.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Okay. You guys are almost done here. Tomorrow come down to the precinct. Bath and Bay Twenty-second Street. There’ll be a steno to take your statements.”

  “Can we go see Gary at the hospital?” Hermann asked.

  “Not to night,” Rizzo said. “We need to talk to him, that’ll be enough for him. Let him get some rest. Visit tomorrow if he’s still there. Who knows, they might discharge him to night.”

  Cocca shook his head. “No way, man. I did two tours in Iraq, I seen shit like this. His foot is fucked; they got to operate on it.” He glanced at Priscilla. “ ’Scuse the language,” he said.

  She smiled at him. “I think I heard the words before,” she said easily.

  “Wait here, guys,” Rizzo said. “Let me talk to my partner a minute. Then the officers will drive you both home. Remember, tomorrow, the precinct. Come at twelve noon. Okay?”

  They nodded. “Sure,” Cocca said. “We’ll be there.”

  Rizzo and Priscilla stepped out of the car. Rizzo led her out of earshot of the witnesses.

  “Do me a favor, Cil. Get all their contact info. Take their addresses off their ID’s or licenses or what ever, get their work locations and phones, home phones and cell numbers, okay?”

  “Sure. What’s next?”

  “Well, I gotta fill you in on the details. We need to talk to the pizza guy and take a look around up there. Then we’ll go to the hospital and talk to this Gary Tucci. We’ve got a good description of the shooter from Coke and Hermann, but Tucci may have more to add. Plus, who knows? By tomorrow, the guy could be dead from a staph bug he picks up in the ER. So we better go to night. And I need Schoenfeld and Rossi to canvass Seventieth Street. I’ll tell you why later. For now, just get that contact info. Then meet me up at that pizza joint. Tell all the uniforms to send Schoenfeld over to me when he shows up.”

  “Yassa, boss,” Priscilla said, rolling her eyes at him.

  Rizzo laughed. “Hey, that’s why they call it ‘detective third grade.’ Get goin’.”

  She smiled and walked away.

  Rizzo turned and headed toward the pizzeria, scanning the street as he went. When he reached the corner, he saw two Six-Eight uniforms jotting down license plate numbers of parked cars. He approached the nearest one and glanced at her name tag.

  “Hey, O’Toole, how you doing?” Rizzo asked.

  The cop looked up from her memo book, took in the gold shield on its silver chain dangling from Rizzo’s neck.

  “Peachy,” she said with a smile. “And you, Sarge?”

  Rizzo returned the smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Me, too. Peachy. Listen, you got batteries in that flashlight on your belt? Do me a favor. Somewhere a couple a cars north of that black Buick over there, the shooter bolted the rifle to chamber a round. Take a guy or two with you and see if you can find a spent shell casing. If you do, leave it where it is and call me. I’ll be in the pizza joint.”

  She flipped her memo book closed and reached behind her back, stuffing it into a rear pocket.

  “Sure, Sarge, no problem.” She turned and looked over her shoulder, calling to her partner. “Hey, Ricky, c’mere. I need you, baby.”

  Rizzo walked away, toward the pizzeria, thoughts of his daughter, Carol, entering his mind. The sight of Detectives Schoenfeld and Rossi rolling to a stop next to him in their black Impala turned his attention back to business.

  “Hey, guys,” he said through the open passenger window. “Thanks for coming up.”

  Detective Nick Rossi smiled, his pearly white teeth and deep blue eyes twinkling with the reflected neon of the nearby pizzeria.

  “No problem, Joe,” he said. “Just keep that mullenyom partner of yours on a leash. I don’t think she likes me.”

  Rizzo laughed. “Now what broad wouldn’t like you, Nick? With that shiny black hair and all.”

  Detective Morris Schoenfeld leaned over from the driver’s seat. “Whaddya need, Joe?” he asked. “I think we got the picture here—fight inside there, loser gets a gun, shoots winner. I’d like to get started so we can wrap it by midnight, okay?”

  Rizzo nodded. “Okay, short and sweet. Shooter had a vehicle on Seventieth Street, dark-colored pickup, no plate, no make. I need a house-to-house for witnesses. We got plenty of uniforms here, use them to help out. We need to get on it while people are still awake. It’s bedtime soon. Okay?”

  Rossi nodded. “Okay,” he said. “What else?”

  “CSU or Borough Evidence Recovery will be here by midnight. Make sure a blue-and-white sits on the scene till they show. I’m gonna talk to the pizza guy. I got two uniforms lookin’ for a shell casing. If they find it, tell CSU I need photos, then bag it for prints. That oughta do it.”

  With that Priscilla walked up, Rossi’s Friday come-on to her still fresh in her mind. She smiled at him, her face radiating beauty. “Hiya, lover boy,” she said in a schoolgirl cadence. “How’s it hangin’ to night, baby?”

  Rizzo’s and Schoenfeld’s laughter was countered by Rossi’s raspberry.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his head shaking.

  Rizzo and Priscilla turned and headed into the pizza place, still laughing.

  As they entered, the owner-operator of Vinny’s Pizzeria greeted them from behind the counter.

  With a glance at Priscilla, he swung his eyes to Rizzo and smiled broadly, eyeing the gold detective-sergeant badge.

  “Hey, Sarge,” he said. “I been waitin’ for you guys to show; otherwise, I’da closed up by now.”

  Priscilla looked at the wall clock. “It isn’t even ten-thirty yet,” she said.

  “She worked Manhattan, Nunzio,” Rizzo said by way of explanation. “The Upper East Side, no less.” Now he turned to Priscilla and continued. “This isn’t like the city, Cil. Here, this time of year, the streets are empty. ’Cept for pockets of teenagers hangin’ out here and there. And once the winter sets in and it gets dark by four-thirty, it’s like a ghost town. These are workin’ people live here, punching time clocks. They come home from work, eat dinner, do some chores, watch TV, then go to bed. Right, Nunzio?”

  The man nodded. “Yep. That’s about it. ’Cept, maybe in the spring and summertime. Then it’s different.”

  The man waved a hand at Rizzo. “Go,” he said. “Go sit down, Joe. I got some slices warming in the oven. On the house, no problem. Sit, I’ll bring them over. What a
re ya drinking?”

  “Sprite for me, thanks. Cil?”

  She thought a moment. “You got bottled water?”

  Nunzio nodded happily. “I got everything, Detective, what ever you want.”

  “The witness told me the perp was seated in a booth,” Rizzo said to him. “Which one? Maybe we can lift some prints from it.”

  “Sorry, Joe,” Nunzio said sheepishly. “I already wiped it clean. After the guy left, I was closin’ down, cleaning up. So … I wiped it down with Lysol.”

  “Okay,” Rizzo said. “I understand, no big deal.” Then he and Priscilla moved to a rear booth in the empty dining area.

  “So it looks like you know this guy Nunzio,” Priscilla said.

  Rizzo shrugged. “All the Six-Two cops know him. Six-Eight, too, since Thirteenth Avenue is the precinct dividin’ line. He’s a good guy, and he makes the best pizza around. I get takeout pies for me and Jen and the girls. I live about twelve blocks from here, in the Six-Eight.”

  Nunzio approached the table, a large plastic cup of soda for Rizzo and a bottle of Poland Spring for Priscilla. He placed the drinks on the Formica table and moved away quickly, returning with a round metal tray and four smoking slices of Sicilian pizza on paper plates. He took a seat next to Rizzo.

  “So,” he asked, his voice somber. “How’s the kid that got shot?”

  Rizzo reached to the tray and took a plate. “I don’t know. Didn’t sound fatal but it didn’t sound too good, either. I hear he lost a lot of his foot. We’ll see.”

  Nunzio compressed his lips and shook his head, anger touching at his eyes.

  “Crazy son of a bitch who shot him, he ever comes in here again, I got somethin’ for him, believe me. He likes to fuck with guns? I got somethin’ for him.”

  Rizzo blew on the hot pizza and smiled. “Don’t say nothin’ stupid now, Nunz,” he said.

  The man bobbed his head. “I said what I hadda say. Let him show his face in here again. Let him.”

  “Ever see him before to night, Nunzio?” Rizzo asked.

  “Sure. Guy’s been in here five, six times this year alone. Always the same, always all pissed off. Don’t even enjoy my pie, just wolfs it down like a gafone. I swear you can smell the acid in this prick’s stomach, he’s wound so tight.” Then he glanced sheepishly at Priscilla, his face beginning to redden. “I’m sorry, Priscilla, excuse my French.”