“This might be a tough sell,” D’Antonio said after a moment. “After all, this isn’t a murderer or a rapist or child molester. Borough Command may nix it.”
Rizzo shrugged. “Try, Vince. All I’m askin’. And remember, after Tucci got shot, the guy pointed the rifle at Cocca’s chest and worked the trigger. It was a bolt-action rifle, not a semi, so it didn’t fire. But we can still make an attempt murder out of it. That makes two counts attempted murder, criminal use of a firearm, assault one, and whatever else the D.A. can find in the penal law.”
“I read the DD-fives. I know the story.” D’Antonio paused and rubbed at his eye. “I noticed you didn’t talk to the victim yet, this Larry Tucci kid.”
“Gary,” Rizzo said. “Gary Tucci.”
D’Antonio nodded. “Yeah. Gary. What ever. Before we go to Borough, shouldn’t you at least talk to the kid?”
“We tried. But they had to dig bullet and cement fragments out of his foot, then try to put it back together. He was under the knife when we got to Lutheran.” Rizzo looked at his watch. “Doc told me we could see the kid to night. Why don’t you think about the artist request, Vince. Me and Cil will talk to the kid. We’ll find out when he’s getting discharged. Then the artist can sit down with all four. One-shot deal. You get us that sketch, boss, we’ll get you the shooter.”
After a moment, D’Antonio nodded. “Okay. Talk to the kid first. In a couple a days, if we need to, maybe we can get it done.”
Rizzo pushed his chair back and stood up. Jackson did the same. “Thanks. You know I never ask you for this kinda shit. But Borough is tough. I don’t have anybody left I can call over there to cash in a favor.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” D’Antonio said. “At least there’s one place in the department that doesn’t owe you.”
“Yeah,” Rizzo answered. “Speakin’ of which, Ronnie Torres called me about twenty minutes ago. He does owe me, so he pushed that shell casing to the head of the line. He took a partial print from it. Not enough to run for an I.D., but he lifted enough points to call a match if we print a suspect. You get us that sketch, we put a name to the face, lock him up and print him. Then we nail him with the witnesses and the print. Case closed.”
D’Antonio nodded and reached for his pen. Turning back to his paperwork, he spoke once more.
“Talk to the victim, Joe. Then we’ll see.”
“Okay, boss, thanks,” Rizzo said, turning to leave.
D’Antonio looked up at them. “By the way, how are you two getting along?”
“Great,” Rizzo said. “No problem.”
D’Antonio turned his eyes to Priscilla. “And you, Jackson?”
“Fine, Lieutenant. Just fine,” she said.
“He treating you okay?” D’Antonio asked.
“Yeah, boss, he’s glad to have me. I may not be as pretty as McQueen was, but I’m a hell of a lot smarter.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“ So, Gary,” Rizzo asked in the cramped confines of Gary Tucci’s hospital room. “How you doing?”
It was nine-fifteen, just after the official end of visiting hours. Rizzo and Jackson, after making their introductions, had taken seats next to the large hospital bed. Tucci, pale and drained-looking, sat propped against three pillows, his wounded foot elevated and bandaged.
The young man tried to smile. “I’ve had better nights, Sarge,” he said. “Lot better.”
“I’ll bet,” Rizzo said. “Then again, you had worse, too. Like for instance, last night-when this guy shot you.”
Tucci nodded, his lips tightly compressed.
Rizzo shifted in his seat, pulling out his note pad.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened, Gary,” Priscilla asked. “Start from the beginning at the pizza place.”
“Yeah,” Rizzo added, clicking his Parker. “Tell us.”
The young man sighed and nodded again. After a moment, he began his narrative, adding nothing Rizzo and Priscilla hadn’t heard from the other witnesses. When he was finished, his eyes were moist with the memory, but no tears escaped.
Rizzo shook his head. “Sorry, kid,” he said, “but sometimes shit like this happens.”
The words brought a pensive look to the man’s face. “Yeah,” Tucci said. “Shit does happen.”
“Ever see this guy before Monday?” Priscilla asked.
“No. Never.”
“Do you think you can I.D. him?”
“Absolutely.” Here Tucci’s expression hardened. “I got close enough to ’im to clean his clock pretty friggin’ good. That uppercut was always my money punch.”
Now Rizzo spoke. “Yeah,” he said, “Nunzio was pretty impressed. Said you knocked the guy up on his toes.”
Tucci nodded. “Damned right. And you know what? I pulled that punch. I didn’t wanna knock the guy’s jaw up into the base of his god-damned skull. I figured he was just an asshole with too many drinks in him. If I’da known he was gonna cripple me, I’da beat him to death.”
Rizzo reached out and patted Tucci on his uninjured leg. “You handled it just right. You couldn’t know the guy’d come gunnin’ for you.”
Tucci shook his head angrily. “He told me he’d kill me, said it right out loud. Son of a bitch, if I believed him, I woulda pounded his face into that pizza booth.”
“Okay, Gary,” Priscilla said gently. “Don’t be getting all wound up, popping a stitch or spiking your pressure.”
“Okay,” Tucci said, “okay.” Then he smiled. “At least I cracked the asshole’s teeth for him. I can settle for that, I guess.”
“Good for you,” Priscilla said.
Rizzo rubbed an eye, soothing a slight tic. “Broke his teeth?” he asked. “How you know that?”
“I heard it,” Tucci said. “When I connected with that short right uppercut and slammed his mouth shut. I’ve heard it before, in the ring. If a guy don’t bite down right on his mouthpiece and he takes a hard hit, ’specially an uppercut, he can bust a tooth or two. This guy in the pizza place, he didn’t have a mouthpiece. And from the sound, I’d say he cracked more than one tooth. I hope he loses ’em, the bastard.”
Rizzo sat back and turned to Priscilla.
“The kid just saved us some shoe leather, Cil,” he said. Then, turning back to Tucci, added, “We just may get this guy. Lock his ass up. He may have some rough nights ahead of him in stir on Riker’s Island.”
Rizzo stood. “We’ll see,” he said.
Later, riding down in the elevator, Rizzo turned to Priscilla.
“You know,” he said, “I was so impressed with your bar idea and my hunter theory, I coulda missed this.”
Priscilla nodded. “Yeah. Busted teeth. The guy had to get treated for that.”
“Yeah,” Rizzo responded. “And if our other idea ’bout him being local is correct, then dollars to doughnuts his family dentist is from the neighborhood, too. Hell, my guy practices about two blocks from where I live. Has his office right on the lower level of his house on Tenth Avenue.”
“So we track him through the dentists, not the bars or hunting leads,” Priscilla said.
“Yes,” Rizzo said as they reached the lobby and left the elevator. “The bar and hunter stuff, that was all theoretical. The busted teeth, that’s fact. We go with fact over theory every time.”
As they neared the gray Impala, parked at the side of the ambulance entrance ramp, Rizzo shook his head.
“Now I gotta go back to Vince and tell him to hold off on that artist request. And him the guy pushin’ us to see the vic before running off half cocked, like a couple a half-assed rookies.”
Priscilla laughed, her face beaming. “Instead a just one half-assed rookie, eh, Joe?” she said.
“Yeah,” Rizzo answered, pointedly glancing behind his partner. “But from where I’m standin’, there ain’t nothin’ half-assed about you, honey.”
Again Priscilla laughed. “Yeah,” she said. “Karen mentions that once in a while. With the same dopey grin you got now.”
When Priscilla arrived at the Six-Two at four p.m. Wednesday, she found her partner at his desk, sipping coffee from a paper cup and leafing idly through a Daily News.