Shooting for the Stars (9 page)

Chapter
16

B
ACK
in the newsroom, I sat at my desk trying to figure out what I had here.

I knew now that Thomas Rizzo had been romantically involved with Laura Marlowe at some point before she died. I also knew that Rizzo's son was romantically involved with Abbie Kincaid before she died. I knew that Abbie had been investigating Laura Marlowe's murder, and I knew that Laura's police file had an entire section that was blacked out by the agency that dealt with mob-related activities. Thomas Rizzo was one of the most prominent members of the mob. There was a thread running through all this that even I could follow.

So what did it all mean?

I had a theory. What if Thomas Rizzo either knew something or had something to do with Laura's long-ago murder? What if he told this information to his son Tommy? What if Tommy had passed it on to Abbie? What if that was why she started looking into the Laura Marlowe murder? What if the Rizzo family then had to kill her—to prevent her from revealing what she found out?

It was a pretty good theory, and I sat there for a long time congratulating myself on my brilliance. I decided I deserved some kind of reward. So I went downstairs to a deli and bought myself
a cup of coffee and a sugar-glazed donut. I came back to my desk, ate the donut, drank the coffee, and continued to marvel at how smart I was.

There were a couple of things still bothering me though.

Beverly Richmond told me she'd never seen Laura's father, David Valentine, again after he ran off and left them when Laura was a little girl. Except he did come back. I'd seen his picture with them at the Oscars ceremonies a few months before Laura died. And Edward Holloway had talked about the father showing up to try to get his hands on some of Laura's money after she hit it big.

Plus, Valentine was at the scene the night Laura was shot. So Valentine seemed to be much more of a part of Laura's life at the end than Beverly Richmond wanted to admit.

That brought up a possible alternative scenario for the murder. The father she hates suddenly turns up, tries to get back into her life and climb aboard the Laura Marlowe gravy train once she becomes a Hollywood superstar. She rejects him; he gets angry and he kills her. Except that still doesn't explain why the mother would lie about seeing him again. Was she trying to protect him? Of course not—she clearly detested him. So why not point out that he could be a potential suspect in her death?

Which led to another problem. Beverly Richmond never asked me anything about who really killed her daughter. I had to bring it up to her. With Ray Janson now out of the picture, it was the obvious question. Who did it? Maybe she didn't ask because she already knew who did it. Maybe she was hiding the truth. On the other hand, maybe she just forgot to bring it up.

There was one other thing too. The story of how Laura Marlowe and Edward Holloway met. I'd actually read that account in one of the articles I'd read while I was researching her. It told the story the same way that Holloway did, right down to the tiniest details of what her first words were. His memory of the incident
was perfect. Too perfect. Almost like something that was rehearsed or could be recited from memory after so much time. What did that have to do with anything? I didn't have the slightest idea, but it bothered me.

Mostly though, I was intrigued by the Rizzo connection to both Laura Marlowe and Abbie Kincaid.

If I just pulled on that string some more, maybe I'd find some answers.

I saw Jeff Aronson—the reporter I'd been hanging out with at Headliners—in the office. His beat was the federal courts, which included the U.S. Attorney's office. The U.S. Attorney, like the police, had a special strike force that investigated organized crime. I walked over to his desk.

“What do you know about Thomas Rizzo?” I asked.

“Too much. Why?”

“I'm thinking of joining up. I figure ‘made man' would look good on my resume.”

“Very funny. Rizzo's a bad guy. He's into racketeering, loansharking, extortion, prostitution, drugs, and murder. Lots of murders. He's killed at least fifty or sixty people over the years that we know about—probably a lot more that we don't.”

“Haven't the cops ever convicted him for any of this?”

“Not yet. No case the cops or feds bring against him ever sticks. Witnesses change their stories, evidence disappears—he's got a lot of clout. But, sooner or later, someone will probably get him. He's getting pretty old now anyway. I hear he's almost retired.”

“What about the son, Tommy?”

“I don't know much about him. He went away to college a few years ago, then set himself up in some sort of real estate business. I'm not sure if it's a front for the mob or what. The word is he and
his father don't exactly see eye-to-eye on everything, but I guess he'll inherit the whole rotten empire one day. There are no other kids around, and Rizzo's wife died a few years ago.”

“So how do I find Thomas Rizzo?” I asked.

“Have you heard anything I've been saying here? This guy is really bad news.”

“I need to talk to him.”

Aronson sighed. “The last I heard Rizzo and his cronies hang out at a place called Florentine's in Little Italy. Whenever he shows up, there's maybe ten to fifteen people with him, most of them bodyguards, and they take a banquet room in the back. Rizzo sits in the same seat every time—head of the table, back to the wall and facing the door. Anybody walks into that room unannounced, there's gonna be fireworks.”

Chapter
17

F
LORENTINE'S
was only moderately busy when I got there. I walked over to the bar and sat down where I could get a good view of the whole room. I was wearing a pair of charcoal gray jeans, a black turtleneck, and a dark jacket. My basic James Bond spying attire. I hoped it helped me blend in and go unnoticed.

Maybe a dozen tables in the place were filled. I checked them all closely. The only thing I deduced was that nobody in the place was dressed as cool as I was. I'd brought along a photo of Thomas Rizzo; I checked it now and then looked around the room again. No one looked like him. No Tommy Jr. either.

The bartender came over.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

Behind me, I heard a wine steward explaining some of the choices to a table of eight.

“I'll take a beer,” I said. “Amstel.”

He left to get my order. While he was gone, I looked around the restaurant some more. The banquet room was in the back. If you twisted your neck back to one side, you could see inside it. I twisted my neck and looked. There was no one inside.

The bartender brought my beer. He poured some into a tall glass, waited for the foam to go down a bit, and then filled it to the
top. Very professional. It was certainly a pleasure to watch a true craftsman at his job.

“I'm looking for Thomas Rizzo,” I told him.

“Who's that?” he smiled.

“How about Tommy Jr., his son?”

“Never heard of either of them.”

Behind me, the people at the table were still trying to figure out which wine to order. Indecisive. Not like me. I sipped on my beer and waited for something to happen. It didn't take long.

A few minutes later, a guy quietly slipped onto the stool next to me. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was big, maybe six-foot-five, and muscular. There was also a bulge under his jacket that was probably a gun. He was watching me carefully. The bartender had disappeared down to the other end of the bar and was trying hard to ignore us.

“Hi,” the guy said.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

“Drinking a beer.”

“By yourself?”

“I didn't know I needed help to drink it.”

I looked at the bulge under his coat.

“Say, is that a gun under there?” I said. “I should point out to you that New York City gun laws are quite stringent and anyone found with an unauthorized firearm in their possession—”

“Who the hell are you?” he asked with an exasperated tone.

I showed him my card. The one that says: Gil Malloy,
New York Daily News
reporter, and has a drawing of the
Daily News
building in the corner.

“A newspaper reporter,” he muttered.

“What gave me away? Was it the picture of the
Daily News
building or the word ‘reporter'?”

“What do you want?”

I took a deep breath and plunged ahead with the reason I was there. “Look, let's save a lot of time here,” I said. “I know Thomas Rizzo eats in this restaurant. I know you know him—and I suspect you are in his employment. I want to talk to him. Tell him it's about Laura Marlowe. Tell him I want to know more about their relationship and how he helped her get her start in Hollywood.”

The guy looked at my card for a second, then slipped it into his pocket. He got up from the stool.

“Have a nice night,” he said, “and stay out of trouble.”

I made an imaginary gun with my forefinger and thumb, pointed it at him, and pretended to pull the trigger.

“You too,” I said.

He shook his head and walked away, leaving me alone again. I nursed the beer for another ten minutes or so. No one else came over to talk to me. No one pulled a gun on me. No one went into the banquet room. No one broke out in any Mafia fight songs. Even the bartender seemed to have lost interest in me.

I left the restaurant and walked down the street to a newsstand. I bought the early editions of the other papers. I read through them. There were lots of stories about Abbie's murder, but none of them told me anything I didn't know. On the way back, I took one more look into Florentine's.

Thomas Rizzo wasn't there.

Tommy Jr. either.

The banquet room was still empty.

And there was no sign of my friend at the bar.

Probably so excited about meeting a real-life newspaper reporter that he ran right off to tell someone.

They came for me the next day. A Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the curb next to me as I approached the
Daily News
building. The driver got out. He didn't look like a mob guy, more like a TV game show host. He was young, good looking, dressed in a leisure suit with an open-collared shirt. He flashed me a big smile.

“We'd like to have a word with you,” he said, gesturing to a man sitting in the back seat of the car.

“What about?”

“Thomas Rizzo. You've been asking some questions about him.”

“Do you have some answers?”

“Maybe we can help you.”

He opened the back door of the car and gestured for me to get in. He smiled again. I smiled back. I didn't figure they were going to kidnap me in broad daylight right off the street, and I was interested to find out what they had to say. I got in the car.

There was a guy in the back seat smoking a cigarette. It wasn't Thomas Rizzo. The inside of the Lincoln was filled with smoke. I sat down in the back next to him. The first guy got in too, sitting in the front seat and turning around to face us. I started to cough from the smoke.

“Have you ever read the surgeon general's report?” I asked.

He looked down at the cigarette in his hand.

“Yeah, I know. These things are going to kill me one day.”

“To say nothing of the dangers of second-hand smoke to your family and loved ones.”

“Life's a bitch, isn't it?”

He took another drag on the cigarette.

“You've been asking around for Mr. Rizzo?” he said. “Why?”

“What's it to you?”

“He's our employer.”

“Thomas Sr. or Jr.?”

The man with the cigarette looked at the guy in the front seat and laughed at that. The other guy laughed too. I wasn't sure what the joke was, but I laughed along with them. I just wanted to be part of the group. “No, we don't work for Tommy Jr.,” the one next to me smiled. “We work for Mr. Rizzo. Now why are you so interested in talking to him?”

“I'm working on a story about Laura Marlowe's murder thirty years ago.”

“What does that have to do with him?”

“Laura was having a love affair with Rizzo before she died,” I said as matter-of-factly as I could.

Both men in the car looked at each other. The first guy wasn't smiling anymore.

“Who told you that?” he asked.

“I can't say.”

“That's not the answer we want to hear, Malloy.”

“Look,” I said, “it's not that I don't want to tell you; I can't. It came from what we newspaper types call a confidential source. I can't disclose that kind of thing any more than you can talk about your secret Mafia handshake. I'm sure you understand.”

The man with the cigarette looked over at the guy in the front seat and frowned. He frowned back. I was pretty sure they didn't understand.

“Well, it's not really a rule,” I said quickly. “I mean it's just sort of a journalistic guideline. I never even agreed with it, to tell you the truth. Besides, who's ever going to know if I accidentally let slip to you who my source was just this one time, huh?”

“Who told you, Malloy?” the guy with the cigarette asked.

“I read it in the police report.”

“The police report.”

“Yes, there's a secret classified section in there from the organized-­crime task force.”

“And it talks about Mr. Rizzo having a relationship with Laura Marlowe?”

“Page eighteen, Section C of the appendix,” I said, which I thought was a nice touch.

I figured I was safe enough because there was no way they could check out my story.

“So can I talk to Rizzo?” I asked.

“He doesn't talk to the press.”

“Yeah, but now you can tell him what a nice guy I am.”

“Sorry, but Mr. Rizzo is a very busy man.”

He made a gesture to the driver to let me out.

“Let me ask you one more question,” I said. “How does the kid Tommy fit into all this? I find it a heck of a coincidence that he was dating Abbie Kincaid, who was investigating the death of Laura Marlowe and then was murdered herself. What do you guys make of that?”

The guy with the cigarette shrugged. “Do you have any children, Malloy?”

“No.”

“I have seven. I love them all dearly, but sometimes they're a disappointment. Do you know one of my boys actually came home the other day wearing an earring? An earring!” He shook his head sadly. “They don't always turn out the way you thought they would.”

“Like Tommy?” I asked.

“Tommy has caused his father some anguish. But Mr. Rizzo loves him very much. He would do anything for him. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

I nodded sympathetically.

“Kids.” I smiled. “You can't live with 'em, you can't live without 'em.”

They opened the door and let me out of the car. The one in the back seat with the cigarette smiled at me one more time through the open window.

“Laura Marlowe died a long time ago,” he said. “Let her rest in peace.”