Rizzo’s Fire Page 31

  THOMAS ROSS Bradley sat impassively on his sofa, his gray eyes cold. His wife, pale and fidgeting, sat beside him, a bewildered, frightened look on her face. Lieutenant Lombardi led a team of Manhattan South detectives through the sprawling Midtown apartment. The warrant Rizzo had served on the Bradleys authorized a search of the apartment in any area reasonably expected to contain articles of clothing. It also authorized the examination and seizure of any inner or outer garment reasonably resembling a blue or partially blue article of men’s clothing, as well as any and all pairs of gloves found in the home.

  Rizzo, with Jackson at his side, stood before the Bradleys, a tight smile on his face.

  “You finished readin’ that arrest warrant yet, Bradley?” he asked.

  The man raised hostile eyes to Rizzo. “Yes,” he said. “And once again, I demand my attorney.”

  Rizzo shrugged. “You called your attorney. He’s on his way. In the meantime, I’m placing you under arrest for the murders of Robert Lauria and Avery Mallard. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during all questioning …”

  When he finished the Miranda warning, Rizzo took the arrest warrant back from Bradley and smiled down at him.

  “There, now all the little technicalities of our shallow American culture have been taken care of.” He turned, leaving Bradley under guard of two uniformed officers from the host Manhattan North Precinct.

  “Does that make you feel better, Mr. Bradley?” Rizzo asked, as he moved away.

  PRISCILLA JACKSON sat in the Six-Two interview room with Thomas Bradley and his attorney. She carefully completed Bradley’s pedigree for the preliminary paperwork on the Lauria homicide. She would later transport the suspect to Brooklyn Central Booking to complete the process. From there, Rizzo and Lombardi would transport Bradley to Manhattan Central Booking and prepare the Mallard paperwork. Bradley would presumably be arraigned on Sunday in each borough, and, as was customary in murder cases, be initially remanded to the Department of Corrections without bail.

  At the same time, Rizzo sat in D’Antonio’s office, smoking a cigarette in defiance of the New York City ban currently in force for all public buildings. Lombardi sat to his right.

  “Well, let’s hope the coat we found is a match,” Lombardi said. “That’ll be the last nail in this guy’s coffin.”

  “Be nice if they get Lauria or Mallard’s trace blood off a pair of those gloves, too,” D’Antonio said.

  “Let’s not get greedy, Vince,” said Rizzo. “Blood or no blood, this guy is so busted, the Queen’s teeth must be fallin’ out.”

  “Yeah,” D’Antonio said, chuckling. “I bet.”

  Lombardi cleared his throat. “I wanna go off the record, guys,” he said.

  D’Antonio shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Sure,” Rizzo agreed.

  Lombardi again cleared his throat. “Just so you know, you ain’t fooling anybody here, Joe. We know what you did. Almost from day one you ran your Lauria case to get to the Mallard case—for the perks that collar would bring. You kept Manhattan South in the dark and deliberately withheld evidence from us.”

  Rizzo opened his mouth to protest, but Lombardi held up a silencing hand. “Easy, guy, take it easy. We’re off the record here, remember?”

  Rizzo thought a moment. “So what’s your point?”

  Lombardi responded. “My point is you broke every fuckin’ rule you came across. Includin’ doing DeMaris’s attorney’s work, creating her escape route on felony murder charges with that half-assed statement you wrote. All so you could nail Bradley, Joe. You gambled big, and I guess you won big, but I want you to know, you ain’t fooling anybody. I don’t care what Cappelli says, his ‘confidential’ source at the court house is sittin’ right here next to me.”

  “Off the record or on, I deny that,” Rizzo said with a shrug.

  “Good for you,” Lombardi answered. “But what ever, that angle covered your ass. Nobody at the Plaza will buck a crusading reporter who’s backing your play. It’s better to just eat shit and smile, so that’s what’ll happen.”

  “I’m still waitin’. What’s your point?” Rizzo repeated.

  Lombardi’s tone softened. “Well, my point is—and we’re still off the record—I do appreciate what you did on the bottom line. The phone call to me, I mean. I know you’ve got the balls to end-run us completely, so you tipping us to the situation, even at the risk of getting cut out yourself, that was righteous. And I appreciate it. We appreciate it. Far as John Q. Public is concerned, the Mallard arrest was a team effort with you and Jackson as the MVPs. We can live with that.” He paused. “What else can we do?”

  Rizzo shifted in his seat and waved a casual hand at Lombardi.

  “No big deal, Dom,” he said. Then with a wink, added, “I kinda had a feeling I wasn’t gettin’ cut out of anything. Sort of a gut feelin’.”

  Lombardi laughed. “Yeah, I figured. Nothin’ like those gut feelings, eh, Joe?”

  Vince D’Antonio leaned forward on his desk. “I hate to break up this little circle-jerk you guys got goin’ here, but how ’bout doin’ me a fuckin’ favor?”

  Lombardi raised his eyebrows in question. “And what might that be?”

  “Well, Dom, how ’bout taking this pain in the ass off my hands before he gets me jammed up beyond repair?”

  D’Antonio’s eyes moved from Lombardi to Rizzo and back again.

  “How ’bout lettin’ Joe do his last nine months breaking your balls over at Manhattan South?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  December

  SEATED AT HIS KITCHEN TABLE, Joe Rizzo sipped coffee and casually leafed through the Daily News. It had been just over a week since headlines had announced an arrest in the Mallard murder case.

  His mind wandering, the faint sound of an automobile motor came to him from the driveway. He pushed back his chair and rose to investigate.

  Reaching the window, he watched as Carol climbed out of her car. Rizzo frowned, wondering what had brought her home so unexpectedly.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said as she entered the house.

  He smiled at her. “Hi, hon. Everything okay? I thought you were coming home on the twentieth.”

  Carol crossed the room, dropping her backpack to the floor by the door. She kissed Rizzo on the cheek.

  “Yeah, well, I decided to take the day off,” she said. “I have some laundry to do.”

  Rizzo glanced at the backpack. “Okay,” he said. “Seems like a long drive for one load of wash, but … okay.”

  Carol smiled, her pretty features lighting Rizzo’s eye. “Is that sarcasm or skepticism I detect?” she asked, her tone light.

  “Neither, Carol,” he replied. “Just an observation, that’s all.”

  Carol went to the coffeemaker, taking a mug from the cabinet and filling it. She moved to the refrigerator, gathered milk and apple pie, then sat at the table. As she gestured for him to join her, he returned to his chair.

  As Carol forked some pie into her mouth, she said, “We need to talk, Daddy. One awkward holiday was enough; let’s not ruin Christmas, too.”

  Rizzo smiled at her. “Was Thanksgiving ruined? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Okay, maybe not ruined. But awkward. Definitely awkward.”

  He nodded. “Settled. Awkward is what we’ll call it.”

  Some moments passed, Rizzo sipping his coffee, Carol eating her pie.

  “So, kiddo, how’d you do on the police exam? Any feelings about it?”

  “Well, I just took it a couple of weeks ago,” Carol answered, shrugging. “Naturally, I haven’t heard anything yet. But it was pretty easy. I think I maxed it.”

  “Okay,” Rizzo said, his eyes on hers. “So what’s next?”

  “You know how it works, Daddy: written test, medical, physical agility, psychological. Then into the Academy.”

  Rizzo began to drum his fingers on the table. Carol reached out a hand, laying it on his to
stop the drumming. She smiled as she spoke, her voice soft.

  “Relax, Dad,” she said. “You can handle this. So can Mom.”

  Rizzo turned his hand under hers, taking hold of it and massaging it gently in his grasp. For reasons unfathomable to him, memories of her First Holy Communion day wafted across his mind’s eye.

  “Yeah, Carol,” he said, his voice the equal to hers in softness, “I guess we could.” He paused. “You know, it’s not about your mother and me, honey. I understand it’s hard for you to accept that, but it’s always been about you. About what you could handle, about what was right for you.”

  Carol placed her other hand over the one Rizzo was holding. “Yes, I do know. I’ve always known that. But this is what I really want. I’ve just spent the entire week reading about you and Cil, how you solved the Mallard case. I have the Newsday article framed and hanging in my room at school. I’m very proud of you, Dad. That’s why I had to come home and straighten all this out. I don’t like us being mad at each other.”

  Rizzo shook his head slowly. “Carol, I’ve never once been mad at you your entire life.”

  Carol’s eyes twinkled. “No? Never? Not even that time I found bird crap on the fender of your car and used one of Mom’s emery boards to file it off? Along with some of the paint?”

  Rizzo laughed. “Okay,” he admitted. “One time, maybe.”

  Carol removed her hands from his and stood, moving toward the coffeemaker. Refilling her cup, she returned to her seat.

  “So,” she said, her features set, a grimness affixed to her expression. “Would you like to hear what I came to say?”

  Rizzo sat back in his seat, his eyes falling to the table. “Probably not.”

  Despite herself, Carol’s expression softened. “Well, you’re going to anyway. My mind is made up. I’m going on the cops as soon as they call me.”

  Rizzo raised his eyes to meet hers. “And so you decided to drive two hours to come home and tell me this today?”

  “Yes, Dad. Today is as good as any. I know you and Mom still plan on talking me out of this, turning me around somehow. I want it resolved now. I want it behind us. I need you to just accept it.”

  “But what’s the urgency, kiddo? This coulda waited till …”

  Carol shook her head. “No, it couldn’t. All week I’ve been reading about you, how you broke that case, how you and Cil put a murderer behind bars. And I’ve been wondering, how can he be so against me going on the cops? So now, I’m asking you: Why? Is it the danger? Are you scared? The most dangerous job in America is convenience store clerk. Did you know that? Not cop, not firefighter, not race-car driver. Seven-Eleven night clerk. It’s just life, Dad. You can’t protect me from it. I’m an adult, you have to accept that.”

  Rizzo rubbed at his jaw, considering it all. Then he sighed before leaning inward toward his youngest daughter.

  “All right, Carol,” he said, weariness apparent in his voice. “All right. You read about your big hero father and his gangbuster partner in the newspaper, how they locked up the bogeyman. Well, I think you need to hear the real story, kiddo, not just the news. The real truth.”

  Rizzo sat back and gave Carol a sad smile. “I solved the case, okay, solved the crime. But the truth is, to do it, I took a big chance with someone else’s life, I risked a third murder. Then I falsified a sworn statement. I promised a coconspirator, a person just as guilty as Bradley, that if she played ball, cooperated and recanted her phony alibi story, I’d write a statement for her with more leaks in it than the Titanic. I practically guaranteed she’d have the basis to walk on two homicides, probably just take a fall for a low-weight felony, maybe only a couple a misdemeanors. Then I perjured myself in official sworn court papers. And I’ll do it again when I testify at the trial, if there is a trial. I broke the damned law, Carol, because that’s what I had to do to enforce the law. It’s crimes cops deal with. Just crimes. Not people. I break as many laws as I enforce. Maybe more. That’s how it’s done. Wait. You’ll see. If you go ahead with this quest of yours, you’ll see. Believe me.”

  Carol seemed confused. “What are you saying, Dad? That it’s a bad arrest? That this guy Bradley is getting railroaded?”

  Rizzo shook his head. “No. I wish it was that simple. The arrest is good, tight as a drum, and the guy is guilty as hell. I just needed that woman’s cooperation to give me the legal ammunition to secure a search warrant for Bradley’s place. Once I did, we had him. We found the physical evidence we needed to throw on top of the circumstantial we already had. Bingo—case closed.” He paused, giving his daughter time to digest what he had just told her, see it for what it was.

  “Pretty heroic, isn’t it?” Rizzo asked softly.

  Carol sat silently looking at her father. Then she sighed and gave a slight shrug. “Seems to me, Dad,” she said, “you did what had to be done. It is what it is.” She was silent for another moment before continuing.

  “You know, Dad, human civilization is built on a foundation. And in this country, we’ve built a lot on our foundation: a free press, great universities, churches, ballets, museums. And do you know what that foundation consists of?”

  Her father shook his head. “Sometimes I think I don’t know much of anything, kiddo. Not really.”

  Carol continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “The foundation consists of security, Dad. Security and law and order, put there by soldiers, put there by cops. Some people look down on them, criticize them, betray them, feel superior to them. But without those soldiers, without those cops, without the foundation built with their blood and sweat, there is no free press, there is no freedom, there’s nothing. Nothing but tyranny and chaos and crime and violence.”

  Carol stood slowly and walked behind her father, placing her hands gently onto his shoulders. She bent her face to his ear, speaking softly into it.

  “Maybe it’s not always pretty. Maybe a cop’s job can get dirty. But the truth remains. No cops, no foundation. No foundation, no civilization. It’s the only thing I want to do. Just let me work on that foundation. Let me help keep it sound, let me repair some cracks. If I have to get my hands dirty in the process, so be it. I can do what you do, Dad. I can fight fire with fire. You just watch me.”

  Carol stood erect, her hands still on Rizzo’s shoulders. He turned his head, his eyes finding hers as she spoke once more.

  “I need you to be there for me on this. I could always count on you. Don’t change on me now. Please, Dad.”

  Rizzo, his eyes moistening, smiled up at his daughter.

  “Okay, kiddo,” he said. “Okay.”

  THE AFTERNOON of Friday, December 12, was slate gray and bitterly cold. A harsh northerly wind swept along Smith Street, buffeting scattered pedestrians as they hurried along the sidewalks.

  Rizzo climbed from the Camry and pulled his coat collar over his ears and neck. He crossed diagonally to the Non-Combat Zone and pressed the doorbell. As he waited for a response, he glanced at his Timex: three-thirty sharp. Right on time.

  “SO, MY friend,” Father Attilio Jovino said happily. “You’ve had quite a two weeks, I see.”

  “Well, yeah, Tillio, I guess I have,” Rizzo said.

  Reaching across to accept Rizzo’s offered Chesterfield, Jovino said, “You must tell me all the inside dirt, all those tantalizing details which somehow never quite make it into the news reports.”

  Rizzo leaned forward with his Zippo, lighting Jovino’s cigarette, then sat back to light his own.

  “Well,” he said, blowing smoke down at the desktop, “there’s not much to tell, I’m afraid. That reporter from the Daily News, Cappelli, he had a good source. He grabbed a pretty nice scoop for himself.”

  Jovino widened his eyes. “And how very convenient for you,” he said with a smile. “I would imagine the higher-ups were all poised to steal your thunder for themselves. Cappelli’s headlines may just have kept them honest.”

  “You’d have made a hell of a cop, Til,” Rizzo said matter-offa
ctly.

  “God forbid,” the priest answered, crossing himself. “I have all I can handle right here, thank you.” He paused, drawing on the cigarette. “But really, nothing to share? No inside tidbit?”

  “Well, in a day or two, the story’ll break that the fiber found on Lauria’s corpse matched Bradley’s Burberry coat. Plus, the lab pulled trace elements of blood from Bradley’s leather gloves, and it’s Lauria’s. That shuts the door.” He paused. “There were some problems with DeMaris’s initial statement. It was sorta vague and poorly framed as to the extent of her involvement, and she may get outta this cheap, but her pulling the alibi story did a good job of nailin’ Bradley on the Mallard case. And there’d be no reason for him to kill Lauria other than to protect his plagiarism and the fortune he was reapin’ from the play, so once we prove Bradley killed Lauria, DeMaris’s testimony makes the Mallard case a no-brainer. He’s goin’ down on both of ’em.”

  “May God forgive him,” Jovino said in a neutral voice.

  “Yeah,” Rizzo said coldly. “Let’s hope.”

  Jovino’s face brightened. “So, I saw your picture in the paper. You and Detective Jackson, with our dear mayor and illustrious police commissioner. I understand the Daily News may run a full feature on you in a future Sunday magazine.”

  Rizzo gave a short laugh. “Yeah. Unless some ditzy pop singer loses her drawers again. Then I’m yesterday’s news.”

  “Quite possibly, Joe,” Jovino said, laughing. “Quite possibly.”

  “Well, it’s been fun. The attention, I mean. Nice way to finish up my career. Plus, Mike got a big boost from it, too, and Cil can probably write her own ticket. Everybody wins.”

  Jovino frowned. “Except those two dear souls who were murdered and the misguided souls who murdered them,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Rizzo said. “Except them.”

  The two men sat in silence for a few moments, smoking. Then, Jovino leaned forward, cigarette smoke curling around his head, his hands now crossed before him on the desk.

  “So shall we discuss it?” he said. “The reason for your visit today?”