Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

“Does that make you feel better, Mr. Bradley?” Rizzo asked, as he moved away.

PRISCILLA JACKSON sat in the Six-Two interview room with Thomas Bradley and his attorney. She carefully completed Bradley’s pedigree for the preliminary paperwork on the Lauria homicide. She would later transport the suspect to Brooklyn Central Booking to complete the process. From there, Rizzo and Lombardi would transport Bradley to Manhattan Central Booking and prepare the Mallard paperwork. Bradley would presumably be arraigned on Sunday in each borough, and, as was customary in murder cases, be initially remanded to the Department of Corrections without bail.

At the same time, Rizzo sat in D’Antonio’s office, smoking a cigarette in defiance of the New York City ban currently in force for all public buildings. Lombardi sat to his right.

“Well, let’s hope the coat we found is a match,” Lombardi said. “That’ll be the last nail in this guy’s coffin.”

“Be nice if they get Lauria or Mallard’s trace blood off a pair of those gloves, too,” D’Antonio said.

“Let’s not get greedy, Vince,” said Rizzo. “Blood or no blood, this guy is so busted, the Queen’s teeth must be fallin’ out.”

“Yeah,” D’Antonio said, chuckling. “I bet.”

Lombardi cleared his throat. “I wanna go off the record, guys,” he said.

D’Antonio shrugged. “Okay.”

“Sure,” Rizzo agreed.

Lombardi again cleared his throat. “Just so you know, you ain’t fooling anybody here, Joe. We know what you did. Almost from day one you ran your Lauria case to get to the Mallard case-for the perks that collar would bring. You kept Manhattan South in the dark and deliberately withheld evidence from us.”

Rizzo opened his mouth to protest, but Lombardi held up a silencing hand. “Easy, guy, take it easy. We’re off the record here, remember?”

Rizzo thought a moment. “So what’s your point?”

Lombardi responded. “My point is you broke every fuckin’ rule you came across. Includin’ doing DeMaris’s attorney’s work, creating her escape route on felony murder charges with that half-assed statement you wrote. All so you could nail Bradley, Joe. You gambled big, and I guess you won big, but I want you to know, you ain’t fooling anybody. I don’t care what Cappelli says, his ‘confidential’ source at the court house is sittin’ right here next to me.”

“Off the record or on, I deny that,” Rizzo said with a shrug.

“Good for you,” Lombardi answered. “But what ever, that angle covered your ass. Nobody at the Plaza will buck a crusading reporter who’s backing your play. It’s better to just eat shit and smile, so that’s what’ll happen.”

“I’m still waitin’. What’s your point?” Rizzo repeated.

Lombardi’s tone softened. “Well, my point is-and we’re still off the record-I do appreciate what you did on the bottom line. The phone call to me, I mean. I know you’ve got the balls to end-run us completely, so you tipping us to the situation, even at the risk of getting cut out yourself, that was righteous. And I appreciate it. We appreciate it. Far as John Q. Public is concerned, the Mallard arrest was a team effort with you and Jackson as the MVPs. We can live with that.” He paused. “What else can we do?”

Rizzo shifted in his seat and waved a casual hand at Lombardi.

“No big deal, Dom,” he said. Then with a wink, added, “I kinda had a feeling I wasn’t gettin’ cut out of anything. Sort of a gut feelin’.”

Lombardi laughed. “Yeah, I figured. Nothin’ like those gut feelings, eh, Joe?”

Vince D’Antonio leaned forward on his desk. “I hate to break up this little circle-jerk you guys got goin’ here, but how ’bout doin’ me a fuckin’ favor?”

Lombardi raised his eyebrows in question. “And what might that be?”

“Well, Dom, how ’bout taking this pain in the ass off my hands before he gets me jammed up beyond repair?”

D’Antonio’s eyes moved from Lombardi to Rizzo and back again.

“How ’bout lettin’ Joe do his last nine months breaking your balls over at Manhattan South?”

SEATED AT HIS KITCHEN TABLE, Joe Rizzo sipped coffee and casually leafed through the Daily News . It had been just over a week since headlines had announced an arrest in the Mallard murder case.

His mind wandering, the faint sound of an automobile motor came to him from the driveway. He pushed back his chair and rose to investigate.

Reaching the window, he watched as Carol climbed out of her car. Rizzo frowned, wondering what had brought her home so unexpectedly.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said as she entered the house.

He smiled at her. “Hi, hon. Everything okay? I thought you were coming home on the twentieth.”

Carol crossed the room, dropping her backpack to the floor by the door. She kissed Rizzo on the cheek.

“Yeah, well, I decided to take the day off,” she said. “I have some laundry to do.”

Rizzo glanced at the backpack. “Okay,” he said. “Seems like a long drive for one load of wash, but… okay.”

Carol smiled, her pretty features lighting Rizzo’s eye. “Is that sarcasm or skepticism I detect?” she asked, her tone light.

“Neither, Carol,” he replied. “Just an observation, that’s all.”

Carol went to the coffeemaker, taking a mug from the cabinet and filling it. She moved to the refrigerator, gathered milk and apple pie, then sat at the table. As she gestured for him to join her, he returned to his chair.

As Carol forked some pie into her mouth, she said, “We need to talk, Daddy. One awkward holiday was enough; let’s not ruin Christmas, too.”

Rizzo smiled at her. “Was Thanksgiving ruined? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Okay, maybe not ruined. But awkward. Definitely awkward.”

He nodded. “Settled. Awkward is what we’ll call it.”

Some moments passed, Rizzo sipping his coffee, Carol eating her pie.

“So, kiddo, how’d you do on the police exam? Any feelings about it?”

“Well, I just took it a couple of weeks ago,” Carol answered, shrugging. “Naturally, I haven’t heard anything yet. But it was pretty easy. I think I maxed it.”

“Okay,” Rizzo said, his eyes on hers. “So what’s next?”

“You know how it works, Daddy: written test, medical, physical agility, psychological. Then into the Academy.”

Rizzo began to drum his fingers on the table. Carol reached out a hand, laying it on his to stop the drumming. She smiled as she spoke, her voice soft.

“Relax, Dad,” she said. “You can handle this. So can Mom.”

Rizzo turned his hand under hers, taking hold of it and massaging it gently in his grasp. For reasons unfathomable to him, memories of her First Holy Communion day wafted across his mind’s eye.

“Yeah, Carol,” he said, his voice the equal to hers in softness, “I guess we could.” He paused. “You know, it’s not about your mother and me, honey. I understand it’s hard for you to accept that, but it’s always been about you. About what you could handle, about what was right for you. ”

Carol placed her other hand over the one Rizzo was holding. “Yes, I do know. I’ve always known that. But this is what I really want. I’ve just spent the entire week reading about you and Cil, how you solved the Mallard case. I have the Newsday article framed and hanging in my room at school. I’m very proud of you, Dad. That’s why I had to come home and straighten all this out. I don’t like us being mad at each other.”

Rizzo shook his head slowly. “Carol, I’ve never once been mad at you your entire life.”