“Yeah,” Rizzo concurred.
“But it could also point to a pro,” she said. “Maybe Lauria was leanin’ on Mallard about this play situation, so Mallard hires a pro to whack Lauria. Mallard pays the pro and figures it’s over and done with.”
Rizzo picked up. “But then the pro figures he don’t need some screwy artistic genius a witness to his crime, so he takes Mallard’s hit money, then whacks him, too.”
“Exactly,” Priscilla said.
“We can look at that,” he replied.
“How?”
“Manhattan South probably got an access order for Mallard’s finances. Pretty standard in a homicide, even if they figure it for a random break-in murder. Hell, I put in a slip to legal to get us access to Lauria’s finances, though I don’t expect to see anything. Anyway, I’ll give Mike a call, see if Mallard’s account had any unusual cash activity last two or three months.”
“Okay, Joe.”
“Far as the big ticket raincoat, we’ll have Mallard’s address in the file once Mike hands it to us. Then we can go check out his place, look for a blue raincoat. If we find one, we grab a sample and let the lab check it out. If it matches, we got the Lauria end of this case solved.”
Priscilla smiled broadly. “There’d be some headlines for that one,” she said. “ ‘Famous playwright slays unknown writer-film at eleven.’ ”
He laughed. “Yeah, I guess. But the big question would still be out there: Who killed Mallard? If we backdoor it by solvin’ Lauria’s case and hangin’ it on Mallard, Manhattan South boots our asses out of the picture and goes forward with that end.”
“I guess it’s like they say, Joe: That’s showbiz.”
“Yeah. Showbiz.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “And you got nowhere at the shoe store?”
“No,” she said. “It’s like he was a ghost. They sensed he was there, saw him even, but nobody connected. He said hello, he said goodbye, he said it looks like rain, it’s a nice day, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, yes sir, no sir, and out the door. Never even went to lunch with any of his coworkers.”
“Okay,” Rizzo said, “so, I’m thinkin’, this guy is a legit loner. We’ll spend a day or two on it, but it ain’t gonna go anywhere. There’s no avenging butt-buddy gonna turn up here, Cil, but we still gotta look.”
“And where’s that leave us?”
Rizzo shrugged. “Interested third party killin’ both vics, your hit man theory, maybe amateur hour. Or maybe Mallard and one of his butt-buddies go kill Lauria, then the buddy starts thinkin’ about it too much and figures, ‘Fuck Mallard, I gotta protect my own ass,’ so he kills Mallard.”
“What’s the motive for an interested third party?” Priscilla asked. “How would a third party benefit from two such totally different people dying?”
“Beats me,” Rizzo answered. “But one thing’s for sure: if this ain’t the biggest, most improbable, coincidental bullshit ever happened in the history of time, it’s a double homicide tied together by that friggin’ play. That’s the key, the play. That’s the motive, whether the killer was Mallard, Lauria’s imaginary friend, a hit man, or the ghost of William fuckin’ Shakespeare. The play is definitely tied to the motive in this.”
Priscilla shook her head and sighed. “Jesus, Joe, we don’t even know when this guy got killed.”
Rizzo picked up the medical examiner’s report, scanning it briefly, then dropped it back to the desktop.
“Doctor Voodoo puts the date of death between October twenty-nine and November one. October thirty-first was a Friday night. Not a good time to plan on killin’ anybody ’cause street traffic is heavier than durin’ the week. Plus, it was Halloween-the little kids would be out in the daytime, the older kids at night, trick or treatin’ and throwing eggs at one another. November first was a Saturday, plenty of pedestrian traffic day and night. The last outgoing phone call from Lauria’s apartment was to his bank on the thirtieth at eleven a.m. So I’m going with Thursday, October thirtieth, some time after the incoming phone call at eight-o-five p.m.” He paused for a moment. “We should do a weather check, see when it was raining. Let’s assume that fancy raincoat wasn’t just a fashion statement. Let’s assume the killer wore it ’cause it was actually raining.”
Priscilla stood. “I’ll go online, get the weather for those few nights. Bet it rained on the thirtieth.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll call Mike, get an ETA on the Mallard file. Then we can take a look at his finances and check out his place for a match on that coat. The rest of today, we’ll take a look at that cat-house in the Six-
Oh, see where that goes. Plus, we still need to follow up on that prescription fraud case. I got a feeling we can clear that one soon. While you’re on that weather, I’ll order those additional phone records for Lauria. And I wanna call Mark Ginsberg at home, see how those street robbery cases went down with that kid Doyle. I heard it was clean, the kid copped, but I need to hear the details from Ginsberg myself.”
Priscilla stretched her arms and neck muscles. “Okay. And I gotta say it’s real good to have you back, baby.”
“See, it’s like my grandfather always said, Cil.” Rizzo leaned forward, winking at her. “Every little gal needs a man in her life.”
Priscilla smiled sweetly, then bent slightly, sliding a top side drawer from Rizzo’s desk. Slowly and deliberately, she dumped the messy contents onto his lap.
“Get your grandfather to help you clean that shit up, Joe,” she said, smiling and returning Rizzo’s wink.
The Magic Massage Emporium stood in a double storefront in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, a few blocks from the New York City Aquarium.
Rizzo and Jackson stepped into the dimly lit interior and crossed to the small reception area. An attractive middle-aged woman at the counter smiled as they approached. Rizzo flipped his shield case open, briefly displaying its contents.
The woman’s smile broadened.
“So,” she said cheerfully, “now they are to send the mean-looking police and the pretty one, too?” Her words held a distinct Russian accent.
Rizzo glanced over his shoulder at Priscilla, then back to the woman.
“Yeah,” he said, leaning both forearms on the countertop. “Now that you mention it, she does look sorta mean.”
The woman gave a genuine laugh, bending and placing her own forearms onto the counter, positioning her face level to Rizzo’s.
“I am Nadia,” she said, her beautiful violet eyes shimmering in the dim lighting. “How is it for me to be of ser vice for you, Sergeant?”
“Well, Nadia, I’m Sergeant Joe Rizzo, this here is Priscilla Jackson. Detective Priscilla Jackson. Are you the owner of this establishment?”
“Ah, Sergeant,” she said, moving her face a bit closer to his, her musky perfume dancing around his nostrils. “That is very complicated in America, yes? In America, only sometimes the lawyers can figure it out who is owner.”
“But-it’s possible-you may be one of ’em,” Rizzo said with a smile.
Nadia shrugged. “Is possible,” she answered pensively.
“Yeah. Well, who can I speak to who can help me out?”
Her eyes twinkled. “It is to be my plea sure, Sergeant. I will help you out.”
Priscilla sounded a derisive laugh from behind him. “You need me to go get you a bottle of wine here, Joe?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her and winked, then turned back to Nadia, producing a photo of Robert Lauria. He laid it down on the counter, turning it to face the woman and sliding it closer to her.
“Take a look, Nadia,” he said. “Then tell me.”
She looked at the photo, then raised her eyes to Rizzo. “I do not like to discuss the business of peoples, Sergeant. This man, this man in the picture, he is an American, no? He has all the rights, no?”
“Yes, he does,” Rizzo said pleasantly. “Now how about you weigh his rights against your business license, take another look at that picture, then tell me.”