Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

“Hey, Joe,” the cop said. “This guy’s a lawyer. Said he needs to talk to you.”

“Okay, Randy, thanks.” Rizzo stood and indicated the chair Priscilla had just vacated.

“Have a seat, Counselor,” he said easily. “Forgive me for not shaking hands. Germs and all.”

The man’s lips turned down, but he sat.

“I’m Sergeant Rizzo. My partner here, Detective Jackson.”

The man cleared his throat. “Dan Webster,” he said. “I’m Bruce Jacoby’s attorney.”

Rizzo laughed. “Well, imagine that? Daniel Webster, eh? Any ‘Devil and…’ jokes you ain’t heard yet?”

Webster smiled weakly. “Probably not,” he said.

“Okay then,” Rizzo said, sitting down again. “What can I do for you, Mr. Webster?”

“Well, Sergeant, my client is very upset. He says you and your partner, presumably her, came to his home last night. He says you threatened him. He also said-”

Rizzo held up a hand and silenced the man. “I don’t really give a fuck what he said, Counselor, and neither does she. Let’s get down to it: Jacoby has four prior arrests for public lewdness. He copped to three of ’em, one was dropped. That vic was twelve years old and her parents didn’t want her playing in the sewer with all the shit bags down at the Criminal Court house. I got four positive I.D.’s from victims in this case. They picked your guy out from a photo array. One of the vics is a thirty-something-year-old teacher. Spends a lotta time partying at Club Med or wherever the fuck, and she gave us some details on your guy’s schlong. Sorta like an expert opinion, you could say. Plus, I already spoke to Brucie’s boss. Seems like every time a daylight incident took place, Brucie was either off or out sick that day.”

Here Rizzo paused and looked up at Priscilla, winking at her discreetly.

“So,” he continued, “if you came here to threaten me, Counselor, my boss is across the squad room in his office. Name’s Vince D’Antonio. Lieutenant Vince D’Antonio. He’ll be glad to listen to your complaint, give you the telephone number of Civilian Review, in case you don’t have it memorized, and then he’ll throw you the fuck outta here.”

Rizzo leaned in closer to the man. “But,” he said, his voice turning softer, “if you came here to talk, we can do that, too.”

The lawyer, a few years older than Rizzo, smiled.

“It’s oddly refreshing to do business with an old-timer, Sergeant,” he said. “Most of the younger cops are so tentative and nervous, they almost appear paranoid.”

Rizzo laughed. “So, okay. What’s the deal?”

The lawyer shifted the briefcase he held on his lap and glanced at his wristwatch.

“Well,” he said, “in view of what you’ve said, and assuming it’s accurate…”

Rizzo nodded. “It’s accurate. You can leave here with victim statements and copies of Brucie’s work timesheets, if you want ’em.”

Webster sighed. “Won’t be necessary. Mr. Jacoby is willing to surrender to the District Attorney’s Office. I just have one favor to ask.”

“Tell me,” Rizzo said.

“Mr. Jacoby is particularly close to his mother. This Saturday is her seventieth birthday. He’d like to be with her to celebrate. I’m asking for a surrender date after that. Say, next Monday.”

“No,” Rizzo said, shaking his head. “Fuck him and his mother’s birthday. He wants a favor from me, he surrenders to me. Not the D.A. Me. Me and my partner. If you can’t agree to that, me and Jackson here get in the car and go grab him right now. I don’t need anybody’s permission to lock up some shit-head.”

Rizzo smiled and leaned back in his seat. “You know, Counselor, just between us old-timers.”

Webster drummed his fingers on the briefcase, weighing the options.

“And if we agree, you’ll give him till Monday?”

Rizzo leaned forward, close to the lawyer. “Hell yes, Counselor,” he said. “I’ll even send the old gal a friggin’ birthday card.”

LIEUTENANT VINCE D’Antonio looked across his desk to Jackson, then Rizzo.

“And you figure this shooting warrants a police artist, Joe?” he asked.

Rizzo nodded. “Absolutely. It’d be a shame to waste these witnesses here. All four of ’em saw the guy in the pizza store, under those fluorescents, while everybody was still relatively calm. We can get a good composite from them. Then me and Cil show the sketch around the bars and gun shops. We’re sure to get a hit.”

Vince D’Antonio, the fifty-three-year-old commanding officer of the Six-Two detective squad, sat back in his chair and frowned. His fair skin, blue eyes, and blond hair had earned him the nickname “Swede.”

“This might be a tough sell,” D’Antonio said after a moment. “After all, this isn’t a murderer or a rapist or child molester. Borough Command may nix it.”

Rizzo shrugged. “Try, Vince. All I’m askin’. And remember, after Tucci got shot, the guy pointed the rifle at Cocca’s chest and worked the trigger. It was a bolt-action rifle, not a semi, so it didn’t fire. But we can still make an attempt murder out of it. That makes two counts attempted murder, criminal use of a firearm, assault one, and whatever else the D.A. can find in the penal law.”

“I read the DD-fives. I know the story.” D’Antonio paused and rubbed at his eye. “I noticed you didn’t talk to the victim yet, this Larry Tucci kid.”

“Gary,” Rizzo said. “Gary Tucci.”

D’Antonio nodded. “Yeah. Gary. What ever. Before we go to Borough, shouldn’t you at least talk to the kid?”

“We tried. But they had to dig bullet and cement fragments out of his foot, then try to put it back together. He was under the knife when we got to Lutheran.” Rizzo looked at his watch. “Doc told me we could see the kid to night. Why don’t you think about the artist request, Vince. Me and Cil will talk to the kid. We’ll find out when he’s getting discharged. Then the artist can sit down with all four. One-shot deal. You get us that sketch, boss, we’ll get you the shooter.”

After a moment, D’Antonio nodded. “Okay. Talk to the kid first. In a couple a days, if we need to, maybe we can get it done.”

Rizzo pushed his chair back and stood up. Jackson did the same. “Thanks. You know I never ask you for this kinda shit. But Borough is tough. I don’t have anybody left I can call over there to cash in a favor.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” D’Antonio said. “At least there’s one place in the department that doesn’t owe you.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo answered. “Speakin’ of which, Ronnie Torres called me about twenty minutes ago. He does owe me, so he pushed that shell casing to the head of the line. He took a partial print from it. Not enough to run for an I.D., but he lifted enough points to call a match if we print a suspect. You get us that sketch, we put a name to the face, lock him up and print him. Then we nail him with the witnesses and the print. Case closed.”

D’Antonio nodded and reached for his pen. Turning back to his paperwork, he spoke once more.

“Talk to the victim, Joe. Then we’ll see.”

“Okay, boss, thanks,” Rizzo said, turning to leave.

D’Antonio looked up at them. “By the way, how are you two getting along?”

“Great,” Rizzo said. “No problem.”

D’Antonio turned his eyes to Priscilla. “And you, Jackson?”

“Fine, Lieutenant. Just fine,” she said.

“He treating you okay?” D’Antonio asked.

“Yeah, boss, he’s glad to have me. I may not be as pretty as McQueen was, but I’m a hell of a lot smarter.”

“SO, GARY,” RIZZO ASKED in the cramped confines of Gary Tucci’s hospital room. “How you doing?”