by Lou Manfredo
“No, Cil, I don’t think. I know. Believe me, if I start having doubts, we’ll bring it to Manhattan. But like I said before, it’s not like we’re riskin’ some innocent citizen. DeMaris is part of this, she’s dirty, same as Bradley. She put her ass on the line here, not me.”
“Even if you’re right about that,” Priscilla said, “there could be something else, some angle we’re not seeing. Maybe some citizen is at risk here. I’m just saying—”
But Rizzo was adamant. “I know what you’re sayin’. You either trust me on this or you don’t. I told you before I’d leave it up to you, and I’m telling you now I can handle this. We can handle this. Manhattan South isn’t some magic bullet gonna solve this overnight. Hell, by the time we fill them in and they get up to speed, whoever the fuck you’re so worried about can already be dead. We’re close to the end here, Cil, believe me. The safest way to go now is for us to stay on course. The time to turn this over to Manhattan may come, but for now we’re committed. We just need to ride it out.”
After a moment she responded. “Okay, Joe. I’ll stick with it if you say it’s still cool. But try to remember, I can’t retire in less than a year like you’re gonna do. I need this job. And the last place I want to end up is in state prison with blood on my hands.”
“I hear you,” said Rizzo as he dug his cigarettes out of the glove compartment. “Just for your information, though, me and Mike had a very similar conversation back around August or so.” He turned to her, winking.
“And look at Mikey now. Plaza big shot with fancy new suits and everything.”
AT FIVE o’clock that afternoon, Rizzo sat at the desk in his basement office, cell phone in hand. McQueen answered on the third ring.
“Hello, Mike,” Rizzo said. “I’m glad I caught you home.”
“Yeah, well, I was just about ready to leave,” McQueen said. “My folks are coming in for Thanksgiving. I’m on my way to pick them up at the airport.”
“Okay. This’ll only take a minute.”
“I’m listening.”
“The Mallard file, the one you downloaded for us. There’s a statement in there from a Thomas Bradley. The guy’s married, and he alibied himself with a girlfriend he was supposedly bangin’ at the Marriott Marquis. The cop from Manhattan South confidentialed it to protect the guy. The downloaded copy was censored, referred to the girlfriend as ‘companion,’ then, at the end where she was named, it was blacked out. And the reports on her interview were censored, too.”
“So?” Mike asked. “Is it important?”
“I wouldn’t be burnin’ up my weekday minutes if it wasn’t, Mikey. I need you to take a deeper look into the file for me. I wanna know if the alibi witness is a broad named Linda DeMaris. If it’s not her, get me the name and contact info for whoever it is.”
“Okay, I can do that easy enough,” McQueen answered. “I’ll call you tomorrow with it.”
“Thanks,” Rizzo said.
“So what’s the latest?” McQueen asked. “Is this going anywhere?”
“Oh, yeah, Mikey, that it is. Just make sure you keep your hair trimmed, they might be takin’ your picture sooner than we figured.”
McQueen laughed drily. “I just hope it’s not for a fuckin’ mug shot.”
“What is it about you young cops?” Rizzo asked. “Cil’s shakin’ in her boots, too.”
McQueen sighed. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Joe.”
“Okay, kid, tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EARLY MONDAY EVENING, Carol Rizzo swung her ten-year-old Civic into the driveway of the Rizzo home. She parked in front of the small, detached garage beside her father’s Camry. Switching off the engine, Carol stretched out her arms, weary from the traffic-clogged two-and-a-half-hour drive from the Stony Brook campus on Long Island’s north shore.
Entering the house, she was surprised by her father as he came through the basement door and into the kitchen.
“Hey, hon,” he said in greeting. “We didn’t expect you till tomorrow.”
Carol shrugged, crossing the room to exchange a perfunctory kiss with him. “I left early,” she said. “I only have one class tomorrow—sociology. The other two were canceled for Thanksgiving break, but my soc professor refused to capitulate to the crass celebration of the exploitation of indigenous peoples.”
Rizzo smiled, reaching out to brush brown strands of hair from his daughter’s face.
“So you canceled him. Good for you,” he said. “Welcome home.”
Carol dropped her travel bag to the floor and walked to the refrigerator, removing a Snapple. She opened the bottle and turned to face her father.
“So,” she said, injecting a casual tone into her voice. “When is Marie due home?”
“Wednesday. I’m picking her up at Grand Central. Maybe you can take a ride with me.”
Carol shook her head. As she crossed the kitchen to the travel bag, lifting it from the floor, she twisted her lips as she spoke.
“Doubtful,” she said. Then she left the room, making her way toward the staircase and the small upstairs bedroom she shared with her sister Jessica.
Rizzo shook his head slowly, running a hand through his hair.
“Damn,” he said softly.
THOMAS ROSS Bradley was forty-nine years old, a native of the section of London known as Kingston-on-Thames. After a voluntary stint as a British Army Commando with Special Air Ser vices, he had pursued, with assistance from his wealthy, influential family, a career as a producer of London theater. He had emigrated to New York City fifteen years earlier, carrying with him a stellar reputation in the theater world and finding quick success with a string of Broadway shows, followed by a rather rocky and unproductive five-year period, which had come to an end with the success of Avery Mallard’s An Atlanta Landscape.
Bradley gazed across his neat, glistening black desk to Rizzo and Jackson, his gray eyes clear and probing. It was Tuesday morning, November 25.
“There’s no need to be apologetic, Sergeant Rizzo,” he said in the clipped accent of the British upper class. “I’m fully aware of the complexities in the nature of your work. I would imagine follow-up interviews are often necessary.” He paused, looking from one to the other. “This would be my third interview, Sergeant,” he said. “May I feel confident this one will suffice?”
Rizzo shrugged, taking out his note pad and pen. “Yeah, let’s hope.”
Bradley sat back in his seat, his expression stoic.
“Yes,” he said. “Let us hope.” He paused before continuing. “I’m afraid I must insist on brevity, Sergeant. I’ve an appointment of rather great importance in less than an hour’s time.”
Rizzo shrugged. “If you’re gonna insist on it, then you better tell me what it is,” he said with a smile. “Brevity, I mean.”
Bradley’s eyes moved from one detective to the other, then fell on Rizzo. His own smile appeared forced as he replied.
“Conciseness, Sergeant,” he said pleasantly. “Condensation of language. I’m in a bit of a push, you see. Short of time.”
Rizzo nodded. “Oh,” he said, slowly turning to Priscilla. “Did you know that, Cil?” he asked. “Did you know what ‘brevity’ meant?”
“Yes,” she said with a shrug, her eyes on Bradley.
Rizzo nodded again. “That works for us, too. Now we can skip all the polite public relations bullshit and get down to the questions.” He leaned inward toward Bradley. “Fair enough?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Bradley replied. “Quite fair.”
Rizzo flipped open his pad. By coincidence, the notebook fell open to the page where, earlier that morning, he had made a notation of what McQueen had reported: Bradley’s uncensored statement to Detective Lieutenant Dominick Lombardi, Manhattan South, confirmed that Linda DeMaris was Bradley’s mistress as well as his alibi witness.
Rizzo raised his eyes once again to meet Bradley’s. It was time to begin rattling the man’s cage.
“So, you’re from
En gland, eh?”
“Yes. Kingston-on-Thames.”
“Where’s that?”
“In London, Sergeant.”
Rizzo nodded. “Really? Must be quite a fancy neighborhood.”
Bradley arched his eyebrows. “Oh?”
Rizzo shrugged. “Well, you ask most people where they’re from, they say, New York, Chicago, Paris, like that. You said Kingston-onthe-whatever, not just London. So I’m guessin’ it’s a fancy place, a place you’re proud of.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Bradley answered with a tight smile. “I do take pride in it, actually. However, in Great Britain, it’s common practice to refer to one’s locale quite specifically. A cultural practice, if you will.”
“Is Ms. DeMaris in?” Rizzo asked.
Bradley blinked. “Pardon?”
“Linda DeMaris,” Rizzo repeated. “Your personal assistant. Is she here today, at work somewhere around the office?”
Bradley shook his head, his face without expression. “No, she’s taking today off.”
“Sick day?” Rizzo asked. “Vacation? What?”
Bradley remained silent, holding Rizzo’s eyes. Rizzo smiled at him.
“You wanted brevity?” He shrugged. “I’m figurin’ this is it.”
Still expressionless, Bradley answered. “Ms. DeMaris worked all day yesterday, Sergeant. At the theater as well as here in the office. It was a very long day. So, in compensation, she is not working today.”
“Okay,” Rizzo said, jotting in his pad.
With a frown, Bradley spoke once again. “Just what is your interest in Ms. DeMaris, Sergeant?” he asked, his accented tones sounding cool.
“Interest?” Rizzo asked, looking up from his notes.
“Yes, Sergeant. Interest.”
“Nothin’ special,” Rizzo said. “Just followin’ the same lead to her that we followed to you.”
Bradley laid his hands palms down on his desk and leaned forward. Annoyance tugged at his facial muscles as concern dawned in his eyes. Rizzo took notice, still smiling benignly.
“Perhaps you should explain yourself, Sergeant. What is this ‘lead’ you mention?”
“Well,” Rizzo responded, cocking his head to one side. “Do you know a guy named Samuel Kellerman?”
Bradley’s brow furrowed, and he sat back in his seat. “Sam? Yes, of course, I know Sam very well. He’s a dear friend, in fact.”
“Really?” Rizzo said, raising his brows. “Funny, he didn’t put it like that when we spoke to him.”
Bradley’s eyes narrowed, and Rizzo noted slight color come into the man’s cheeks.
“Sergeant,” he said, glancing pointedly to the Rolex on his wrist. “I must insist you get to what ever point it is you are here to make. As I told you, I have an appointment. If it becomes absolutely apparent that I must, I shall call Lieutenant Lombardi, whom I assume to be your superior officer, and have him intercede in this. I have had his assurance that certain factual information I provided to him is confidential and for his eyes only, and now you are indicating that …”
Rizzo held up a hand, palm outward, his smile turning cold. “Take a beat, Bradley, okay? I’m just doin’ my job, that’s all. I don’t even know this Lombardi guy, and I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about with ‘confidential.’ ”
Bradley’s face flushed, his effort to maintain composure becoming obvious. “Explain yourself, Sergeant,” he said, his voice tight with surpressed anger.
Rizzo nodded, lowering his hand, allowing his smile to fade.
“Sure. And as you requested, with brevity.” He cleared his throat and began. “We’re workin’ this Brooklyn case, and Kellerman’s name comes up, so me and Detective Jackson here, we follow it up. It leads us to a few other people—you, for instance. And this DeMaris woman who works for you. And so, here we are.”
Bradley’s expression remained neutral as he looked from one detective to the other. Priscilla remained silent, allowing Rizzo to play his line out.
“Brooklyn case?” Bradley asked. “I had assumed you were here inquiring into Avery Mallard’s murder.”
“Oh?” Rizzo asked. “What gave you that idea?”
Bradley shook his head. “Well, when you called to set up this appointment, you identified yourself as a police officer, so I assumed—”
Rizzo looked up. “I couldn’t help but notice that picture, Mr. Bradley,” he said, indicating with a tilt of his head a black-and-white, eight-by-ten photo hanging on the wall to his left. “You in that fancy combat uniform. See, once, when I was in the Army, I had this sergeant, tough old son of a bitch, tell me, ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘never assume nothin’.’ ” Rizzo leaned forward.
“Didn’t they ever tell you that, Mr. Bradley?” he asked in a low, threatening tone. “In the ser vice, I mean?”
Bradley glanced at the photo showing him in full S.A.S. Commando combat dress, face darkened with grease, automatic assault weapon in hand, his eyes shadowed by the Kevlar-and-steel helmet on his head.
“What is this inquiry about, Sergeant?” he asked softly.
Rizzo continued. “Like I say, we have this case in Brooklyn we’re investigatin’. Some sad-sack semirecluse type got himself murdered. Looks like just a breakin, same as what happened to Mallard. We found somethin’ in the guy’s apartment leads us to Kellerman. He was Mallard’s agent, matter-of-fact. See, that’s why it don’t pay to start makin’ assumptions, Mr. Bradley.” Rizzo smiled. “Like, for instance, I could start figuring Kellerman’s involved here somehow. In both murders, maybe. Only that would be an assumption, and my old drill sergeant, he was pretty friggin’ clear about that: you assume, you make an ass outta you and me.”
Bradley became impatient. “How am I relevant here, Sergeant? Please explain yourself.”
Rizzo shook his head. “Far as I can see, you aren’t relevant,” he said. “We’re just takin’ a look around Kellerman and his associates, that’s all. He mentioned you’re the producer of Mallard’s last work, this play on Broadway. What’s it called, Cil?”
“Atlanta Landscape,” Priscilla replied.
“Yeah, right.” He looked back to Bradley. “I hear it’s pretty good.”
Bradley nodded. “A typically American understatement. This play is a very serious work of art, Sergeant, rendered even more remarkable when you consider its contemporaries currently in production. Restagings of tired musicals from other eras, mindless chronicles of faded pop stars, recycled film works, and even, God help us, comic book characters.” He smiled sadly. “An Atlanta Landscape is Broadway at its best, Sergeant. Theater at its best, as it was meant to be, not merely drivel designed to amuse tourists from Iowa and God knows where else. This work rates amongst All My Sons, The Iceman Cometh, The Glass Menagerie, Angels in America.”
“Yeah,” Rizzo said, nodding. “I saw those movies.”
Bradley looked at Rizzo, his lips pursing. He shook his head. “I fear the death of Avery Mallard is a tragedy unfathomable by the superficial fabric of your rather sad American culture, Sergeant,” he said. “Now, if it had been some bubbleheaded blonde pop singer in between rehabilitations, that would be considered a true American tragedy, I’ve no doubt.” He shook his head once more. “That would be something you people could take to heart.”
Rizzo laughed. “You know, it amazes me how many foreigners I run into bitchin’ about the U.S.” He allowed a moment to pass, then continued. “Makes a guy wonder, how come they’re over here bitchin’? Why didn’t they just stay the fuck home, where everything was so perfect?”
With growing anger, Bradley responded. “Once again, Sergeant, get to your business. My appointment cannot be delayed.”
“Okay, relax,” Rizzo said. “Here we go: Kellerman ever mention a guy named Robert Lauria to you? A shoe salesman from Brooklyn?”
Bradley shook his head, his face now without expression. “No,” he said.
Rizzo smiled. “Just like that? ‘No’? You don’t even have to think about it?”
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“No, Sergeant. I do not have to think about it. Sam never mentioned any shoe salesman to me. From anywhere.”
“Maybe in some other context, some other reference? Robert Lauria.” Rizzo spelled the last name.
“No. Never.”
“Okay,” Rizzo said, as he wrote in his pad.
“What’s the connection between Sam Kellerman and this murdered shoe salesman, Sergeant?” Bradley asked.
Rizzo looked up from his note pad. “Oh, that’s kinda confidential, Mr. Bradley,” he said lightly. “You know, like what ever you got goin’ with your lieutenant, that guy Lombardi.” He paused. “And did I say Lauria was the murder victim? I don’t remember saying that.” He shrugged. “Guess you’re assumin’ again. Only this time … you happen to be right.”
Bradley did not respond.
“I understand you helped Mallard out with writing that play,” Rizzo said. “That Atlanta thing.”
“Your understanding being based on what information exactly, Sergeant?”
“Oh, I dunno. Something Kellerman said, I think.”
Priscilla interjected. “It had something to do with the plot.”
“I assure you, Officers, my only assistance with the script was in allowing Avery to utilize my cottage at Southampton while he crafted the play.” He smiled coldly at Rizzo, then Jackson. “If I were capable of contributing to so majestic a work, I daresay I would author one myself.”
“Where were you on October thirtieth?” Rizzo asked.
Bradley again looked from one to the other, settling his gaze on Rizzo. “Pardon?”
“Yeah,” Rizzo said offhandedly. “That’s when Lauria was probably killed, or maybe the twenty-ninth. Just a routine question, you know. I gotta ask it. For the record.”
Bradley seemed to ponder matters for a moment. “I cannot answer that, Sergeant,” he said coolly. “You’re talking about nearly one month ago. I have no idea where I may have been.”
“See, Cil?” Rizzo said, turning toward Priscilla. “It’s like I said, who knows where they were a month ago? Nobody.” He turned back to Bradley, lowering his voice, again leaning inward. “Kellerman knew where he was right away,” Rizzo said. “Claimed to be in Paris at the time.”