Rizzo’s Fire

by Lou Manfredo

  “I see,” Bradley said.

  Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, always gets my attention, these instant alibi answers. But you, you weren’t sure. Had no idea where you were. Hell, I got no idea where I was those two days, either.”

  They sat silently for a moment before Rizzo continued.

  “Well, Mr. Bradley, unless you can think a somethin’ you wanna add about Kellerman, I guess we’re done here.”

  Again Bradley made a point of looking at his wristwatch. “No, Sergeant. I have nothing further to add.”

  Rizzo stood, Jackson following his lead. He reached across the desk, shaking hands with the producer, noting the dryness of the man’s palm.

  “Thanks for your time,” he said. “Maybe we’ll stop by after the holiday, next week sometime. Just to have a word with—what’s her name, your assistant?”

  “Linda DeMaris,” Bradley said, releasing Rizzo’s hand.

  “Yeah. DeMaris.” Rizzo turned to leave. “We can find our own way out, Mr. Bradley,” he said. “No need to get up.”

  “Fine,” Bradley said. “Good day to you both.”

  “Yeah,” Rizzo said on the way out. “And I hope your Lieutenant Lombardi finds Mallard’s killer.”

  “Yes,” Bradley said curtly, his eyes dark. “As do I.”

  At the door, Rizzo turned once more, remaining silent and making eye contact with Bradley, the gesture designed to prod the man to speak one last time, to impose a sudden and unwanted obligation on Bradley. Awkward seconds ticked by.

  “And, Sergeant,” Bradley finally said. “Good luck to you as well, with your Bensonhurst murder.”

  Rizzo smiled. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

  ON THEIR way out, Rizzo and Jackson stopped at the reception desk and showed Robert Lauria’s photograph to the young woman there. She shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve never seen him here.”

  Afterward, the two detectives bought coffee from a shop in the building’s lobby, then sat in the Impala on Fifth Avenue, drinking and reviewing their notes.

  “Bradley’s our killer, Cil,” Rizzo said. “No fuckin’ doubt about it.”

  Priscilla frowned. “He sure looks good, Joe, but no doubt? How you figure that?”

  “Remember his little, ‘In Great Britain we use our specific area, not just the city we live in,’ bullshit?”

  “Yeah, he’s from Kingston, not just London. So what?”

  Rizzo sipped his coffee. “Point of information,” he said, “for when you’re dealin’ with a cool character like Bradley. And he was cool, believe me. His palm was dry as a stone in the desert, even after that completely unexpected dance around DeMaris and Lauria he had with us. See, guys like him, they think one step ahead, they anticipate, form their answers before they speak. They’re not street skells, blurtin’ out what ever bullshit pops into their heads. Not as a rule, anyway. He was one step ahead of my next question for most of the interview. But as we were leavin’, I turned slow and stared at him. He’s calm on the outside, but wound tight inside his chest. He sees me starin’, he figures I’m gonna ask him somethin’ else now, after he thought we were all done. And he can’t imagine what I’m gonna say. So he’s gotta buy himself some more time to think, and he finally does just say what pops into his head. Any damn small talk chitchat.”

  Priscilla furrowed her brow. A moment passed, then her eyes widened. Rizzo smiled, again sipping his coffee.

  “Holy fuck, Joe,” she said softly. “Bensonhurst. How did Bradley know Lauria got killed in Bensonhurst?”

  “Bingo. The guy didn’t even know we were from Brooklyn till I tole him, let alone Bensonhurst. And we never mentioned the Six-Two, either, not that some limey would know it’s in Bensonhurst anyway. No, Cil, this guy’s a foreigner, probably never been over to Brooklyn before, or if he has, just the trendy neighborhoods like The Heights and Park Slope. When he was plannin’ Lauria’s murder, he’d have resorted to what’s native to him. He’d have checked a map of Brooklyn, maybe Googled Lauria’s address. When he saw it was in Bensonhurst, from habit he mentally converted ‘Brooklyn’ to ‘Bensonhurst.’ Just like ‘London’ to ‘Kingston-on-Thames.’ Then, under the pressure of my parting stare, it slipped out, and he didn’t even realize its significance.”

  Priscilla shook her head. “He’s a double murderer,” she said.

  “Yeah, that he is,” Rizzo said. “And from the getup he was wearin’ in that photo on the wall, he was some kinda special forces guy, Royal Marines or S.A.S., somethin’ like that. Bet he got plenty a training in strangulation. Piece a cake for Bradley to kill these two guys. Neither one of them was a tough guy, that’s for sure.”

  Priscilla nodded. “And did you see that suit he was wearing, Joe? Musta set him back a grand, at least. Outta the four of ’em—Kellerman, the director, the neighbor, and Bradley—he’s the most upscale dresser. A guy like him would definitely own a high-priced raincoat.”

  “Yeah,” Rizzo agreed. “Like every other well-off London dude.”

  “So why’d you piss him off so much, Joe?”

  He smiled. “Mostly ’cause I could. He figured me for some nottoo-bright reactionary cop type. I could see it in his smug expression. I didn’t wanna disappoint the prick. Plus, it made it easier for me to switch gears, rattle him, maybe force a slipup.”

  “Yeah, let him get all comfortable with that,” she said. “This way, when we shove the arrest warrant down his throat, he’ll never see it coming.”

  “Yeah,” Rizzo said softly, “but we’re a long way from an arrest warrant, Cil. We got a ton of circumstantial evidence, enough to convince most people Bradley’s our man. But it’s still not worth much in a courtroom. We can’t prove anything. Not yet.”

  Priscilla countered, “But we throw a fiber match from his raincoat onto that pile of circumstantial, we got a conviction.”

  “Yeah,” Rizzo said. “But we need a search warrant to get to the coat. And I can’t see a judge signin’ one. Not based on what we got so far.”

  “I disagree,” Priscilla said. “We got a clear track for Lauria’s play to Bradley through DeMaris. We got the Bensonhurst comment, and we got Bradley’s ties, motives, means, and opportunities on both Lauria’s and Mallard’s killings.”

  “Normally I might take all that to a judge,” Rizzo said. “Take a shot, cut DeMaris a lesser charge. She takes back that alibi, Bradley sinks with Lauria’s Solitary Vessel. But we go to a judge with the Mallard tie-in now, we risk losin’ it all to Manhattan South. We need to work it just from the Lauria angle, which is too weak for a warrant. Or we gotta have an open-and-shut slam-dunk against Bradley on both homicides.”

  “Sounds kinda tough.”

  “Yeah, it should. It is tough, but I’m thinkin’, what’s Bradley’s next move?”

  Priscilla thought for a moment. “He has to warn DeMaris. Or kill her.”

  “Exactly. He’s gotta protect himself before we talk to her some time next week, like I told him we’d do. He’s got to make sure she’s prepared to stonewall us. We don’t know how deep she is in all this. We can certainly figure she stole the play from her former job and gave it to Bradley. She knows it’s plagiarized. Then she alibied Bradley for the night of the Mallard killing, so she probably knows, or damn well should know, he’s the one killed Mallard. She may not know about the threat Lauria posed, although why would she think Bradley had to kill Mallard unless she also knew Lauria had turned up claimin’ he was ripped off?”

  “What ever she does know,” Priscilla said, “she’s up to her freakin’ eyeballs in this whole mess.”

  Rizzo sipped at his coffee. “And Bradley has to get her past the interview with us. An interview he figures’ll only focus on Lauria, and maybe Kellerman.”

  A worried look came to Priscilla. “I hope we didn’t just sign DeMaris’s death warrant, Joe. If Bradley sees her as the weak link, he might just decide she’s gotta go, too, and right now.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Sure. As awkward
a position as that would put him in—connecting him to three murders—he might figure it’s better than her bein’ out there with too much information and maybe not enough balls to stand up.”

  Priscilla shrugged. “Well, we haven’t even met the woman yet, Joe. Maybe she does have the balls.”

  “Could be,” Rizzo said. “Maybe she’s the spark plug here, and he’s just the piston. But either way, his best chance of survival might be for her to stop breathin’.”

  “So how should we play it?” Priscilla asked, uneasily. “We’re on thin enough ice as it is, sidestepping Manhattan. We get some woman killed, we’re really in deep shit. Maybe now’s the time to bring it in, go to this Lieutenant Lombardi. We lay it all out for him and maybe he cuts us in for a piece of the credit. If we don’t, this DeMaris maybe gets killed.”

  “She ain’t exactly the Virgin Mary, Cil. She’s an accomplice to murder. Maybe two murders.” Rizzo hesitated. “Wouldn’t break my heart if she did get whacked, but I see your point. That’s why I figure we keep this on a short leash. We’re off tomorrow, the next day is Thanksgiving. I don’t see Bradley doin’ anything rash. His history shows he’s a careful planner, not a spur-of-the-moment killer, and he needs a new plan—he can’t use that breakin routine again. He’ll warn DeMaris, then assess the risk. If he decides to murder her, it won’t be on Thanksgiving. Even though he’s a limey, and probably doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the holiday, he’s been here long enough to have someplace he’s gotta be for turkey dinner—some friends or business associates, whoever. And DeMaris, she’s the goumada—goumadas hafta spend their holidays single, tellin’ themselves by this time next year, Mr. Dreamboat will have left his wife and filed for divorce. Yeah, next Thanksgiving everything’ll be just peachy. But for this year, it’s back to Momma’s or Aunt Tillie’s or whoever. No, Cil, I figure she’s safe for at least a few days. We’ll go see her on Friday.”

  Priscilla compressed her lips. “Seems a little risky to me, Joe. I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, well, like my daughter Carol says, anything worthwhile is hard.” He shrugged. “Let’s chance it. It’ll be okay.”

  Reluctantly, she agreed. “All right, I guess … But Jesus, I can’t see myself getting too much sleep until this is over with. When we do see her, how should we play it?”

  “Oh, I got a plan, Cil. I’m gonna let it percolate in my head a couple a days, then we’ll talk about it.”

  He drained his coffee container, then tossed it to the floorboard in the rear of the car. He started the engine and smiled at Priscilla.

  “We will talk about it, Partner,” he said. “Believe me.”

  “Okay,” Priscilla said. “But if DeMaris turns out to be a cool character like Bradley, this could be a tough play.”

  Rizzo pulled the car out into traffic. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Chances are, she’ll turn out to be just another self-absorbed yuppie found a way to grab herself a new BMW with her stolen play idea. She probably never figured she was signin’ on for two murders. My money says, we slap her around a little, she caves.”

  Priscilla shook her head. “Too bad Bradley didn’t just put his own name on the damn play,” she said. “At least then, Avery Mallard would still be alive.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. But you heard what Bradley said. Most of the big Broadway shows are revivals, or bio plays about Frankie Vallie or Sinatra. I’m thinkin’, that kinda stuff comes with guaranteed audiences, so it makes it easy for a producer to raise money. That’s why Bradley never approached Lauria in the first place. Like we figured, he knew he’d never hit a home run, make millions on a show with Lauria’s name on it, no matter how good it was. And his own name wouldn’t be much better. But with Mallard bein’ the playwright, Bradley sees a built-in audience and knows he can easily raise enough dough to produce the thing, and it’s Broadway here we come.”

  “Yeah. I forgot that,” she said.

  “Well, relax, kiddo,” Rizzo said. “It’s almost over, so don’t be losing any sleep over DeMaris. Your biggest worry right now is my mother.”

  Priscilla looked puzzled.

  “Yeah,” Rizzo said. “My mother.” He turned to face her. “You gotta come up with some sorta answer.”

  Priscilla shook her head. “Answer for what?”

  “For Thanksgiving when she asks you and Karen, ‘How come two nice girls like you aren’t married?’ ”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE TABLE IN THE RIZZO DINING ROOM, its two extension leaves in place, ran nearly the entire length of the room. Joe Rizzo sat at the head of the table, his back to the breakfront. Jennifer was to his right, closest to the kitchen, daughters Marie and Jessica to her right. Priscilla Jackson sat to Joe’s left beside Karen Krauss and the youngest Rizzo girl, Carol. At the table’s end were the two family matriarchs—Joe’s mother, Marie Rizzo, and Jennifer’s mother, Jessica Falco.

  “Take more antipasto,” Grandma Falco said, waving her fork at Karen. “Have some prosciutto and some provolone.”

  Karen, platter in hand, smiled. “Yes, well, alright,” she said. “Maybe just a bit more.”

  Jennifer smiled. “Easy, Mom, it’s a long day, there’s a ton of food …”

  She shrugged. “I’m just sayin’,” she said. “She’s so skinny, she should eat.”

  “Mom,” Jennifer said, a warning in her tone.

  “Look,” Grandma Falco said. “Look what she’s taking: an artichoke heart, two olives, one stalk of celery, and a couple of peppers.” She shrugged, holding her shoulders high, almost to ear level. “What is she, a rabbit?” She turned back to Karen. “There’s capicola there, and caponata. Take some pepperoni—it’s imported.”

  “They’re all skinny,” Grandma Rizzo said, shaking her head. “Look at our granddaughters, Jessica, they’re the same way.” She placed a slice of provolone in her mouth. “Skinny, like long drinks of water.”

  Joe laughed. “Just take what you want, Karen, but save room for the manicotti and the meats.”

  “Not to mention the turkey,” Carol said.

  Priscilla took the offered antipasto platter from Karen, forking generous portions onto her plate. “This stuff is great, Mrs. Falco,” she said. “You don’t have to encourage me.”

  “You’re too skinny, too,” Falco said matter-of-factly.

  Rizzo’s daughter Marie leaned forward from opposite Karen. “I imagine you guys didn’t realize that the Pilgrims had antipasto for Thanksgiving,” she said, “not to mention manicotti, sausage, meatballs, and braciole.”

  “I made the meats,” Falco interjected. “You’ll tell me if you like them.”

  “And I made the manicotti and the gravy,” Grandma Rizzo said.

  Marie smiled at Karen and Priscilla. “She means sauce. She made the tomato sauce.”

  “Yeah, Ma,” Joe said. “The Ameri-cahns call it sauce. Gravy’s for the turkey. Brown.”

  Joe’s mother waved a hand at him. “Stop talking and eat.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “One thing I said,” he told Jennifer. “One thing.”

  Jennifer sipped her wine, then turned to Karen. “Joe tells me that you’re an attorney.”

  “Yes,” Karen said. “Corporate law. I’m mostly involved in acquisitions and mergers, conforming out-of-state business structuring to New York law, things like that.”

  Now daughter Jessica asked, “Do you go to court much, Karen?”

  “God, no,” Karen replied. “In fact, the only times I’ve ever been in a courtroom were to watch Cil testify on some of her cases. Professionally, I have no need to be in a court house.”

  Grandma Falco leaned over, speaking in her version of a whisper to Joe’s mother.

  “They send the men to court,” she said.

  “Mom,” Jennifer said, again with a warning in her tone.

  Priscilla spoke up. “This antipasto is awesome,” she said. “Who put this together?”

  “The girls did that,” Jennifer said. “They’ve b
een doing it every Thanksgiving since they were young kids.”

  Grandma Rizzo spoke up. “I taught them how to make it,” she said. “But they never use ah-leech. It’s not as good without ah-leech.”

  Priscilla noticed Karen’s look of puzzlement.

  “Anchovies,” she said softly. “Ah-leech is Brooklyn-Italian slang for anchovies.”

  Karen nodded. “Oh,” she said.

  “Scommetto che quella le mangierebbe,” Joe’s mother said to Jennifer’s mother in low tones, referring to Priscilla.

  Joe shook his head. “No Italian, Mom. It’s rude.”

  “I won’t talk,” she said, shrugging and feigning insult.

  He nodded. “Good idea, probably.”

  Later, with simmering plates of pasta, sausage, meatballs, and pork braciole dominating the table, Priscilla gave a hearty laugh.

  “I had no idea the Pilgrims ate this good, Joe,” she said.

  “Yeah, well,” Rizzo countered, “the Indians probably brought this stuff. I don’t think the Pilgrims were noted for their cuisine.”

  Grandma Falco spoke up. “No, but the Italians are.”

  Grandma Rizzo chimed in. “And for their art, and their literature, and science, engineering, medicine—”

  Carol broke in. “And their mobsters.”

  Grandma Falco shook her head. “Never mind, Carol, we get hit on the head enough with that from television and books. And from the movies. If it was anybody else, there’d be lawsuits, riots, and God knows what else.”

  “Okay, Mom,” Jennifer said.

  “No,” Grandma Rizzo interjected, “your mother is right, Jennifer. It’s not okay. She’s right to say it.” She glared at Carol. “And you, you be quiet. You bring that up in front of strangers?”

  “They ain’t strangers, Ma,” Joe said gently. “Priscilla’s my partner.”

  Grandma Rizzo spooned manicotti onto her plate and reached for the gravy boat. “But still not family,” she said. “And don’t say ‘ain’t.’ What are you, a strattone?”

  Joe turned to Priscilla and Karen. “The secret to an Italian Thanksgiving dinner is in the pacing,” he said. “One dish of antipasto, two manicottis, a couple of meatballs, a little braciole and sauseech, a few pieces of Italian bread. Then we take a break, watch a little football before the turkey comes out.” He shrugged. “Turkey’s overrated, anyway. Best way to eat turkey is tomorrow, in a semolina hero, with mayo and provolone and roasted peppers.”