Rizzo grunted. “Anything relevant here, Detective Paulson?”
“Actually, no. Nobody seen nothin’, boss. Might as well have been a Mafia hit on Bath Avenue instead of a high-class homicide in that palace by the bay.”
“Anybody you figure we need to talk to?” Rizzo asked.
“Just a long shot. The only other tenants on that floor are two old gals. One lives across the hall, the other next door. One is, like, eighty, the other mid seventies and some character. She told me she used to be a gun moll. Last time I heard that term was when I was a kid watching reruns of The Untouchables. This guy Cornwal was so smooth he even got two old ladies giggling into their Polident. They cooked for him, baked cakes, whatever. In return, he’d stop in and share a cup of coffee with them. But get this: never all three together. Just one old dame at a time. He even bought them separate dinners now and then in that upscale joint on Eighty-Sixth and Fifteenth, the one with the opera-singing waiters.”
“Please, Angie,” Ginsberg said. “Please tell me it was platonic. I’m beggin’ ya, sweetheart.”
Paulson raised her right hand in pledge. “Clean as a whistle. Auntie stuff. But I’m convinced it got the old gals wishing they were a few decades younger. Especially the gun moll.”
“You figure it’s worth interviews?” Rizzo asked.
She shrugged. “I just did a prelim, got the lay of the land. If anybody in that building knew Cornwal’s habits, comings and goings and such, it was these two. I’d say — yeah, it’s worth a trip over there. You should start with Rita, the gun moll.”
Rizzo’s desk phone rang. “Rizzo, Sixty-two Squad,” he said absently into it. A slow smile began to spread on his face. “Well, well,” he said. “Thanks, Ramon. If this pans out, I owe you a beer.” He hung up.
“What?” Ginsberg asked.
“Ramon, from Crime Scene. They got a hit. He’s faxing it over now. Prints on the granite counter in the vicinity of that knife block near the refrigerator. An ex-con named Maury Schuller, did nine years on Assault One, made parole and successfully served it out. He’s free as a bird now. Lives out in Canarsie.”
“Rap sheet?” Ginsberg asked.
“Dating back to age eighteen.”
Ginsberg nodded. “Career skell. Bingo. We can skip the old-lady fest.”
Rizzo stood, glancing to the whirling fax machine, watching it pump out paper.
“Yes. Yes we can,” he said.
The late-afternoon sun greeted them as they stepped out from the black Ford. Rizzo eyed the neat, attached, three-story brick home as he unbuttoned his outer coat. Reaching to the holstered Colt strapped to his belt, he broke open the safety strap with a deft, practiced thumb stroke. Ginsberg, standing at Rizzo’s right, mirrored the movements. They moved forward to the basement-apartment door, and Rizzo gave a hard knock.
As the door swung open, they faced Maury Schuller. According to his former parole officer, Schuller was fifty-one, single, and gainfully employed. He had completed his parole without incident and was seemingly reintegrated into society. The parole officer thought it unlikely Schuller had killed anyone.
Rizzo displayed his gold shield and identification card from its worn leather casing. He noted Schuller’s six-foot, solid frame, the pale, weathered face.
“Hello, Maury,” he said with a smile, his peripheral vision scanning the man, watching his hands. “Got a few minutes?”
Schuller sighed sadly, stepping aside and opening the door wider. “Sure,” he said in a somber tone. “I figured you guys would get here sooner or later. I shoulda just called my ex-P.O. How’d you turn me up so quick?”
“Let’s talk inside, Maury. I’m Rizzo, this is Ginsberg.”
“Come on in,” Schuller said, gesturing with resignation.
They sat in the small living room, Rizzo and Ginsberg on beaten upholstered chairs, Schuller on a newer leather couch.
“So,” Rizzo began. “Why’d you figure we’d show and maybe you needed to call your former parole officer before we got here?”
Schuller leaned forward, forearms braced on his legs, grey eyes boring into Rizzo’s. “Two reasons. One: I read the papers. Two: I’m an ex-con.”
Rizzo held the man’s gaze. “Clarify,” he said.
“That guy, that guy Cornwal. The one got murdered, the playboy all the papers been talking about and cashin’ in on. I sorta knew the guy. I been up to his place a coupla times, maybe three altogether. But not for the last two, three weeks. You can check my work orders.”
“Clarify,” Rizzo repeated.
“Somebody musta saw me there a time or two or you lifted an old print, whatever, so naturally you figure I did it. But you musta checked me out, talked to my old P.O. I got a job. You know where, right?”
“Prestige Repair Services,” Ginsberg said.
Schuller nodded. “Exactly right. Today’s my day off. I been there five years, ever since I got out of the joint. I repair high-end appliances, and Mr. Cornwal had some expensive stuff. His refrigerator? Nine thousand, two hundred, retail price. And — it’s an average piece of equipment, breaks down same as a basic Westinghouse. I’ve repaired it maybe two-three times. Warranty work. We got the Sub-Zero authorized service contract for half a Brooklyn. Check it out if you don’t believe me.”
“Yeah. We will... and the day Cornwal got wasted? Where were you that morning? Say between seven and ten?”
“Right here. With my girlfriend. She spent the night, left maybe nine or so. I got dressed, went to work. I was on eleven a.m. to eight p.m., my usual shift. With these high-end buyers, you need to provide round-the-clock coverage. Evening and weekend service. They all got careers and whatever.”
“And this girlfriend. She’ll vouch?”
“Yeah. Call her, call her right now so’s later you don’t say I got to her first. Go on — I’ll dial her number, you speak to her.”
Rizzo smiled. “Hey, Maury, this isn’t our first rodeo. If you needed to set an alibi, you already did.”
Schuller sat back heavily in his seat, his face clouded with resignation. “Right. Ex-con. Lay it on him.” He sighed. “Check me out, guys. That’s all I’m askin’. A fair shake. I been bustin’ my ass for five years and I’d do anything to stay outta that state pen. All I’m askin’ you — check me out.”
Rizzo pondered it then glanced to Ginsberg, knowing what his partner was thinking: If Schuller had appeared at Cornwal’s door, he would have been a familiar face. Cornwal would certainly have allowed him in.
Ginsberg, a slight frown touching his lips, spoke. “So what’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Carla. Carla Alksnis.”
After a moment, Rizzo conceded. “Okay, Maury... Get Carla on the line.”
Two days later, Rizzo and Ginsberg sat before the cluttered desk of the Detective Squad commander, Lieutenant Vince D’Antonio. His deep blue eyes, normally cold, now appeared to be balls of solid ice. He was not happy.
“The news media is running wild with this ‘Brooklyn playboy murdered’ crap, and I’m gettin’ phone calls from the Plaza every friggin’ day. You need to put this to bed.”
“Relax, Vince,” Rizzo said casually. “Any day now some senator will get caught bangin’ his sister-in-law inside the Lincoln Memorial, and all the reporters will scurry under that rock.”
D’Antonio eyed him. “Let’s hope. But — for now — run this down for me. I’ve read the DD-fives. I want the finer points.”