“Has word reached the street yet?” Priscilla asked.
Rizzo shook his head. “Not that I know of. If it had, Spano would be dead by now. No, I don’t think it’s common knowledge yet, but if it’s true, somebody besides OCCB has to know about it. And if somebody knows about it, Zee-Boy may know about it. He’s got a relative or two in with the mob boys. So maybe he figures he disses The Chink and then, when the dust settles, he already looks good to Spano, and now Spano’s the new boss.”
Priscilla shook her head slowly. “That would be pretty ballsy for a nineteen-year-old.”
“All the great ones were just ballsy kids once. From Capone to Galante to Castellano and Gotti and Quattropa. You can never be sure which one’ll break out young.”
“Well,” she said. “We’ll see. My money says Zee-Boy caves. Why jeopardize his future for some new kid on the block?”
Rizzo nodded. “You’re probably right. I just hope he doesn’t go direct to Quattropa and give up the perp. He may figure that’ll score him some points with the old prick, but he’s too young to see that if Quattropa does decide to act against the perp, Zee-Boy himself becomes a liability. He’d know too much about The Chink’s private business. Louie would have to whack him, too, just to protect himself. Zee-Boy would be making a real mistake goin’ that route. But, tell you the truth, I’m okay with chancing it. No great loss if two assholes turn up dead.” Rizzo paused. “We’ll see how it plays out. That’s why I only gave him two days. I don’t want him overthinkin’ this.”
After a moment or two, Priscilla swung her eyes to Rizzo as she slowed for a traffic light.
“What about that drug plant, Joe?” she asked, her tone neutral. “Would you really do that? Drop some dope on the kid and squeeze him?”
“Well, I figured you’d ask about that,” Rizzo said. “Truth is I’da never said it in front of a new partner, ’cept I know you got a history with Mike. I figured I could trust you on it.”
She nodded. “Okay. A threat’s one thing. What I’m askin’ is would you actually do it?”
“I don’t like this street shit in my precinct, Cil,” Rizzo said, the strength of his feeling showing in his eyes. “I don’t like it any more than The Chink does. And this case, with the Homs, has really pissed me off. The neighborhood ain’t been real receptive to these Asians movin’ in the last few years. There’ve been some incidents. It’s embarrassin’ to me, and to most of the people with roots around here. So I’d like to nail this mugger. For a few different reasons.”
Priscilla smiled. “I don’t know what you just answered, Joe, but it wasn’t the fuckin’ question I asked you.”
Rizzo pointed through the windshield. “The light turned green,” he said.
She glanced up, then eased the car forward.
“Oh,” she said, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
“Like I told the kid,” Rizzo said, searching his pockets for the packet of Nicorette, “this is the big leagues.”
CHAPTER TEN
Joe Rizzo sat at his desk in the Six-Two squad room, his eyes falling to the calendar. November 10: seventeen days until Thanksgiving. Carol would be home from college on the twenty-third, so he had less than two weeks to mend fences and perfect his argument, to once again try to dissuade his youngest daughter from planning a career with the NYPD.
He sighed. A major drawback of having partnered so successfully with Jennifer to raise three strong-willed, self-assured daughters now confronted Rizzo. He would attempt to push one of them along a path she herself did not wish to take. Even though it was a path that Rizzo knew to be an infinitely better one for her.
As he noticed Priscilla enter the squad room, it occurred to him that in many ways, Priscilla, allowing for cultural and environmental differences, closely mirrored his daughters. She wasn’t much older than Marie, his oldest, and she was just as confident and focused as his girls. Rizzo was not unaware of the ironic pride he took in watching his new partner navigate the unforgiving ways of the job. Priscilla seemed to confirm, in a bizarre sort of way, the hopes he harbored for his daughters, hopes unshackled or defined by traditional gender roles and antiquated societal prejudices.
But Rizzo believed the matter at hand to be entirely different. This was his Carol, sweet, innocent Carol, sheltered in so many ways from the harsh realities of the world in general, and certainly from the murky, often morally ambivalent world of police work.
With another sigh, Rizzo reached for a case folder on his desk, flipping it open, preparing to make his morning phone calls. For now, he would ease Carol from his thoughts.
He still had twelve days. Time enough, he thought. Time enough.
Later on that morning, Rizzo headed to Priscilla’s desk to discuss a case involving a series of forged medical prescriptions which had been turning up in local pharmacies. A female suspect, utilizing stolen prescription pads, was obtaining narcotics, presumably for resale on the streets. But before he could begin, Rizzo looked up to see detective squad commander Vince D’Antonio beckoning from the door of his office.
“Joe,” D’Antonio called out, “can I see you in my office, please? You, too, Priscilla.” The lieutenant turned back to his office, leaving the door open behind him.
“Looks like the principal wants us,” Rizzo said. “Get your excuses ready.”
Priscilla stood, pushing her chair back and shaking out her short hair. “Excuses for what? I’m clean, Partner. You’re probably the one needs excuses.”
Once inside, the door closed behind them, Rizzo and Jackson took seats in front of D’Antonio’s desk. The lieutenant looked across at them, his deep blue eyes twinkling under the harsh fluorescent lighting. “Ready for me to ruin your day?”
Rizzo grunted. “Hey, Vince, isn’t that what they pay you for?” he said.
D’Antonio nodded, looking from one detective to the other. “I guess so.”
“What’s up, boss?” Priscilla asked.
D’Antonio’s expression grew somber. “We got a murder to look at, guys. Over on Bay Twentieth Street.”
“What kinda murder, Vince?” Rizzo asked.
D’Antonio sighed. “The kinda murder Brooklyn South is gonna take a pass on. I just got off the phone with Jimmy Santori, the boss over there. All his guys have full dance cards, so he’s delegating this to precinct level.” He shrugged. “I can’t bitch too much, either. This’ll be our first homicide investigation in over two years. I think you handled that one, too, Joe.”
Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. Me and Morelli.”
“Yes,” D’Antonio said, his tone neutral, “Morelli.”
Rizzo shifted in his seat. “What’s the story on this one, Vince?”
“Well,” D’Antonio replied, sitting back in his chair. “From what I’ve been told, male white, forty-seven, killed in his apartment. Name was Robert Lauria. Looks like a forced entry. Probably happened over a week ago. Last night, the landlord smelled the dead body and called it in.”
“Gunshot?” Rizzo asked.
D’Antonio shook his head. “Strangled. Guy’s neck was badly lacerated, a lot of bleeding. What ever was used to kill him, it was thin, like a wire or cord.”
“You really wanna give me a case that’s already a week cold, Vince?” Rizzo asked. “I think Rossi would be better suited for wasting time on this.”
“Joe, this is a homicide, not some divorcee got her IUD stolen. Leave Rossi out of it. It’s you and Cil on this.”
“The price of greatness,” Rizzo commented to his partner. “No good deed goes unpunished.”
“Hell,” she said. “homicide sounds good to me. The real big leagues.”
“Yeah, right.” Rizzo turned to D’Antonio. “Shall we get over there now?”
D’Antonio nodded. “Yes. I’m gonna ride on it, too. Just to make sure the Brooklyn South prima donnas at the scene show you both a little respect. Let’s go.”
Rizzo swung the gray Impala to the curb, blocking a fire hydrant. D’Antonio, driving his dark blue Impala, pulled in behind. Three blue-and-white radio cars stood randomly scattered in front of the detached, two-story brick home where the murder had taken place. Another police department vehicle sat parked in the driveway of the house, its front bumper nosed against the plain wooden door of the detached garage.