Rizzo’s Fire (21 page)

“So we’re findin’out,” Rizzo said. “When exactly did you let him go?”

She thought for a moment. “Exactly?”

“Yes,” Priscilla interjected. “Exactly.”

She had to check her records before she could answer them.

“October twenty-eighth. It was a Tuesday, that’s our end pay-week day. I gave him a week’s salary plus commission and eight severance days.”

Rizzo thanked her. After a few more routine questions, the two detectives left.

As they reached the Impala, parked beneath the elevated train tracks on Eighty-sixth Street, Rizzo spoke. “Guy gets fired, takes his severance pay and squares his rent the same day.”

Priscilla nodded. “Yeah. Then he’s hanging around his apartment every day and he’s so quiet, so unobtrusive, the landlord doesn’t even know he’s no longer working.”

As Rizzo dropped into the driver’s seat, starting the engine, he wondered aloud, “But for how long? We don’t know when he got whacked.”

“What now?” Priscilla asked, as she hooked her shoulder harness.

“Back to the house,” Rizzo said with a shrug. “The Swede has Bobby Dee and his partner doin’ a street canvass and the uniforms gathering plate numbers and lookin’ around the area for the murder weapon. We need to get Lauria’s phone records and contact the cousin, maybe first get her local precinct to do the death notification so we won’t have to. And Vince told me the fax came in from Rosen. I wanna go over all his notes. Tomorrow, after that stink airs out some, we’ll go back to the scene. I want to look around again carefully, see what’s what. We need to go through the guy’s stuff, then talk to the cousin. Maybe she can point us at someone.”

“You goin’ premeditated on this, Joe?” Priscilla asked. “What happened to our junkie burglar?”

He shrugged. “If it was a junkie burglar so strung out he missed that watch, chances are he dropped his prints all over the joint. CSU will make the prints and that’ll be the end of it.”

“And if there are no prints?” she asked.

“Well, in that case, we’re up against it. An untargeted, random break-in homicide like this one is the toughest. No motive, nothing, just a random series of bullshit that ends up with some poor schmuck like Lauria gettin’ his throat crushed. Cases like this usually get solved when some street stoolie gets jammed up on an unrelated case and uses his info to cut himself a deal. You know how it works: the perp brags to his lowlife buddies what a hard-ass he is, how he whacked Joe Citizen for givin’ him some grief, struttin’ around like he’s John fuckin’ Dillinger. And then when he gets ratted out, he’s perplexed, don’t know what happened.” Rizzo shook his head. “I’m gettin’ real sick of these dumb fucks, Cil. Real sick.”

“Yeah, I hear you. I don’t find ’em quite as amusin’ as I did in my rookie days, either.”

“Yeah, but to answer your original question, I am going premed on this. At least for now. We got a week or ten-day cold trail already, we can’t afford to jerk around. We look at it like there’s a reason, a motive, we check that out right away. Then if we dead end and it
is
just a break-in, we hope for a print or DNA hit or some rat bastard to give the perp up. That’s about all we can do, Cil.”

She nodded. “So we go through the motions.”

“Yeah, for the time bein’, anyway. Besides, this guy Lauria didn’t leave much of a footprint behind. I’m thinkin’ we can cover his whole history in one or two days. If we don’t get pointed at somebody, we go with the junkie burglar theory. Or the local teenage asshole route, or the transient b and e man.” After a moment, he added, “Just don’t get your hopes up. This is probably just gonna waste our time and fuck up our other cases.”

“We might get lucky, Joe. You never know.”

“Yeah,” he said without conviction. “But I tell ya, that watch—that fuckin’ watch—still bothers me. I can’t stop comin’ back to it. I don’t know squat about watches or any kinda jewelry, but one look at that Breitling and even I knew it was big bucks. Hell, a blind man could
smell
the heavy gold,
see
those friggin’ diamonds. There ain’t a junkie or b and e man in the city woulda missed it. He’d have pocketed it no matter what. That watch more than paid for his night’s work.”

She nodded. “Well,” she said, “let’s just see where it goes.”

ONCE BACK
at the Six-Two, Rizzo placed a call to the community policing officer at Canarsie’s Sixty-ninth Precinct. A car would be dispatched to the home of Robert Lauria’s cousin, they would make the official notification of his death. The cousin would be asked to identify the body at the Kings County Hospital morgue. Contact information for Rizzo and Jackson was to be left with the woman.

The balance of the afternoon was spent reviewing Detective Sergeant Art Rosen’s notes and speaking via phone to the CSU detective who conducted the crime scene investigation. A report on preliminary findings was promised within twenty-four hours.

By five-thirty, the two detectives were ready to leave for the day. Rizzo waved good night to Priscilla as she gathered her things and left the squad room. He was just about to call Jennifer and tell her he was on his way home when his direct line began to ring.

“Rizzo, Six-Two squad,” he said into the black mouthpiece.

“It’s me, Rizzo,” a voice said in terse, flat tones. “Zee-Boy.”

Rizzo frowned, glancing up at the wall clock. “What can I do for you, kid?”

“You can stay the fuck away from me for a while,” Zee-Boy said bitterly. “After this call, stay away from me.”

“Tell me,” Rizzo said.

“Just sos we’re clear here,” Zee-Boy said, “I give you the name of the kid you’re lookin’ for, you keep me out of it, right?”

“Yeah, kid, just between us.”

“Us and that mullinyom partner you got,” Zee-Boy replied.

“What ever,” Rizzo said.

“And when the collar does go down, there’s no mention at all this kid was hangin’ with The Rebels, right?”

“Right.”

“But if it ever does come up, if Louie Chink gets word of it, you’ll square it, right? Convince the old prick I did the righteous thing here, right?”

Rizzo grew impatient. “Give me the fuckin’ name, kid. I told you, you’re off the hook. Just give me the fuckin’ name.”

After a pause, Zee-Boy said, “Jamesy Doyle. Lives with his donkey mother in the building on the corner of Sixteenth Avenue and Sixty-fifth Street, apartment two-B. He’s new to the neighborhood, Joe. He don’t know how it is. Just got here about six months ago from some shantytown in Ireland. He’s a fuckin’ immigrant and one crazy motherfucker.”

“Yeah, well, thanks, Zee-Boy. Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah,” Zee-Boy responded. “One more thing. The kid’s only thirteen.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?”

“No, Joe, no shit. Thirteen. A fuckin’ juvenile offender.” Zee-Boy paused. “Get ready to nursemaid this shit-head through Family Court. Maybe get that black Mammy of yours to wet-nurse him. Good fuckin’ luck.” The phone went dead in Rizzo’s ear.

Rizzo dropped a finger on the telephone’s cradle, then lifted it, the dial tone coming through. He began to punch in his home number.

A fucking thirteen-year-old, he thought. Just what he needed. A fucking babysitting job.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE NEXT MORNING, TUESDAY
, Rizzo arrived at the Six-Two just before seven-thirty, a half hour before the start of his day tour. Two fellow detectives, Mark Ginsberg and George Parker, were alone in the squad room at Parker’s desk, sitting out the last thirty minutes of their morning tour. Rizzo crossed the room, pulling up a chair and greeting the two men.

“How was your night?”

Parker shrugged, huge shoulders straining against his thin cotton shirt. “Quiet,” he said. “All the white folk were sound asleep, nice and peaceful.”

Ginsberg laughed. “That’s why I told you to transfer over here, George,” he said. “We’re gettin’ too old for excitement.”

“Yeah, I know the feelin’.” Rizzo glanced at his wristwatch. “Can you give me a minute, guys?”

“Sure,” Parker said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Those two street robberies you guys are carrying. And the Hom case, the third robbery me ’n Jackson caught.”

“What about ’em?” Ginsberg asked.

Rizzo smiled as he answered. “I got a name.”

“No shit?” said Parker. “From where?”

Rizzo shrugged. “Came to me in a vision.”

“Oh,” Ginsberg said. “Like that, eh?”

“Yeah, Mark,” he replied. “Like that.”

Parker spoke next. “So, it’s the same perp on all three? The way we had it made?”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. Same guy.”

Ginsberg smiled as he spoke. “Well, it’s kinda late for Yom Kippur and too early for Christmas, so what’s this, a Thanksgiving present you’re handin’ us?”

Rizzo shook his head. “Who said anything ’bout a present, Mark? But bein’ today’s Veterans Day, let’s call it a transaction. A transaction between three old vets.”

Parker snorted. “Shit, you call Mark’s three years in the fuckin’ Coast Guard telling dames on yachts to put their bikini tops back on being a veteran, Joe?”

“Hey, it’s the Jewish navy, what can I tell you?” laughed Ginsberg.

Rizzo rubbed his hands together. “Let’s talk,” he said.

Parker sat back in his seat. “Talk to my attorney here, Joe. I let him handle all our negotiations.”

“And I let George pick out the rib joints we eat at,” Ginsberg said.

“Me and Jackson caught a homicide,” Rizzo began, watching both cops nod their understanding. “So we’re gonna be busy for a while. I came up with a name on the robberies. But here’s the thing: the perp is thirteen.”

“Shit,” Parker said. “That’ll kill a couple a days for the arresting.”

“Exactly,” Rizzo said. “I lock this kid up, either me or Jackson gotta sit with him durin’ the whole process, right through to the fuckin’ Family Court appearance. Then we hafta transport him to Spofford or wherever the fuck they ship ’im pending disposition. It could take two days, not to mention havin’ to kiss his mother’s ass the whole time.” He looked from one to the other. “I ain’t got that kinda time right now, guys.”

“I hear you,” Parker said. “So, whaddya got in mind?”

“I’ll cut a deal,” Rizzo said. “I give you the name. You make the pinch, walk the kid through, or maybe get Olivero to do it for you—he’s the friggin’ youth officer. Then me and Jackson get sole credit on the Hom case, shared on your two cases. That gives me and her three cleared cases, a cushion for us to work this homicide. We just cleared a shooting and that dick-waver case, so with the robberies, that’s five in—what?—five, six weeks we been partnered? It’s more than good enough.”

Parker and Ginsberg exchanged looks, then Ginsberg leaned toward Rizzo.

“How do we know the name’s good?” he asked.

Rizzo shrugged. “Try it out. Go talk to the kid. Squeeze him, lean on the mother. She’s an immigrant, ask her for her green card, scare her a little. If the kid don’t cop to it, line him up and bring in the vics. I bet one or more can make the kid.” He looked from one to the other, noting the interest in their eyes. “If it don’t work out, nothin’ lost, nothin’ gained.” He paused, allowing a smile to come to his face. “I got a feelin’ it’s gonna work out, though. A good feeling.”

After a moment, Parker crossed his hands on his broad, flat midriff and said, “You know, I been at the Six-Two less than a year, but I hear good shit ’bout your little deals, Joe.” He turned his hard brown eyes to his partner. “Whaddya think, Counselor? Sounds like a plan to me.”

Ginsberg turned his gaze to Rizzo. “I’ll say yes. I have faith in Joe’s . . .
vision
.”

Rizzo slipped a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and tossed it onto Parker’s desk. “Good,” he said. “That’s the kid. Lives with his mother, and word is he ain’t wrapped too tight, so watch out when you pick ’im up. Don’t let his baby face fool you.”

Rizzo stood. “One more thing.” The two detectives turned their eyes upward to meet his.

“This kid might be wearin’ Rebel colors,” Rizzo said in a serious tone. “If word gets around the neighborhood he’s a Rebel, we got a very serious problem.”

The two cops furrowed their brows for a moment. Then, a sudden awareness appeared in Ginsberg’s green eyes.

“I smell some diarrhea, Joe,” he said cheerfully, “and I think it’s runnin’ down Zee-Boy’s leg. Am I right?”

Rizzo shook his head gently. “No squeal on The Rebels, Mark,” he said. “They don’t exist, far as this case goes. If you convince Olivero to help out, make sure he gets that, too.”

“Done,” Ginsberg said. They shook hands and Rizzo once again glanced at his wristwatch. The bargaining hadn’t taken very long.

“Go on, guys,” he said. “Take off. I got the squad covered. Go on home.”

Parker stood, his six-four frame towering above Rizzo.

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,
paesan,
” he said, laying a large hand on Rizzo’s shoulder. “Truly a plea sure.”

LATER THAT
morning, Rizzo and Jackson sat at a small table in the detective squad interview room, across from Detective Second Grade Robert Dellosso, known around the precinct as Bobby Dee.

“Tough way to get started in the precinct, Cil,” Dellosso said, “catchin’ a cold homicide.”

“Somebody’s got to do it,” she said.

“Bobby,” Rizzo said, “Vince told me he had you and Kenny do a canvass at the scene.”

“Yeah, we did. Four and a half friggin’ hours and all of it on straight time.”

“Thanks. How’d you make out?” Rizzo asked.

“Waste a time. Tough enough to canvass for info when you don’t know the date of the crime, but then factor in this guy Lauria, it’s fuckin’ impossible.”

“Why’s that?”

“This guy was the Invisible Man, Joe. Not one person off the block knew who we were askin’ about. And maybe two, three people on the block itself knew him, and them only ’cause they were friendly with the homeowners, the Annasias.”

Rizzo ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. Seems the guy was a loner, kept to himself.”

“Big time, Joe. Even the local shopkeepers couldn’t place the guy. Me and Kenny had a picture of Lauria we took outta the apartment. Even that didn’t help.”