Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

Lombardi’s face brightened. “We?” he said. “I’m not followin’ you here, Sergeant. What do you mean, ‘we’?”

“I mean, we, like us,” Rizzo said. “Like me and my partner. And, of course, you’re welcome to come along.” He reached into his shirt pocket, extracting a packet of Nicorette. “Being how it was your case and all.”

Lombardi laughed. “I like a guy with balls, Rizzo,” he said. “Refreshing change from most of the Plaza boys and girls. But, in this particular case, I gotta say, you’re outta line.”

“Yeah, well, I can see where you might figure that, Loo. But you can ask Vince here-I don’t go outside the lines.”

Raymond Kessler, the homicide bureau chief from the Brooklyn District Attorney’s Office, interjected from Rizzo’s left.

“Maybe you do and maybe you don’t, Rizzo,” he said curtly. “But you could use a little work on your statement-taking skills.”

Rizzo responded, wearing a puzzled look. “Oh?” he asked. “And why’s that?”

“Oh, I think you know,” Kessler said. “That statement you took from DeMaris has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. A kid straight outta law school could convince a jury DeMaris was just in it for the plagiarism angle, didn’t know shit about the murders. She can practically walk away from this. The prosecution will have to spit nickels for even a conspiracy count to stick, let alone felony murder.”

“Yeah, Rizzo,” Lombardi said. “If a guy didn’t know better, he might figure you lobbed it in for DeMaris to get her to bury Bradley for you.”

Rizzo turned to Lombardi with a hard expression, his eyes hooded. It drew a shrug from Lombardi.

“ If a guy didn’t know better,” the lieutenant repeated.

Rizzo let his expression soften. “Well, what ever,” he said. “It’s moot now, water under the bridge. Me and Cil made this case, with help from Mike McQueen. Least you can do is accept that, and let’s just move on.”

Lombardi shook his head. “You two are out,” he said simply. “And whoever McQueen is, he’s out, too. As of now, Manhattan South is takin’ jurisdiction on the Lauria case.” He paused before adding, “Sorry, Joe, that’s how the brass wants it.”

Rizzo leaned over toward the man. “You know, Dom, I made a call on you,” he said softly. “Looks like twelve days from now, you get promoted off the captain’s list. If you break the Mallard case, next stop for you is deputy inspector.”

Lombardi shrugged. “Could happen,” he said.

Rizzo turned to D’Antonio. “You gonna sit there, Vince? You gonna let this happen?”

“Look, Dom,” D’Antonio said to Lombardi, his tone hard. “There may be some irregularities here, and maybe you got a right to be pissed. But my guys broke this. Rizzo and Jackson, yeah, but the squad pitched in, too. I can’t let you walk in here…”

Lombardi held up a hand. “Who you need to hear from, Vince?” he asked casually. “Inspector Kelly? The PC? The fuckin’ mayor? Let me know, I’ll make the call.”

Color came to D’Antonio’s face. He shot an annoyed glance at Rizzo, then turned back to Lombardi.

“Don’t lean on me, Dom,” he said. “Don’t try and push me aside. It pisses me off.”

Lombardi sighed. “It’s a tough business, Vince. I’m just a cog in the wheel, is all.”

A tense silence developed, broken after a moment by a knock on the closed door of D’Antonio’s office.

“Sorry to interrupt, boss,” a uniformed officer said as she stuck her head into the room. “There’s some guy here to see you, says it’s important.”

“Not now,” D’Antonio said, his face still flushed with anger.

She hesitated, then spoke again. “Guy’s from the newspapers, boss,” she said, her voice low. “Says he’s here about the Avery Mallard murder. Says he wants to talk to the two cops who broke the case.” She glanced around the room.

“He says he’s writin’ the article now, and he needs to talk to the two cops right away,” she said to D’Antonio. Then, looking at Rizzo she added, “You know, boss. Rizzo and Jackson.”

SATURDAY MORNING, RIZZO SPED the Impala along the Gowanus Expressway, once again heading for Manhattan. Priscilla Jackson sat in the front passenger seat, Detective Lieutenant Vince D’Antonio in the rear behind her.

“You have the warrants?” he asked Rizzo.

Rizzo sighed. “Yeah, boss, for the third time, I have the warrants. Relax, okay?”

D’Antonio shook his head. “Yeah, relax,” he muttered. “Easy for you to say. Tomorrow, you and Jackson are the stars of the city, media darlings of the week. But I get Plaza brass chasin’ after my ass with giant hard-ons in their hands.”

Priscilla chuckled. “Don’t you just hate when that happens?” she said sweetly.

D’Antonio glowered at her profile. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Just what I need. A female version of Rizzo to deal with.”

“You won’t have to deal with her for long, boss,” Rizzo said. “Next stop for Cil is Major Case, Brooklyn homicide, Manhattan South, wherever she wants to go. And me, I’m outta here in about nine months.”

D’Antonio shook his head. “Nine fuckin’ months,” he grumbled. “Like a goddamned pregnancy.”

After a moment, D’Antonio spoke once again, his tone now conversational. “I gotta admit, though, Joe, runnin’ Cappelli past Kessler and Lombardi, that was pure genius. Did you see their faces when he quoted tomorrow’s headlines? ‘Brooklyn Cops Crack Mallard Murder’?”

Rizzo shrugged. “Wasn’t me, boss. Somebody down at the courthouse must have tipped Cappelli, remember?” He turned slightly to Priscilla. “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you, Cil?”

“Innocent as you are, Partner,” she answered. “I never even heard of Cappelli till he walked into Vince’s office.”

“Well, what ever,” Rizzo said, then addressed D’Antonio. “Like I told you yesterday, these personal accusations, suspicions, where’s it all get ya? No place. Let’s just go get this prick Bradley. That’s our main goal here.”

D’Antonio laughed. “Yeah, Joe,” he said. “Spoken like the true public servant you are.”

Rizzo met D’Antonio’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “What ever you say, boss,” he said.

THOMAS ROSS Bradley sat impassively on his sofa, his gray eyes cold. His wife, pale and fidgeting, sat beside him, a bewildered, frightened look on her face. Lieutenant Lombardi led a team of Manhattan South detectives through the sprawling Midtown apartment. The warrant Rizzo had served on the Bradleys authorized a search of the apartment in any area reasonably expected to contain articles of clothing. It also authorized the examination and seizure of any inner or outer garment reasonably resembling a blue or partially blue article of men’s clothing, as well as any and all pairs of gloves found in the home.

Rizzo, with Jackson at his side, stood before the Bradleys, a tight smile on his face.

“You finished readin’ that arrest warrant yet, Bradley?” he asked.

The man raised hostile eyes to Rizzo. “Yes,” he said. “And once again, I demand my attorney.”

Rizzo shrugged. “You called your attorney. He’s on his way. In the meantime, I’m placing you under arrest for the murders of Robert Lauria and Avery Mallard. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during all questioning…”

When he finished the Miranda warning, Rizzo took the arrest warrant back from Bradley and smiled down at him.

“There, now all the little technicalities of our shallow American culture have been taken care of.” He turned, leaving Bradley under guard of two uniformed officers from the host Manhattan North Precinct.