Rizzo’s Fire (27 page)

“Now I see why you didn’t want Cil along today, Joe.”

“Oh?” Rizzo said, arching his brows, “and why’s that?”

Lowering his voice, McQueen said, “Daily. Councilman William fuckin’ Daily. We pull this off, we’re untouchable. We couldn’t discuss that aspect of all this in front of Cil. But you and I know, we pull this off, we could nail that prick Daily and not give a goddamn if anybody realizes it was us who did it.
That’s
your motivation here. We’d be fuckin’ untouchable.”

“Okay, kid,” Rizzo said with satisfaction. “You’re a good learner. We find Mallard’s killer, we’re the fair-haired boys of the news media. There ain’t a boss or a politician in the whole fuckin’ city who’d tangle with that. Not just to avenge that scumbag Daily.”

He gazed across the table and into the intent, steely blue eyes of McQueen.

“Get me that file, Mike,” he said. “Without it, I’m blind.”

McQueen pursed his lips. “Okay, I’ll do it. But it’ll take me a few days to figure out how to do it clean, so no one notices and starts asking questions.”

The waiter appeared once again and placed fresh drinks on the table, then moved away. Rizzo raised his second Dewar’s in another toast to McQueen.

“Just get the file, Mike, and leave the rest to me.

“Me and Cil, that is.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SATURDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER
15, the gray chill of the last two days gave in to bright, crispy, late fall splendor. Returning from the supermarket, Rizzo unloaded the trunk of his Camry, glancing upward at the deep blue, cloudless sky.

“Beautiful day outside, Jen,” he said as he set the bags down in the kitchen. “We should go down to Shore Road, take a walk along the water.”

Jennifer looked up from her seat at the kitchen table, note pad before her, pen in hand.

“Good idea. I’ve just about completed the Thanksgiving menu.”

Laying his hands on her shoulders and peering down at the notepad, he asked, “How’s it look?”

“Great. The girls and I will make the antipasto and the turkey with all the trimmings. Your mom is bringing the manicotti, mine is doing the gravy meat—sausage, meatballs, and braciole.”

Rizzo nodded. “Don’t forget the watermelon for Cil,” he said, smiling.

Jennifer slapped at his hand. “Stop it,” she said. “I told your mom to make some extra manicotti, so there’ll be plenty to go around. I’m glad Priscilla and her friend are coming.”

“Yeah, so is Cil. It helps her sidestep that whole mother situation.”

“That’s a shame, really,” Jennifer said, with a shake of her head. “I hope they can work that out someday.”

Rizzo frowned. “Yeah, well, mind your own business. She hears enough shit from Karen, so don’t be takin’ sides. Stay out of it.”

He glanced at the clock. It was ten-thirty a.m. “You think Marie’s up yet? I have to call her.”

Jennifer shrugged. “Probably. Try her.”

Rizzo went to the den, dropping into the leather double recliner. He picked up the cordless and punched in Marie’s number at her dormitory.

“Hey, honey, it’s me,” he said.

“Hi, Daddy. What’s going on?”

Rizzo smiled into the mouthpiece, visualizing his oldest daughter’s dark beauty.

“Not much,” he said. “We’ll see you on the twenty-sixth?”

“Yep. Figure about three o’clock.”

“Good. I’m off that day, I’ll pick you up at Grand Central.”

“Great,” she said. “Saves me a subway ride.”

“Okay,” he answered. “I’ll tell you why I called, honey. I need a favor.”

“Really? What?”

“Well, I’m on a case and I need something. A copy of a play. I stopped at Barnes and Noble this morning, and the guy told me it hasn’t been put into general release yet, since it’s new on Broadway, but it went out to some of the universities. It’s that new play by Avery Mallard,
An Atlanta Landscape
.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it.” Marie paused. “Are you working on his murder, Daddy? The graduate lit majors are totally bummed about it.”

Rizzo shook his head. “No, not exactly. It’s somethin’ else, it’s complicated. I’ll tell you about it when you come home for Thanksgiving.”

“Okay, Dad, I’ll stop by the English department and try to track one down.” She paused. “You know, if Jess gets it at Hunter, you can have it sooner. She could give it to you by Monday.”

“I know, I asked her yesterday. Hunter doesn’t have it yet. I figured maybe Cornell does.”

“Okay, Daddy, I’ll call you later and let you know.”

“Good, thanks.” He hesitated. “And Marie, one more favor: Don’t mention this to Carol, okay?”

“Why not, Daddy?” she asked flatly.

Rizzo answered with a sigh. “The last thing I want right now is for Carol to start helpin’ out with police work. No matter how superficial. And if she finds out I asked you and Jessica and not her, I’ll have more trouble with her than I already got. So it’s our secret, okay?”

“Sure, Dad,” Marie said. “Stay in denial. That’ll help.”

“Okay, kiddo, back off. Just get me the friggin’ play, okay? Please?”

“Of course, Dad. But as far as Carol is concerned after that blowup you had, you really have to just—”

“Okay, honey, thanks,” Rizzo said. “Your mother’s callin’ me, I gotta go. See you on the twenty-sixth.” He hung up gently.

Everybody’s got an opinion, he thought. Everybody.

MONDAY MORNING
, as Rizzo stepped into a point at the police range during his annual firearms qualification cycle, Priscilla Jackson sat at her desk in the Six-Two squad room, a full day of work before her. The fingerprint team was on its way to dust the suitcase, its contents and some other items she and Rizzo had secured in the precinct property office on Thursday.

Priscilla needed to prepare and finalize DD-5 reports for her confirmation of the unbroken Air Force deployment of Lauria’s cousin in Kuwait and the apparent noninvolvement in any aspect of the case by Lauria’s Long Island and New Jersey relatives.

She also needed to update Vince D’Antonio with carefully worded half-truths on their continuing investigatory work on Lauria’s possessions. When the print team was finished, she would then have to inventory, label, and resecure the confiscated items, carefully preparing a paper trail, detailing the chain of possession for what might eventually develop into key pieces of evidence—evidence which must maintain its integrity throughout any courtroom challenges that might be raised by a competent defense attorney.

Priscilla dropped her eyes to the faxes on her desk. Some additional reports from the Medical Examiner’s Office put Lauria’s time of death as not before Wednesday, October 29, nor later than Saturday, November 1. Priscilla learned that Avery Mallard’s date of death had been established as Sunday, November 2.

Samples taken from Robert Lauria’s clothing and the kitchen floor revealed blood from only one human source. If, as Rizzo had indicated, the killer’s hands had been cut by the garrote, traces of his blood would probably have been found at the scene. The absence of blood tended to confirm that the killer wore gloves, helping to eliminate possible DNA evidence.

Police lab results provided by CSU indicated that a blue fiber strand found on Lauria’s T-shirt was an imported blend of high-quality cotton mix. Concentration levels of water repellent chemical substances indicated a strong probability that the fiber came from an expensive, top-of-the-line raincoat. Further cross-referencing had found the fiber and chemicals to match both Burberry and Theory brand coats at the uppermost end of their product lines. None of the samples of Lauria’s wardrobe matched the blue fiber.

Next, Priscilla turned to the DD-5 reports prepared over the last three days by various detectives from the Six-Two squad. As Rizzo had predicted, they showed meaningless results for license plate runs on vehicles parked in the vicinity of the Lauria apartment on the day the body was discovered. Follow-up neighborhood canvasses were equally unproductive for leads or significant information, as were field and squad room interviews with known local drug addicts. A computer scan of criminal records indicated none of the private homes surrounding Lauria’s apartment housed any known criminals. An additional interview of the Annasias and subsequent criminal background checks had failed to produce a potential suspect within the circle of family and friends of Lauria’s landlords.

Beneath the DD-5s Priscilla found a computer printout of the prior month’s phone calls made to and from the number registered to Robert Lauria. She scanned it quickly, noting its sparseness and repetitive pattern, and put it aside for later analysis.

The print team arrived and approached her desk. She rose to greet them, making a small note to revisit the shoe store manager and workers where Lauria was last employed. She was hoping to develop a lead to someone who might fit the role of Lauria’s phantom friend and thus be considered an avenging copy cat murder suspect in the Avery Mallard homicide.

As she shook hands with Detective Cynthia Morrow, fingerprint technician, Priscilla silently wished that Joe Rizzo hadn’t been absent on this of all days.

The weight of the investigation, she was finding, was too great to be borne by one set of shoulders. Although she was appreciative of the team effort mounted by the squad, she felt Rizzo’s absence more keenly than she would ever care to admit.

TUESDAY MORNING
, Priscilla greeted Rizzo.

“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 break-in 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.”