“Yeah, I hear you. I don’t find ’em quite as amusin’ as I did in my rookie days, either.”
“Yeah, but to answer your original question, I am going premed on this. At least for now. We got a week or ten-day cold trail already, we can’t afford to jerk around. We look at it like there’s a reason, a motive, we check that out right away. Then if we dead end and it is just a break-in, we hope for a print or DNA hit or some rat bastard to give the perp up. That’s about all we can do, Cil.”
She nodded. “So we go through the motions.”
“Yeah, for the time bein’, anyway. Besides, this guy Lauria didn’t leave much of a footprint behind. I’m thinkin’ we can cover his whole history in one or two days. If we don’t get pointed at somebody, we go with the junkie burglar theory. Or the local teenage asshole route, or the transient b and e man.” After a moment, he added, “Just don’t get your hopes up. This is probably just gonna waste our time and fuck up our other cases.”
“We might get lucky, Joe. You never know.”
“Yeah,” he said without conviction. “But I tell ya, that watch-that fuckin’ watch-still bothers me. I can’t stop comin’ back to it. I don’t know squat about watches or any kinda jewelry, but one look at that Breitling and even I knew it was big bucks. Hell, a blind man could smell the heavy gold, see those friggin’ diamonds. There ain’t a junkie or b and e man in the city woulda missed it. He’d have pocketed it no matter what. That watch more than paid for his night’s work.”
She nodded. “Well,” she said, “let’s just see where it goes.”
Once back at the Six-Two, Rizzo placed a call to the community policing officer at Canarsie’s Sixty-ninth Precinct. A car would be dispatched to the home of Robert Lauria’s cousin, they would make the official notification of his death. The cousin would be asked to identify the body at the Kings County Hospital morgue. Contact information for Rizzo and Jackson was to be left with the woman.
The balance of the afternoon was spent reviewing Detective Sergeant Art Rosen’s notes and speaking via phone to the CSU detective who conducted the crime scene investigation. A report on preliminary findings was promised within twenty-four hours.
By five-thirty, the two detectives were ready to leave for the day. Rizzo waved good night to Priscilla as she gathered her things and left the squad room. He was just about to call Jennifer and tell her he was on his way home when his direct line began to ring.
“Rizzo, Six-Two squad,” he said into the black mouthpiece.
“It’s me, Rizzo,” a voice said in terse, flat tones. “Zee-Boy.”
Rizzo frowned, glancing up at the wall clock. “What can I do for you, kid?”
“You can stay the fuck away from me for a while,” Zee-Boy said bitterly. “After this call, stay away from me.”
“Tell me,” Rizzo said.
“Just sos we’re clear here,” Zee-Boy said, “I give you the name of the kid you’re lookin’ for, you keep me out of it, right?”
“Yeah, kid, just between us.”
“Us and that mullinyom partner you got,” Zee-Boy replied.
“What ever,” Rizzo said.
“And when the collar does go down, there’s no mention at all this kid was hangin’ with The Rebels, right?”
“Right.”
“But if it ever does come up, if Louie Chink gets word of it, you’ll square it, right? Convince the old prick I did the righteous thing here, right?”
Rizzo grew impatient. “Give me the fuckin’ name, kid. I told you, you’re off the hook. Just give me the fuckin’ name.”
After a pause, Zee-Boy said, “Jamesy Doyle. Lives with his donkey mother in the building on the corner of Sixteenth Avenue and Sixty-fifth Street, apartment two-B. He’s new to the neighborhood, Joe. He don’t know how it is. Just got here about six months ago from some shantytown in Ireland. He’s a fuckin’ immigrant and one crazy motherfucker.”
“Yeah, well, thanks, Zee-Boy. Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah,” Zee-Boy responded. “One more thing. The kid’s only thirteen.”
“Are you kiddin’ me?”
“No, Joe, no shit. Thirteen. A fuckin’ juvenile offender.” Zee-Boy paused. “Get ready to nursemaid this shit-head through Family Court. Maybe get that black Mammy of yours to wet-nurse him. Good fuckin’ luck.” The phone went dead in Rizzo’s ear.
Rizzo dropped a finger on the telephone’s cradle, then lifted it, the dial tone coming through. He began to punch in his home number.
A fucking thirteen-year-old, he thought. Just what he needed. A fucking babysitting job.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next morning, Tuesday, Rizzo arrived at the Six-Two just before seven-thirty, a half hour before the start of his day tour. Two fellow detectives, Mark Ginsberg and George Parker, were alone in the squad room at Parker’s desk, sitting out the last thirty minutes of their morning tour. Rizzo crossed the room, pulling up a chair and greeting the two men.
“How was your night?”
Parker shrugged, huge shoulders straining against his thin cotton shirt. “Quiet,” he said. “All the white folk were sound asleep, nice and peaceful.”
Ginsberg laughed. “That’s why I told you to transfer over here, George,” he said. “We’re gettin’ too old for excitement.”
“Yeah, I know the feelin’.” Rizzo glanced at his wristwatch. “Can you give me a minute, guys?”
“Sure,” Parker said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Those two street robberies you guys are carrying. And the Hom case, the third robbery me ’n Jackson caught.”
“What about ’em?” Ginsberg asked.
Rizzo smiled as he answered. “I got a name.”
“No shit?” said Parker. “From where?”
Rizzo shrugged. “Came to me in a vision.”
“Oh,” Ginsberg said. “Like that, eh?”
“Yeah, Mark,” he replied. “Like that.”
Parker spoke next. “So, it’s the same perp on all three? The way we had it made?”
Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. Same guy.”
Ginsberg smiled as he spoke. “Well, it’s kinda late for Yom Kippur and too early for Christmas, so what’s this, a Thanksgiving present you’re handin’ us?”
Rizzo shook his head. “Who said anything ’bout a present, Mark? But bein’ today’s Veterans Day, let’s call it a transaction. A transaction between three old vets.”
Parker snorted. “Shit, you call Mark’s three years in the fuckin’ Coast Guard telling dames on yachts to put their bikini tops back on being a veteran, Joe?”
“Hey, it’s the Jewish navy, what can I tell you?” laughed Ginsberg.
Rizzo rubbed his hands together. “Let’s talk,” he said.
Parker sat back in his seat. “Talk to my attorney here, Joe. I let him handle all our negotiations.”
“And I let George pick out the rib joints we eat at,” Ginsberg said.
“Me and Jackson caught a homicide,” Rizzo began, watching both cops nod their understanding. “So we’re gonna be busy for a while. I came up with a name on the robberies. But here’s the thing: the perp is thirteen.”
“Shit,” Parker said. “That’ll kill a couple a days for the arresting.”
“Exactly,” Rizzo said. “I lock this kid up, either me or Jackson gotta sit with him durin’ the whole process, right through to the fuckin’ Family Court appearance. Then we hafta transport him to Spofford or wherever the fuck they ship ’im pending disposition. It could take two days, not to mention havin’ to kiss his mother’s ass the whole time.” He looked from one to the other. “I ain’t got that kinda time right now, guys.”
“I hear you,” Parker said. “So, whaddya got in mind?”
“I’ll cut a deal,” Rizzo said. “I give you the name. You make the pinch, walk the kid through, or maybe get Olivero to do it for you-he’s the friggin’ youth officer. Then me and Jackson get sole credit on the Hom case, shared on your two cases. That gives me and her three cleared cases, a cushion for us to work this homicide. We just cleared a shooting and that dick-waver case, so with the robberies, that’s five in-what?-five, six weeks we been partnered? It’s more than good enough.”