Rizzo pushed the gum into his mouth.
“Guy runs out of the store and around the corner. Then, about two minutes later, he’s a block south at Seventy-first Street, waiting for Tucci to come out of Ben’s candy store.” Rizzo paused. “Question: Where’d he get the rifle from so fast? Assumin’, as we are, that he don’t live right there, right on Seventieth Street.”
Priscilla shrugged. “The truck, I guess. He got it out of the truck.”
Rizzo pointed at her. “Bingo. Where else? Now, answer this: Who’s runnin’ around Brooklyn in a pickup truck wearing jungle fatigues and packing a thirty-oh-six rifle?”
Priscilla smiled slowly. “A Great White Hunter,” she said.
“Once again, bingo. A hunter. While you were readin’ the statements, I went online. Hunting season just got under way upstate New York, parts a Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Connecticut. Deer, mostly. Some bear. This asshole is a hunter. That explains the brown boots. He’s not a military nut, probably was wearin’ Timberlands. And his heavy camouflage hunting jacket woulda been too hot for the drive back home from whatever-the-fuck woods he was in, so he slipped on a lightweight civvies Thinsulate. He was probably boozin’ the whole three-day weekend, maybe even in the truck driving home. Probably struck out, Bambi outsmarted him and he’s coming back empty-handed. Instead of going home and smackin’ the old lady around, he maybe stops local for some more booze, then figures he’ll grab a couple a slices of Nunzio’s Sicilian. When Tucci steps on his friggin’ foot, three days of macho bullshit erupts in the guy’s squirrel brain. Then the kid TKO’s him without breakin’ a sweat, and it’s just too much. The guy feels his dick shrinkin’ by the minute, so he figures he’ll grab his rifle and grow some of it back. See?”
“So we start checkin’ out the gun shops, hunting clubs, what ever. Right?” Priscilla asked.
He nodded. “Exactly. Guy probably needs to show photo I.D. for his ammo buys. We could get lucky. There can’t be more than a half-dozen hunting joints in the whole borough, only one or two in the precinct. And if the shooter is a Bensonhurst boy like we figure, he probably shops local. Most people around here do, the whole neighborhood is like a small town.”
“Yeah,” Priscilla said. “A town in the freakin’ Ozarks. Ten years I worked a radio car, two in the South Bronx, eight more up and down Manhattan. I saw a lot of crazy shit, Joe, but this is the first street shooting I ever seen where a rifle was the weapon of choice.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what got me started. That and the camouflaged jungle fatigues. We don’t get many shootings in the Six-Two, but when we do, it’s usually a mob hit. Head shots, up close and personal. And always with a handgun.”
“So,” Priscilla said. “I guess we drop the idea of checkin’ the bars.”
“For now,” he answered. “It’s still a good idea. But I think we’ll put it on hold for a while. What we need is a sketch of this guy. I want to go see the boss, D’Antonio. The Swede. Have him call over to Borough, set up the police artist with the three eyeballs and the vic. Then we can hit the gun shops and the bars with a sketch of the guy in our hands. See where we get lucky first.”
“Okay,” Priscilla said, standing. “Let’s go see the boss.”
Rizzo smiled. “Not just yet, Cil,” he said. “I think I see a lawyer, and he’s coming this way.”
She turned. A tall, disheveled-looking man with sandy brown hair, a worn blue suit, and wire-rimmed glasses was nearing Rizzo’s desk, a uniformed officer beside him.
“Hey, Joe,” the cop said. “This guy’s a lawyer. Said he needs to talk to you.”
“Okay, Randy, thanks.” Rizzo stood and indicated the chair Priscilla had just vacated.
“Have a seat, Counselor,” he said easily. “Forgive me for not shaking hands. Germs and all.”
The man’s lips turned down, but he sat.
“I’m Sergeant Rizzo. My partner here, Detective Jackson.”
The man cleared his throat. “Dan Webster,” he said. “I’m Bruce Jacoby’s attorney.”
Rizzo laughed. “Well, imagine that? Daniel Webster, eh? Any ‘Devil and…’ jokes you ain’t heard yet?”
Webster smiled weakly. “Probably not,” he said.
“Okay then,” Rizzo said, sitting down again. “What can I do for you, Mr. Webster?”
“Well, Sergeant, my client is very upset. He says you and your partner, presumably her, came to his home last night. He says you threatened him. He also said-”
Rizzo held up a hand and silenced the man. “I don’t really give a fuck what he said, Counselor, and neither does she. Let’s get down to it: Jacoby has four prior arrests for public lewdness. He copped to three of ’em, one was dropped. That vic was twelve years old and her parents didn’t want her playing in the sewer with all the shit bags down at the Criminal Court house. I got four positive I.D.’s from victims in this case. They picked your guy out from a photo array. One of the vics is a thirty-something-year-old teacher. Spends a lotta time partying at Club Med or wherever the fuck, and she gave us some details on your guy’s schlong. Sorta like an expert opinion, you could say. Plus, I already spoke to Brucie’s boss. Seems like every time a daylight incident took place, Brucie was either off or out sick that day.”
Here Rizzo paused and looked up at Priscilla, winking at her discreetly.
“So,” he continued, “if you came here to threaten me, Counselor, my boss is across the squad room in his office. Name’s Vince D’Antonio. Lieutenant Vince D’Antonio. He’ll be glad to listen to your complaint, give you the telephone number of Civilian Review, in case you don’t have it memorized, and then he’ll throw you the fuck outta here.”
Rizzo leaned in closer to the man. “But,” he said, his voice turning softer, “if you came here to talk, we can do that, too.”
The lawyer, a few years older than Rizzo, smiled.
“It’s oddly refreshing to do business with an old-timer, Sergeant,” he said. “Most of the younger cops are so tentative and nervous, they almost appear paranoid.”
Rizzo laughed. “So, okay. What’s the deal?”
The lawyer shifted the briefcase he held on his lap and glanced at his wristwatch.
“Well,” he said, “in view of what you’ve said, and assuming it’s accurate…”
Rizzo nodded. “It’s accurate. You can leave here with victim statements and copies of Brucie’s work timesheets, if you want ’em.”
Webster sighed. “Won’t be necessary. Mr. Jacoby is willing to surrender to the District Attorney’s Office. I just have one favor to ask.”
“Tell me,” Rizzo said.
“Mr. Jacoby is particularly close to his mother. This Saturday is her seventieth birthday. He’d like to be with her to celebrate. I’m asking for a surrender date after that. Say, next Monday.”
“No,” Rizzo said, shaking his head. “Fuck him and his mother’s birthday. He wants a favor from me, he surrenders to me. Not the D.A. Me. Me and my partner. If you can’t agree to that, me and Jackson here get in the car and go grab him right now. I don’t need anybody’s permission to lock up some shit-head.”
Rizzo smiled and leaned back in his seat. “You know, Counselor, just between us old-timers.”
Webster drummed his fingers on the briefcase, weighing the options.
“And if we agree, you’ll give him till Monday?”
Rizzo leaned forward, close to the lawyer. “Hell yes, Counselor,” he said. “I’ll even send the old gal a friggin’ birthday card.”
Lieutenant Vince D’Antonio looked across his desk to Jackson, then Rizzo.
“And you figure this shooting warrants a police artist, Joe?” he asked.
Rizzo nodded. “Absolutely. It’d be a shame to waste these witnesses here. All four of ’em saw the guy in the pizza store, under those fluorescents, while everybody was still relatively calm. We can get a good composite from them. Then me and Cil show the sketch around the bars and gun shops. We’re sure to get a hit.”
Vince D’Antonio, the fifty-three-year-old commanding officer of the Six-Two detective squad, sat back in his chair and frowned. His fair skin, blue eyes, and blond hair had earned him the nickname “Swede.”