by Lou Manfredo
“Big fuckin’ deal,” Rizzo said. “I want the Mallard case.”
Priscilla glanced at her partner. “So, maybe we’ll get lucky and not find a coat.”
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Maybe.”
After a moment, he spoke again.
“Here’s what we got, Cil, from me readin’ the case file. There was no unusual activity on Mallard’s financial resources. So it’s unlikely he hired a pro to kill Lauria. All the ex-wives come back clean. Believe it or not, Mallard was on good terms with all four of ’em, even that screwball actress. Anyway, none of that connects to Lauria. Way I see it, we got his agent, the producer of the play, and maybe the director. Long shot is that friendly neighbor a his that found the body. Him and Mallard were pretty buddy-buddy. Equal long shot, some other pal Mallard mighta had. Any one a those guys coulda helped Mallard kill Lauria, then later on killed Mallard, or maybe killed ’em both on his own for reasons unknown to us. But their alibis are good all around for the Mallard case, and they’ve all flown under the radar with Manhattan South. With the agent, his alibi covers both killings: he was in Paris. Manhattan South didn’t need to alibi anybody for the possible dates of the Lauria killing ’cause they weren’t working it as connected, never even heard a Lauria.”
“What are the alibis?” Priscilla asked.
Rizzo looked to the notes he held in his hands.
“Agent in Paris, producer havin’ an early dinner at the Marriott Marquis with his mistress, then in a room with her till midnight. Mallard got whacked about nine. The director was at the theater for the play’s matinee, then the regular evening show. The neighbor was home with his wife, went out for cigarettes ’bout nine-thirty, saw Mallard’s front door ajar, checked it out, found the body, called nine-one-one from his cell.”
“How’d they establish time of death?” she asked.
“M.E. got to the scene by ten-fifteen, no rigor mortis yet, so he ballparks it no earlier than eight-thirty. Neighbor claims he found the body nine-forty or so. The M.E. runs some more tests, puts time a death around nine p.m. Sunday, November second.”
Priscilla nodded. “So the only alibi we know of covering both killings is the agent’s, and the weakest alibi in the Mallard case is the neighbor’s.”
“Yes,” Rizzo said. “He coulda gone out for smokes, killed Mallard, set the scene up to look like a burglary, then called the cops. But what’s that got to do with Lauria?”
Priscilla speculated, “Mallard and the neighbor killed Lauria to shut him up about how Mallard stole his play. After the fact, Mallard starts to pussy out, neighbor gets scared and whacks Mallard.”
Rizzo nodded. “The boys and girls at Major Case did have some inclinations toward the neighbor. They squeezed him a little, but he stood up to it. Even demanded a lie detector test, just like on television. Everybody’s satisfied the guy is clean.”
“What about the others, Joe?”
He shrugged. “The other three were just routinely canvassed. Without the plagiarized play angle, there was no reason to do much more than that. And their alibis tested out.”
“Okay,” Priscilla said.
“By the way,” Rizzo said as an afterthought. “The producer? When we talk to him, steer clear of his alibi. Let me handle it. The cop interviewin’ him gave a confidential statement amendment.” Rizzo smiled. “Seems the guy’s afraid his wife might get a little unreasonable with the community property if she hears about his night at the Marriott with the girlfriend.”
Priscilla pursed her lips. “Thinkin’ with his dick, just like the rest of you guys.”
Adams Mews was a short, narrow passageway that ran between Jane Street and Eighth Avenue in the West Village. The alley was lined on both sides by two-and three-story attached houses. Each structure was a converted stable, some dating back to the eighteenth century, most from the mid–eighteen-hundreds. The street itself was unevenly paved in Colonial-era stones.
Priscilla carefully pulled the car’s right wheels onto the narrow north sidewalk in front of number ten Adams Mews, former home of playwright Avery Mallard. She opened the driver’s door to examine the position of the Chevrolet, satisfying herself there was enough room on the stone roadway for vehicle traffic to squeeze by.
Mallard’s home had a white stone facade, two stories high, with portions of the building spider-veined with thick, leafless tangles of vines. Fronting the ground floor were a narrow entry door and permanently sealed large carriage doors which had formerly served as the stable entrance. A small window stood between the two doorways; three larger windows, two bearing covered air-conditioning units, were evenly spaced on the second floor.
The building, although now a crime scene, was still private property. Rizzo had learned from the file that keys to the home had been left by Mallard’s attorney with a local Realtor. Rizzo’s detective sergeant badge convinced the Realtor to turn over the keys. Now, with those keys in his hand, he eyed the building, then scanned the street to his left and right.
“Let’s take a walk around before we go in.”
The two detectives came across a gated alley on Eighth Avenue that provided access to rear gardens for the homes located on the north side of Adams Mews. The gate was padlocked, but only six feet high, and ornately decorated in heavy wrought iron.
“A cripple could hop this fence,” Priscilla observed.
They found a similar entry point on Jane Street, this one providing entry to the rear areas of the south side structures on Adams. Rizzo and Jackson retraced their steps along Jane Street, again noting the five-and six-story buildings backing up to the rear yards of Adams Mews’ north side.
“Lots of windows facing the back of Mallard’s place,” Rizzo said.
The detectives then walked back to Eighth Avenue, turned right, continuing to Adams Mews and the Mallard home. Rizzo unlocked the door, eyeing the remnants of yellow crime scene tape still clinging to the door frame.
They entered the building.
From his careful reading of the file, Rizzo knew that anything resembling an address book, personal calendar, or diary had been removed and tagged by Manhattan South’s investigators. He and Jackson were there for three reasons only: to search for what could be a fiber-matching raincoat, to examine the physical layout of the home to ascertain the likelihood of a breakin, and to see if there was anything connecting Mallard to Robert Lauria or his play A Solitary Vessel.
Two hours later, they left and returned the keys, then drove slowly northward toward a quick lunch and then a scheduled appointment with Avery Mallard’s literary agent, Samuel Kellerman.
“So,” Rizzo said, sipping coffee at the counter of the sandwich shop on West Fourteenth Street. “What’d we learn?”
Priscilla opened her bottled water, pouring some into a glass. “We learned that we shoulda’ve been playwrights instead of cops. Some cool house that dude had.”
Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, and right in the middle of the city; it was like a country house somewheres. Very cool.”
She sipped her water. “We also learned that Mallard’s place is just as middle-of-the-block as Lauria’s. Why would a burglar jump that back alley fence, then walk past five other buildings just to break into one of a line of similar residences?”
Rizzo shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Priscilla continued. “We learned that for a guy with a lotta dough, Mallard had a pretty shoddy wardrobe—and no fancy blue raincoat.”
“Yeah,” Rizzo said with a laugh, “when I was lookin’ in his closet, I thought somebody mighta put my friggin’ clothes in there.”
“Seriously,” Priscilla said. “And did you see the pictures of Mallard with all those different women? Guy was a regular c-man, Joe. Wall-to-wall.”
“Wall-to-wall awards, too,” Rizzo commented. “First Pulitzer I ever seen.”
She nodded. “Somebody better get them outta there before one of ’em sticks to some cop’s fingers.”
“Yeah, tempting,” he said. “One of those T
onys almost stuck to mine. Funny how none of ’em stuck to the burglar, though, ain’t it?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Priscilla agreed. “Even if Mallard surprised the guy, and they fought and the skell strangled him, you gotta figure a junkie to grab something. Those awards looked real valuable, and some strung-out asshole junkie woulda grabbed them for sure. Then he’da hocked ’em and got himself locked up the next day.”
“Manhattan South did an inventory, Cil. Every award was accounted for. The only ones not in the display case were the three Mallard gave his ex-wives. There was no cash in the house and just a coupla pieces of jewelry missing.”
Rizzo and Jackson ate in silence. Then, as he waved for another cup of coffee, Joe glanced at the wall clock. “I’ll drink this fast, Cil. Let’s not alienate Kellerman by being late.”
*
SAMUEL KELLERMAN’S tenth-floor office looked out over the corners of East Sixteenth Street and Irving Place, his broad, dark cherry-wood desk situated cross corner at the left rear of the office, facing both windows.
Rizzo estimated the man’s age from mid-sixties to late seventies—it was nearly impossible to tell. Kellerman had sharp, clear blue eyes and rich sable hair, finely sprinkled with touches of gray. He was tall and lean, carrying the self-confident air of a successful athlete or very wealthy man. He wore a simple black silk shirt open at the collar, cotton Dockers, and black leather loafers. Rizzo was acutely aware of the chance he and Priscilla were taking. By meeting with Kellerman, they were risking exposure to Manhattan South. But at this point in their investigation, if they wanted to move forward, it couldn’t be avoided.
“So,” Kellerman said, “why are two detectives interested in seeing me today? Is it something further on Avery’s murder?”
Rizzo opened his note pad. “Your office number came up on a case we’re working, Mr. Kellerman,” he said. “We have a question or two.”
The man nodded, looking from Rizzo to Jackson and then back to Rizzo.
“And these questions were answered less than satisfactorily by the person you found in possession of my number, I presume?” he asked pleasantly.
“Well, about that,” Rizzo said. “The case we’re on is a homicide. The guy who called your office was the victim.”
Kellerman blinked twice in reaction, but remained silent. After a moment, he spoke again. “So I am now on the periphery of two homicides,” he said. “Am I right to suspect that homicide investigators look upon such coincidences with skepticism?”
“Yeah, a little bit,” Priscilla said.
“Who was this man who was killed?” Kellerman asked.
“Robert Lauria,” Priscilla answered. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mr. Kellerman?”
After a moment’s consideration, he shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it does.”
Rizzo jotted a note in his book. “Any record of incoming calls kept, sir?” he asked. “Like a log? Anything like that?”
Kellerman shook his head. “No, Sergeant. When was this call made?”
Rizzo consulted his notes, then supplied the date. Kellerman frowned.
“That long ago?” he said. “Well, unless the man distinguished himself in some way, I can’t imagine my assistant remembering the call. Perhaps this man—Lauria, did you say?—is a friend or relative of Joy, my administrative assistant.” He reached a hand toward his intercom. “Shall I ask her?”
Rizzo held up a hand. “Not just yet, if you don’t mind. We’ll talk to her about that on the way out.”
“Very well.”
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Kellerman,” Priscilla said. “This guy lived over in Brooklyn. He was just an average Joe. Would a guy like that have any reason to call your office? Do you have any ideas about that?”
Kellerman raised his eyebrows. “Was the man a writer, Detective?” he asked. “Established or aspiring?”
“He was a laid-off shoe salesman,” Rizzo interjected. “Like Detective Jackson said, just an average Joe.”
“Well,” Kellerman explained, “besides our usual course of business calls, we do field about ten or fifteen inquiries a day from the general public, Sergeant. Most are regarding representation or submission guidelines. My staff has been told to refer such callers to our Web site or a publication called The Writer’s Market Place. You see, I no longer accept unsolicited manuscripts; it requires too much staffing and effort for what usually proves to be of little value.”
“I see,” Rizzo said. “So if somebody calls looking for representation, they get brushed off by your secretary.”
Kellerman smiled. “I’d rather call it ‘referred,’ Sergeant. Unfortunately, the net result is quite the same.”
“Any other reason someone like Lauria might call your office?” Priscilla asked.
“Yes, certainly, Detective. I represent three dozen authors with millions of copies in print and scores of staged works—both performed and printed. Sometimes we get calls from people requesting addresses or phone numbers for the writers. Fans, usually, most very harmless. But a few kooks as well, as you can imagine.”
Rizzo chuckled. “Yeah, we can imagine. But tell me, what’s your policy with those calls?”
“My staff is instructed to first discourage such requests. Then, and only if they believe the caller a true admirer of the author, the request must be received by us in writing, and we see that it’s forwarded to our client.”
“And do you actually do that?” Rizzo asked.
“Yes,” Kellerman answered.
“Are records kept of communications you receive and forward?” Priscilla asked.
Kellerman shook his head. “No. If it’s one of our more popular authors, we hold the intake until we have a bunch, then send them all together. For our more obscure clients, those receiving five or ten such communications a year, we forward them as they are received. A few of our more tempermental or eccentric clients have asked that we simply destroy any such material as it comes in.”
“Do you or any of your staff ever read this stuff, screen it?” Rizzo asked.
“No, Sergeant. We are simply the clearing house.”
“What about Avery Mallard, sir?” Priscilla asked. “What were his instructions about mail you received for him?”
Kellerman smiled. “I assume, Detective, that you have conferred with your colleague, Detective Sergeant McHugh? He was here after Avery’s murder, and he took my statement.”
“Yeah, we know, Mr. Kellerman,” Rizzo said reassuringly. “You were in Paris the whole week, you’re not a suspect in anything. Forgive us if we gave that impression. This is all very routine, believe me.”
“Of course,” Kellerman said genially. “To answer your question, Avery had a very liberal policy. He wanted any and all correspondence we received forwarded to him immediately. I believe he even responded to much of it. Avery was deeply appreciative of his public and grateful for his talent.” Kellerman’s face clouded, the blue of his eyes softening. “He was a warm, wonderful man,” he said wistfully. “I was the only representative he ever had, from his first attempts as a novelist to his early playwriting successes and his eventual Pulitzer.”
Then he looked from one detective to the other. “He was my dear friend, Officers, as well as my client. I miss him terribly already.”
His eyes grew colder as he spoke.
“I hope you find his killer.”
Rizzo tapped his pen slowly on his note pad and sighed. “Well, I can appreciate that, and I’m sorry for your loss, but we’re actually lookin’ for Lauria’s killer, Mr. Kellerman.”
The three sat quietly for a moment. Then, to break the silence, Priscilla spoke.
“I heard Mr. Mallard had been inactive for a few years, not producing much.”
“That’s true,” Kellerman responded, conversationally, matching Priscilla’s tone. “Avery had a long dry spell. Not for want of effort, mind you. He just couldn’t get restarted. He feared he had lost his ability, his creative edge. I
must say, I was beginning to wonder myself.”
“So where’d An Atlanta Landscape come from?” Rizzo asked.
“Who knows?” Kellerman answered. “I’ve been in this business over forty years, Sergeant, and I still can’t explain creative talent. I imagine no one can. Where does it come from? Where does the sun come from?”
Rizzo nodded. “My partner here, Priscilla, writes a little. Just hooked up with an agent herself.”
Kellerman turned to Priscilla. “Really? May I ask the agent’s name?”
“Robin Miller,” she said with some pride.
Kellerman’s face lit up. “Really? I know Robin, she’s wonderful. You can’t go wrong with Robin, believe me.”
Priscilla looked away awkwardly. “Yeah, well, sometimes my partner here talks too much. My writing is sorta private.”
Kellerman nodded. “Most good writing is very private, Detective. Don’t ever apologize for that.”
“Well, to tell you the truth,” Priscilla now said with a smile, “I had no intention of apologizing.”
“Take it easy, Cil,” said Rizzo. “I only brought it up ’cause you mentioned how Robin helped you out. You know, with your story and the ideas she has for the novel you’re working on.” He turned to Kellerman. “I’m curious, Mr. Kellerman. Did you ever do that sort of thing? Help your clients with the actual writing? Mr. Mallard, maybe?”
“Many times, Sergeant. Many times. It’s what a good agent does. Part of what a good agent does, that is.”
Rizzo nodded. “So what about Atlanta? You help him out with that?”
Kellerman shook his head. “No, actually, I didn’t. Well, no, that’s not entirely true.”
“Oh?” Rizzo asked. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you see, at some point Avery was faced with a dilemma. Are you familiar with the work, Sergeant? One of the characters, Samantha Sorensen, has simultaneous affairs with two of the main male characters. Avery felt very strongly about that story arc, but apparently an acquaintance of ours and the eventual producer, Thomas Bradley, didn’t. He saw the work as stronger without the love interest angle.”