“Okay then, let’s go. I’ll tell you how I think we should handle it.”
“Where to?” she asked, as she turned and secured her own shoulder harness.
“Well, first, back to Lauria’s place. We need to get that suitcase and the box full of rejection slips. And anything else related to his writing, even that old IBM. It could all be evidence. I want the suitcase dusted for prints, even though we were pawin’ at it without gloves on. Maybe the killer got careless when he searched it for Lauria’s copy of the play and left some prints on it. We have to inventory the contents of both suitcases, the one from the apartment and the one from the garage. Then we’ll secure them in the precinct evidence locker. The chain of possession is fucked up enough already, we gotta start stabilizin’ it, recording everything. So, we’ll go to Lauria’s place, then the precinct.”
“Okay,” she said.
“But first,” he added, “head back up Rockaway Parkway. Find me a candy store.”
He smiled into her questioning eyes.
“I gotta pick up one absolutely last pack of cigarettes.”
After they had secured all the gathered evidence in the precinct’s property locker and were seated at Priscilla’s desk in the squad room, Rizzo asked her for one of the two copies of Lauria’s play she had run off.
“I guess I’ll have to read this crap,” he said absently. Then he pulled the note pad from his jacket and dropped it onto her desk. “Do me a favor. Contact the Air Force and get confirmation that Carbone’s brother’s been overseas at least the last couple a months. Check if he had any leave in October or early this month. All the names and numbers are in my notes.”
Priscilla nodded, glancing at the note pad. “Okay, and I’ll call the cousins on Long Island and over in Jersey, size them up a little. Like we did with Carbone and her husband.”
Rizzo nodded. “All right, thanks. See if they can point us at any other relatives or family friends who mighta had any kinda relationship with Robbie. Anything at all they can add to this.”
“I’m on it, boss,” she said. Rizzo moved back to his desk, checked his address book, then punched Mike McQueen’s work number into the phone.
“Comstat, Detective McQueen,” he heard through the line.
“Hello, Mike, it’s Joe.”
“Joe, hi, how are you?”
“Couldn’t be better, kiddo, couldn’t be better. You got a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Well, me and Cil got us a situation here. I’d like to discuss it with you. Face-to-face.”
There was a pause. “Everything okay?” McQueen asked, the caution in his tone not fully disguised by the superimposed casualness.
“Right as rain, buddy, right as rain. You workin’ tomorrow?”
“Yeah, Joe, I’m steady eight-to-fours, weekends off.”
“Well, good for you, banker’s hours. Good for you. Listen, how ’bout lunch? Down at Pete’s maybe, like last time, or I can come into the city. I’m off tomorrow.”
“Sure, Pete’s is fine, just five minutes across the bridge from the Plaza. How about one o’clock?”
“Great. Looking forward to it. See you then.”
“Okay,” McQueen said. “Is Cil comin’?”
Rizzo hesitated. “Not this time, Mike. Next time, maybe.”
Now it was McQueen who hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “But everything is all right?”
“Yep, everything is just fine,” Rizzo said. “But we don’t need Cil along this time.”
Another hesitation. “Well, okay, Joe. See you tomorrow.” The line went dead.
Everything was just fine, Rizzo thought. Just fine.
Friday at one o’clock, Rizzo smiled across the table in Pete’s Downtown Restaurant. “Well, you sure look fancy today, Mike. Another new suit?”
“Yeah,” McQueen said. “To celebrate my bump up to second grade.” He waved for a waiter, then turned to Rizzo.
“Double Dewar’s, rocks?” Mike asked Rizzo.
“Sure.”
With drinks before them and their lunch orders placed, Rizzo raised his glass.
“To us, Partner. And to the future.”
After sipping his drink, McQueen rotated the Manhattan glass slowly between his fingers, then asked, “So, what’s up?”
Rizzo filled him in on the Lauria case, stressing its possible connection to the murder of internationally acclaimed playwright Avery Mallard.
“Think about it, Mike,” he said softly. “What other explanation could there be for Lauria having that play stashed at his sister’s, and not one copy of it in his apartment? What possible explanation could there be for the existence of that manuscript? No matter how you slice and dice, it comes back to one simple fact: Lauria and Mallard were somehow connected. Connected by that play. And whoever killed Lauria most likely searched the apartment, specifically lookin’ for the play, found it and took it. Lauria was a real low-tech guy, there ain’t any cyberspace copies of that play floatin’ around. The killer felt confident he had the situation under control.”
Rizzo smiled at McQueen. “We just fell into it, kid.”
“Well,” Mike replied, “it may be quite a lucky stumble for you.”
“You bet,” Rizzo said. “Like Yogi Berra once said, I’d rather be lucky than good.”
McQueen laughed. “Or better yet, good and lucky.”
Rizzo took a sip of his Scotch, then continued.
“If this is Mallard whackin’ Lauria, and then somebody evening the score by killing Mallard, or even if it’s just an interested third party killed them both, there’s gotta be a link between the two victims.”
McQueen nodded. “Yeah, well, good luck with that. Some Brooklyn loser and a celebrated Pulitzer Prize-winning New York playwright. Shit, I studied Mallard in English lit class at NYU. The guy is-was-a friggin’ living legend.”
“Yeah, so I hear.” Rizzo drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “So what’s the word at the Plaza, Mike? About the Mallard case.”
“Not much. Manhattan South is on it, with some Major Case support. The brass is all over it. Lots of pressure to nab somebody, and time is passing. The case is getting cold.”
Rizzo nodded. “What angle are they playin’?”
“Far as I know,” McQueen replied, “they make it as a break-in. Perp came in a window at Mallard’s brownstone on a Sunday night, there was a struggle, Mallard got strangled. Manhattan South is rousting junkies and b and e guys all over the city. They’re squeezing stoolies and getting the word out to the jails. Any skell lookin’ for a deal comes forward with a name on this case, the guy can write his own friggin’ ticket. According to my A.D.A. friend, Darrel Jordan, the Manhattan D.A. would sell his only child to make this case. He’s got his eye on the governor’s chair, and he thinks prosecuting this case will help put him there.”
“Yeah, figures,” said Rizzo. “Better government through better bullshit. Same ole, same ole.” He took a sip of his drink as the waiter reappeared, placing their appetizers before them. When he left, Rizzo continued.
“Let’s get to the point, Mike. I need the Mallard file. I want the contacts-the guy’s wife, mother, girlfriend, boyfriend, all of it. I wanna try to cross his path with Lauria’s. I do that, I got a lead to the killer. Or killers. The M.O. s are the same. There’s a connection between these cases, I’d bet two years of Marie’s Cornell tuition there is. And I wanna be the one makin’ that connection.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” McQueen reached for a fork, looking casually down at his stuffed shrimp. “Now I’ve got a question, Joe.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Rizzo said. “What’s in it for you? Let me answer that. You get me the file, raid that computer you’re drivin’ all day. Me and Cil do the leg work. If it breaks right, we tie you into it. Success would force the brass to overlook the-let’s call it, unofficial-help you gave us. Mike, we crack this, Cil writes her own ticket-Homicide, Task Force, what ever she wants. I finish up my career a fuckin’ superstar, the guy who cracked the Pulitzer Prize murder case. They get Joe Hollywood to play me in the movie of the week.”
He leaned across the table. “Just thinka how proud my mother’ll be, Mike.”