Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

Rizzo shook his head. “No, let the squad do some of the work, it won’t kill them. It has to be done, even if it won’t help us. I especially don’t want to do the junkie roundup. Let them handle it. After I qualify at the range Monday, we can focus on Lauria. One day at a time.”

“What ever you think, Joe.”

They rode in silence until they reached the house in Canarsie. It was a two-story, semiattached one-family home. The house was neatly kept with a concrete driveway on the left side leading to a detached one-car garage.

Priscilla glanced at the dash clock. “Right on time,” she said. It was eleven a.m.

MaryAnn Carbone, Robert Lauria’s first cousin, was a thirty-eight-year-old house wife and part-time school aide. She was expecting them, and once the three were seated at the large kitchen table, Rizzo spoke across to the sad-eyed woman.

“We’ll try not to take up too much of your time, Mrs. Carbone,” he said. “Just some routine questions.”

“Of course,” she said. “I understand. I hope I can help somehow… I wish my husband were here.” Her voice trailed off. “It’s just unbelievable. I mean, you hear about this stuff, read about it… but…”

“Yes,” Priscilla said. “It’s a shock. We understand.”

Carbone nodded. Then she said, “I can call my husband, if you’d like. He can be here in fifteen minutes.”

Rizzo cleared his throat, slipping the Parker from his inner jacket pocket and flipping open his note pad.

“Hold off on that,” he said. “We’ll call him later if we need to. Let’s get started. We’ll ask some questions, you answer as best you can, okay?”

Still silent, the woman nodded again.

“When was the last time you saw Robbie?” he asked.

“About two months ago, maybe. No, wait, I went to his place around Columbus Day, that weekend. My internist is in Benson-hurst, and I was in the area, so I stopped in to see Robbie.”

Rizzo glanced at the calendar page of his notebook, then raised his eyes to Mrs. Carbone.

“Columbus Day was celebrated Monday, October thirteenth. When did you see the doctor? Saturday, the eleventh?”

She thought for a moment. “It must have been. He doesn’t have hours on Sunday, just half-days on Saturday. It must have been.”

“How was Robbie that day?”

“He was Robbie,” she said. “He was always the same. Quiet. Polite. In his pajamas, by himself.” She sighed. “He was just Robbie.”

“I see,” Rizzo said.

“Did he have anyone in his life who could have done this to him, Mrs. Carbone?” Priscilla asked. “A friend, an acquaintance, a coworker-anyone like that?”

Carbone seemed confused, glancing from one cop to the other.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I thought it was a break-in. A burglar.”

“Who told you that?” Rizzo asked.

“The young cop who came here. He told me there was a break-in and that Robbie had been killed.”

Priscilla nodded. “That’s what it looks like, ma’am.”

“But you don’t seem to be convinced,” she said.

Rizzo interjected. “We need to check all the possibilities, Mrs. Carbone,” he said. “Did your cousin have anyone like that? Anyone who could’ve gotten mad at him, mad enough to kill?”

She shook her head forcefully. “Absolutely not. Robbie was a lost soul, Sergeant. As far as I know, he didn’t have a single friend, not since he was a young boy. The only kids he ever played with were me and my brother and another cousin or two.”

Rizzo jotted a note, then raised his eyes to Carbone. “Has your brother stayed in touch with Robbie?” he asked.

“My brother hasn’t seen Robbie in ten years.”

“Oh?” Rizzo said.

“My brother’s in the Air Force, Sergeant. Has been for over twenty years. He’s currently stationed in the Middle East in Kuwait. He’s been there for six months.”

“What’s your brother’s name?” Rizzo asked.

“My brother didn’t murder Robbie, Sergeant Rizzo,” she said without anger.

“Of course not,” Rizzo agreed. “I just want to give him a call. In Kuwait. Ask him a few questions, like I’m doin’ here with you.”

The woman laughed. “ Non mi pisciare sulla gamba e poi dirmi che sta piovendo, ” she said.

Now Rizzo replied in kind. “ Non farei mai una cosa del genere , Signora Carbone, ” he said casually.

The woman appeared stunned. “Oh. I didn’t realize you spoke… you would understand…”

Rizzo waved a casual hand at her.

“Forget it,” he said pleasantly. “Happens all the time, but I’d like your brother’s name and contact info, if you don’t mind. And those other cousins you mentioned, and maybe you should call your husband now.”

“I’ll get it for you, and call him. He can be here in a few minutes,” she said, still flustered. She stood and quickly left the room.

Priscilla leaned inward toward Rizzo. “What’d she say?” she asked in low tones.

Smiling, Rizzo replied. “She said, ‘Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining,’ ” he said happily. “I told her I’d never do anything like that.”

Priscilla laughed. “I’ve heard that expression,” she said. “Sounds a lot classier in Italian, though.”

Rizzo chuckled. “Cil,” he said with a wink, “ everything is classier in Italian.”

When Mrs. Carbone returned, calmer now, they continued their questioning.

“How often did you see your cousin?” Rizzo asked.

“Not very often. Holidays, mostly. Robbie would come here.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He was supposed to be coming for Thanksgiving.”

“Was he ever married?”

“No. I don’t think he ever even had a girlfriend.”

“Was he heterosexual?” Jackson asked.

Carbone raised her shoulders. “Well,” she said, “if I had to guess, I’d say he was-what’da you call it?-no sexual?”

“Asexual,” Priscilla said.

“Yes. Maybe that. I don’t know. But definitely not queer. I’d have known that. I can always spot them.”

“How’d he spend his time?” Rizzo asked, with a glance at Priscilla. “Any hobbies, interests, anything like that?”

She looked from one to the other, settling her gaze on Rizzo, but avoiding eye contact.

“No,” she said, a casual lilt in her tone. “Not that I know of.”

Priscilla leaned forward. “What about his writing, Mrs. Carbone?” she asked pointedly.

The woman seemed surprised. “Oh, that… You know about that?”

“Yeah, we do,” Rizzo said. “We found a suitcase full of manuscripts in his closet. They date back over twenty years.”

Jackson spoke up. “And a shoe box of rejection slips, too. In his dresser drawer.”

Rizzo tapped his pen against the note pad. “You know, Mrs. Carbone, your obligation to Robbie is to help us out here. We can’t be pullin’ teeth on every little detail. You’ve gotta help us find out who killed him, not protect secrets that died with him. Anything from his personal life could be relevant if he was killed deliberately and not by a random burglar. I been doin’ this a long time, Mrs. Carbone, and even I can’t guess what may or may not be important. So please, don’t you try. Just answer our questions as fully as you can. Okay?”

“Of course,” she said. “I understand. But Robbie told no one about his writing. Only me. It was a very personal thing for him, a secret.”

Priscilla spoke warmly, trying to establish a bond of trust with the woman. “Well, that speaks highly for you. I know how private a thing like that can be. Believe me. He must have respected you a great deal to confide in you like he did.”

“I’m not sure about that, Detective Jackson,” Carbone said with a sad smile. “Robbie liked me, of course, and in his own way, maybe he loved me. I was really his only relative. No one else in the family has seen or spoken to him in years, except for the occasional holiday when they may have seen him at my house.”