Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

Rizzo shrugged. “Okay. Let’s do it, then. Anthony, you get a description of the shooter?”

“Yeah,” Sastone answered, pulling out his note pad and flipping it open. “Male white, about forty, six feet even, ’bout one-ninety. Brown hair, short. Wearing a plain dark jacket and camouflage fatigue pants with dark brown boots.”

Rizzo frowned, reaching absentmindedly to rub at a slight eye twitch. “What kinda fatigues?” he asked.

“Military fatigues,” Sastone said.

Rizzo shook his head and flipped the Chesterfield into the street. “No shit?” he said. “Military fatigues? I thought sure theyda been prom fatigues.”

Sastone furrowed his brow. “What?” he asked.

“Were they brown and tan desert fatigues or green and black jungle fatigues?”

Sastone shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s the fuckin’ difference? The guy had on fatigues. Me, I was in the Navy. We dressed like gentlemen.”

“Okay, Anthony. Thanks. I’ll take it from here. Leave the two Six-Eight sectors here. I can use the help, okay? Professional courtesy.”

Sastone nodded. “No problem. Glad to help. You want my notes?”

Rizzo shook his head. “I’ll make my own. See you ’round.” He turned to Priscilla. “Let’s go and talk to the two eyeballs. Call the house again, see if they can send some bodies over here. Watch where you step, there’s blood behind you.”

Rizzo crossed the street to the blue-and-white Six-Two radio car, idling softly, its light bar flashing white and red. He approached the uniform leaning against its front fender.

“Hey, Will,” he said. “I need a minute with the witnesses.”

The cop shrugged. “Go ahead, Joe. I got nowhere to go.”

Rizzo climbed in behind the wheel, turning to face the two men in the rear seat. They appeared in their mid-twenties, casually dressed and nervous, a distinct odor of alcohol on their breath.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Rizzo,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jimmy Cocca,” one said.

“Andy Hermann,” said the other.

“Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning, the pizza store or whenever this thing got started. One at a time.”

Rizzo looked them over and decided on Cocca. “You start,” he said, pointing at the man. “And you. Don’t interrupt him. Let him tell me what he saw, then you can tell me what you saw. It might not be the same thing.”

“Okay,” Hermann said.

“And Jimmy. Don’t get dramatic. Just stay calm and tell me, okay?”

“Okay,” Jimmy answered.

Rizzo smiled, trying to relax the young man. “What do they call you, Jimmy?” he asked. “Your buddies, I mean.”

The man smiled weakly. “Coke,” he said. “They call me Jimmy Coke. But not causa the drug or nothin’. Because of my name, Cocca. So Jimmy Coke.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “I figured. Okay, Coke. Tell me.”

At that moment, Priscilla climbed into the passenger seat.

“Shift boss is sending another radio car. When Schoenfeld and Rossi finish up what they’re doing, they’ll come by and help.”

“Cil, it’d be nice for you to sit in on this interview, but I need you on the street till Schoenfeld gets here. Get the uniforms organized. Canvass the crowd, see if anybody knows anything. Most of ’em probably live in the apartments above the storefronts. Maybe somebody was lookin’ out the window and saw something. Get plate numbers on all the cars parked within a block of that pizza place. And notify CSU. I’d like somebody to dig that bullet outta the wall and take some shots of that hole in the sidewalk.”

“Okay, Joe. I’m on it.” Priscilla climbed from the car.

Rizzo then turned back to Coke. “Go ahead. Tell me.”

When the man was done, Andy Hermann gave his version. It was the same as Coke’s.

“So neither of you ever saw the shooter before Vinny’s, right? He was a stranger to you both?”

“Yeah.”

“Never saw the guy before.”

Rizzo turned to Coke. “And the rifle was a bolt action?”

“Yes,” Coke answered. “Absolutely.”

Rizzo nodded. Priscilla returned then, climbing back into the passenger seat of the radio car.

“Nobody else coming forward,” she reported. “CSU said either them or Borough Recovery will be here by midnight. Uniforms are working the license plates. Still no Schoenfeld or Rossi.”

Rizzo turned back to the men in the rear seat. He addressed Coke. “We’ll call you chasin’ the guy heroic, Coke,” he said. “But somebody else might call it a little dumb.”

Coke shrugged, but remained silent.

Rizzo continued. “Where exactly was the guy when you saw him jack that fresh round into the chamber?”

Coke thought a moment before responding. “I ducked behind a parked black Buick. He was maybe three cars up from me.”

Rizzo nodded. “Okay. You guys are almost done here. Tomorrow come down to the precinct. Bath and Bay Twenty-second Street. There’ll be a steno to take your statements.”

“Can we go see Gary at the hospital?” Hermann asked.

“Not to night,” Rizzo said. “We need to talk to him, that’ll be enough for him. Let him get some rest. Visit tomorrow if he’s still there. Who knows, they might discharge him to night.”

Cocca shook his head. “No way, man. I did two tours in Iraq, I seen shit like this. His foot is fucked; they got to operate on it.” He glanced at Priscilla. “ ’Scuse the language,” he said.

She smiled at him. “I think I heard the words before,” she said easily.

“Wait here, guys,” Rizzo said. “Let me talk to my partner a minute. Then the officers will drive you both home. Remember, tomorrow, the precinct. Come at twelve noon. Okay?”

They nodded. “Sure,” Cocca said. “We’ll be there.”

Rizzo and Priscilla stepped out of the car. Rizzo led her out of earshot of the witnesses.

“Do me a favor, Cil. Get all their contact info. Take their addresses off their ID’s or licenses or what ever, get their work locations and phones, home phones and cell numbers, okay?”

“Sure. What’s next?”

“Well, I gotta fill you in on the details. We need to talk to the pizza guy and take a look around up there. Then we’ll go to the hospital and talk to this Gary Tucci. We’ve got a good description of the shooter from Coke and Hermann, but Tucci may have more to add. Plus, who knows? By tomorrow, the guy could be dead from a staph bug he picks up in the ER. So we better go to night. And I need Schoenfeld and Rossi to canvass Seventieth Street. I’ll tell you why later. For now, just get that contact info. Then meet me up at that pizza joint. Tell all the uniforms to send Schoenfeld over to me when he shows up.”

“Yassa, boss,” Priscilla said, rolling her eyes at him.

Rizzo laughed. “Hey, that’s why they call it ‘detective third grade.’ Get goin’.”

She smiled and walked away.

Rizzo turned and headed toward the pizzeria, scanning the street as he went. When he reached the corner, he saw two Six-Eight uniforms jotting down license plate numbers of parked cars. He approached the nearest one and glanced at her name tag.

“Hey, O’Toole, how you doing?” Rizzo asked.

The cop looked up from her memo book, took in the gold shield on its silver chain dangling from Rizzo’s neck.

“Peachy,” she said with a smile. “And you, Sarge?”

Rizzo returned the smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Me, too. Peachy. Listen, you got batteries in that flashlight on your belt? Do me a favor. Somewhere a couple a cars north of that black Buick over there, the shooter bolted the rifle to chamber a round. Take a guy or two with you and see if you can find a spent shell casing. If you do, leave it where it is and call me. I’ll be in the pizza joint.”