At that moment, the Motorola beside Priscilla squawked to life.
“Dispatch, six-two one seven, copy?” a female voice sounded in singsong cadence.
“That’s us,” Rizzo said.
Priscilla raised the radio to her mouth. “Six-two one seven dispatch, copy, go.”
“Six-two one seven, see the detective eye-eff-oh seven-one oh-six, say again, seven-one oh-six one-three avenue, copy?”
Priscilla reached across the seat and took Rizzo’s note pad, bracing it against her leg and slipping a Bic from her pocket.
“Dispatch, one-seven to seven-one-oh-six, one-three avenue,” she replied, jotting the address. “What’s the job, copy?”
“One-seven, male white shot, nonfatal. See the detective, k?”
“Ten-four dispatch, one-seven out, k?”
“Ten-four.”
Rizzo pulled the car away from the curb and headed for Thirteenth Avenue. “What was that location?” he asked.
“In front of Seventy-one-oh-six Thirteenth,” Priscilla said. “See the detective.”
“That’s interesting,” he said. “Why see the detective? Why not see the uniform or the citizen or whoever? If there’s a bull there already, whadda they need with us? The call wasn’t to aid investigation, it was a response to incident.”
Priscilla shrugged. “Don’t know, Partner, I’m new at this, remember?”
Approaching Seventy-first Street, Rizzo slowed the car and carefully negotiated the thin crowd of onlookers, police cars, and uniformed officers milling in and around the expanse of Thirteenth Avenue. Nearing the sidewalk area cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, he double parked the Chevy and shut it down.
Rizzo and Jackson approached a short, squat man wearing a weathered overcoat, a blue and gold detective badge dangling upside down from the lapel.
“Hello, Anthony,” Rizzo said to the man. “How you doing tonight?”
Detective Anthony Sastone smiled. “Fine, Joe. How about you?”
“Good. This here is my new partner, Priscilla Jackson. Cil, Anthony Sastone, Six-Eight squad. Our neighbor.”
They shook, then Rizzo turned to the business at hand.
“Tell me,” he said to Sastone.
“Male white, twenty-four, gets into a fight with the perp over at Vinny’s on Seventieth Street. The vic wins. Perp says, ‘I’m gonna kill you.’ Our hero says, ‘Well, I’ll be on the corner, hanging out by the candy store. Come and kill me there.’ Two minutes later, the perp shows up with a rifle. There’s a struggle, gun goes off, blows half the guy’s foot off. Look here, see? Round went right through his foot and into the sidewalk, ricochetin’ across the street and blowing out the storefront fluorescent on the bakery. I took a look. Bullet may be lodged in the mortar between the bricks. Probably beat to hell, though. No ballistic value, other than maybe caliber.”
Rizzo looked down at the sidewalk. A chunk of cement had been pulverized, leaving a gaping hole the size of a paddle ball, blood splattered all around it. Puddles of blood sat at the bottom of the hole and on the rough cement surrounding the area of impact.
Rizzo looked up to Sastone. “I got a question, Anthony,” he said, his voice neutral.
“Shoot,” Sastone answered, with a sly smile.
“Why do I care about this? I’m standing on the west side of the avenue. This is Six-Eight territory.” He pointed over Priscilla’s shoulder to the other side of Thirteenth. “That’s the Six-Two over there. Feel free to cross over and dig that bullet out, paesan. I’m always willing to cooperate.”
Sastone laughed. “Yeah, I figured there might be an issue. When I rolled up and got the story from the Six-Eight uniform, I got on the horn. My boss called your boss. You ever hear the term ‘continuous stream,’ Joe?”
Rizzo nodded and reached for his cigarettes. “Yes,” he said, “yes, I have. It means if shit flows across the street and pools up, some lazy cop might want me to walk over and step in it.”
Again Sastone laughed. “The bosses, Joe. They decided between them. Your shift commander agreed: the assault which resulted in the shooting was part of one criminal action, and that action started over there”-he reached around Rizzo and pointed one block north to Vinny’s Pizzeria-“on the east side. The Six-Two side.”
Rizzo lit a cigarette and turned to Priscilla. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Call the house and check this out.”
“Okay,” she said, reaching for her cell and walking away to make the call.
“What,” Sastone said in mock disbelief, “you don’t believe me?”
Rizzo laughed. “Well, you know, Anthony, I been a cop over twenty-six years and not once in all that time has another cop ever lied to me. I’m figurin’ the law of averages gotta catch up sometime. Maybe to night’s the night.”
“Okay,” Sastone said with a shrug. “Knock yourself out. But just so you know, the Six-Two sector is holding the two eyeballs over there. The vic got bussed to Lutheran Hospital. He lost a lot of blood, but he should be okay. His waltzin’ days may be over, though.”
Rizzo looked again at the bloody hole in the concrete. “That there hole didn’t get punched by a twenty-two, that’s for sure.”
Sastone shook his head. “No. More like a thirty-oh-six, at least.”
Rizzo scanned the scene. “Find any shell casing?”
“No. Time the sector got here, the place was crawlin’ with citizens. Lotsa kids, too. Casing coulda got grabbed for a souvenir. If there even was a casing, that is. Only semiautomatics throw casings after a single shot, and I haven’t ID’d the weapon yet.”
“You talk to the witnesses?” Rizzo asked.
“Just a little. I figured this for a Six-Two case, Joe. Didn’t want to contaminate the investigation for you.”
Rizzo grunted and blew smoke at Sastone. “Very considerate of you,” he said.
Priscilla returned to Rizzo’s side.
“Boss says it’s ours,” she said, her face expressionless.
Rizzo shrugged. “Okay. Let’s do it, then. Anthony, you get a description of the shooter?”
“Yeah,” Sastone answered, pulling out his note pad and flipping it open. “Male white, about forty, six feet even, ’bout one-ninety. Brown hair, short. Wearing a plain dark jacket and camouflage fatigue pants with dark brown boots.”
Rizzo frowned, reaching absentmindedly to rub at a slight eye twitch. “What kinda fatigues?” he asked.
“Military fatigues,” Sastone said.
Rizzo shook his head and flipped the Chesterfield into the street. “No shit?” he said. “Military fatigues? I thought sure theyda been prom fatigues.”
Sastone furrowed his brow. “What?” he asked.
“Were they brown and tan desert fatigues or green and black jungle fatigues?”
Sastone shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s the fuckin’ difference? The guy had on fatigues. Me, I was in the Navy. We dressed like gentlemen.”
“Okay, Anthony. Thanks. I’ll take it from here. Leave the two Six-Eight sectors here. I can use the help, okay? Professional courtesy.”
Sastone nodded. “No problem. Glad to help. You want my notes?”
Rizzo shook his head. “I’ll make my own. See you ’round.” He turned to Priscilla. “Let’s go and talk to the two eyeballs. Call the house again, see if they can send some bodies over here. Watch where you step, there’s blood behind you.”
Rizzo crossed the street to the blue-and-white Six-Two radio car, idling softly, its light bar flashing white and red. He approached the uniform leaning against its front fender.
“Hey, Will,” he said. “I need a minute with the witnesses.”
The cop shrugged. “Go ahead, Joe. I got nowhere to go.”
Rizzo climbed in behind the wheel, turning to face the two men in the rear seat. They appeared in their mid-twenties, casually dressed and nervous, a distinct odor of alcohol on their breath.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Rizzo,” he said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jimmy Cocca,” one said.
“Andy Hermann,” said the other.
“Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning, the pizza store or whenever this thing got started. One at a time.”