Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

Priscilla picked up. “So Bradley whacks Lauria.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo responded. “And he grabs all the incriminatin’ evidence he could find in the apartment, all the copies of Lauria’s play. Only he misses that box of rejection letters, and he never even knows about the duplicate manuscripts in Carbone’s garage in Canarsie.”

“But Bradley knows enough about the business to realize something like that could exist somewhere,” Priscilla suggested.

“Yeah, and he also knows a full-blown motive-based homicide investigation could turn it up, so he makes Lauria’s murder look like a break-in, just a random killing.”

Priscilla interjected, “But he still can’t relax. Mallard might still try and reach out to Lauria in response to that letter. Bradley figures if Mallard learns Lauria’s been conveniently murdered, the shit could still hit the fan.”

Rizzo continued. “So Bradley figures Mallard’s washed up anyway, been dried out for ten years already. Bradley can best protect himself by killin’ Mallard. That explains the time frame of the two murders. He had to act fast, so he kills Lauria on the thirtieth of October, Mallard on November second. Then he uses that DeMaris dame to alibi him for the one murder the cops would question him on: Mallard’s. Nice and neat.”

“So when do you figure they’ll be fishin’ DeMaris outta the river?” Priscilla asked.

“No, Cil, not gonna happen,” Rizzo said, shaking his head. “He whacks her-he’s the married man, she’s the goumada -and he becomes number one on the suspect hit parade. Once his alibi witness turns up dead, Manhattan South starts takin’ another look at the Mallard case, only now with Bradley the target.” He smiled. “This is real life. The only people find themselves involved in different murders all the time are TV characters on those old shows like Murder She Wrote and Diagnosis Murder . No, DeMaris is safe for now. Maybe not indefinitely, but at least for now.”

“This is great, Joe,” Priscilla said in frustration. “We solve both cases, but we can’t write a freakin’ dis-con summons on the evidence we have, let alone prosecute some showbiz hot shot for a double homicide.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Rizzo said. “We’ve got zero chance for an indictment. Tomorrow, we’ll go talk to Bradley. Rattle his cage a little. We play dumb on the DeMaris angle at first, like we never saw the confidential part of his statement where I bet DeMaris is named as the alibi, and we don’t know she’s relevant. Then we drop her name on him and let the guy simmer a few days over Thanksgivin’. After that… we’ll see.”

Priscilla pursed her lips. “What about Manhattan South, Joe? We been stringin’ D’Antonio along with our verbals and vague DD-fives, but now we might have to come clean.”

“Bullshit,” Rizzo said. “All we got is a lead on the Lauria case. That’s our case, Cil. And we’re just too stupid to make the Mallard connection.”

Priscilla looked skeptical. “We’re jugglin’ hand grenades here, Partner.”

“Maybe,” Rizzo said. “And if one of the pins falls out, we might have to run for cover. But for now, it’s okay. Believe me, Cil, stupidity is always your best defense on this job. There’s no regulation says a cop can’t be too stupid to see the nose on his face.”

“This is not just about covering our asses,” she said. “You gotta see that, for Christ’s sake. If we screw up here, even a little bit, somebody gets killed. I know you think you can handle this-”

“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.”

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.”