“Joe,” Priscilla said as they sat at Rizzo’s desk sipping coffee from paper cups, “Lauria may have been murdered by Mallard, or somebody connected to Mallard, but this guy definitely had no one close enough who’d whack Mallard for revenge.”
“Yeah, it sure looks that way. I think we’ve invested enough time on this. We checked everything we could. There ain’t no best buddy here, no lover, no outraged relative. Whoever killed Lauria, alone or with Mallard, that same guy wound up killin’ Mallard, too. It couldn’t be any clearer.”
She nodded. “Over the play. Somehow, it all comes back to the play.”
“I still can’t get over how similar they are,” he said. “Mallard’s play had the love interest with that rich dame screwin’ both brothers, and Lauria’s didn’t. But everything else-the old man, the mother, the family history, the friggin’ dialogue, everything; it’s one play in two slightly different versions.”
“Never any doubt in my mind from when I first read it,” Priscilla agreed.
Rizzo’s phone rang, and he reached for it absentmindedly.
“Six-Two squad, Rizzo,” he said.
“Joe? Mike.”
Rizzo smiled, gesturing for Priscilla’s attention.
“Hey, Mikey, what’s new?”
“I’ve got something for you,” McQueen said. “I can leave work a little early today, maybe about three-thirty, three forty-five. I’ll swing by your house and give it to you, if you want.”
“That’d be great, Mike,” Rizzo said, “but I can meet you somewheres, maybe in the city. I hate for you to…”
McQueen cut him off. “It’s no trouble. I can say hello to Jen.”
“Okay, kiddo,” Rizzo said. “Plan on staying for dinner.”
“No thanks, I can’t to night. Another time. Why don’t I meet you at the house around four-thirty or so. Will you be home by then?”
“Sure thing, I’ll make it my business to be there.”
“Bring Cil along,” Mike said. “I’d like to see her.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her. See you then.”
He hung up and smiled at Priscilla.
“Mike’s got the file,” he said. “The Mallard investigation. Probably ran a complete dupe off the computer.”
She frowned. “You’re gonna see him this afternoon?”
“Yeah, my house. Around four-thirty. He wants you to come along.”
“Okay, only I gotta be outta there no later than five. I’m meeting that agent for a drink to night.”
“The one your writing teacher turned you on to? The one that liked your stuff?”
Priscilla’s smile lit her entire face. “That’s the one. Robin Miller. She called me last night and said she sold one of my stories.”
Rizzo reached out and they slapped palms. “Good for you, Cil, good for you. That was pretty friggin’ fast, it must be some good story.”
“Well, good enough for this la-di-freakin’-da literary magazine nobody actually reads. And it may seem fast to you, but I’ve been tryin’ to sell a story for ten years.”
“Well, then, it’s about time, that’s great.” Lowering his voice, he asked, “Is it SOP to go out for drinks after a sale, or is Miller lookin’ for a little somethin’ else?”
“There you go again, Joe, back in lesbian fantasy heaven. No, it ain’t SOP, but, no, she’s not on the make. Far as I know, she’s as straight as you are. She said she wants to discuss some ideas about my book. Imagine that? This chick figures I can sell a freakin’ book.”
“If she’s a pro, Cil, she’s probably right. Hear her out.”
“I intend to, Partner. The money I’m getting for this short story’ll barely cover the drinks to night. I hope they’re on her.”
“Maybe you should just buy your own booze. Go Dutch, it’ll be safer that way.”
Priscilla stood, waving a dismissive hand. “Relax, I’m tellin’ you, nothing going on here with this chick. Hell, I’m thinkin’ of bringing Karen along.”
“Might not be a bad idea,” he said.
“Well, I’m gonna go follow up on that prescription case, call over to the Eight-Four. See if our lead panned out.”
“Okay,” Rizzo said. “Cil-I keep forgettin’ to ask you-how’d that weather check turn out?”
“On October thirtieth, it rained all day and all night. Stopped around midnight in Bensonhurst, later in the city.”
“So maybe that raincoat wasn’t just a prop,” Rizzo said. “Our killer’s a dapper fucker, ain’t he?”
“Hell,” she said, “if it’s a dapper fucker we’re after, maybe we oughta ask Mike where he was on the night of October thirtieth.”
They were interrupted by a uniformed officer assigned to the squad room.
“Hey, Cil, this just came in for you and Joe,” he said, handing her a fax from Plaza Legal.
It was the follow-up report Rizzo had requisitioned on Lauria’s home telephone activity for the two-month period predating the one Detective Dellosso had obtained. Priscilla scanned it quickly.
“Do you have that other telephone record Bobby Dee got for us?” she asked.
Rizzo rummaged around on his desk, finding the dog-eared fax and nodding. “Right here,” he said. “Why?”
Priscilla took the first report from his hands. “I don’t seem to remember any calls to a two-one-two area code, do you?” she asked.
Interest came to Rizzo’s eyes, and he leaned forward, scanning the two reports she held. “No,” he said. “There weren’t any calls to Manhattan. Every call comin’ in or goin’ out was in the seven-one-eight code.”
Priscilla smiled, pointing her finger to an entry appearing on the newly arrived fax. “Well, check this out.”
Rizzo’s eyes followed her finger, then returned to her face. Intrigued, he said, “Get a make on that, Cil. I’m thinkin’ it comes back to someone we’re gonna want to talk to.”
Priscilla went to one of the squad computers and sat, working quickly. The number showing on Lauria’s record belonged to the Samuel Kellerman Literary Agency located on Irving Place in Manhattan. She pulled up the agency’s Web site and clicked on “Clients.”
“Ready for this?” she said, returning to Rizzo’s desk. “The number belongs to Mallard’s agent.”
“Well, whaddaya know?” Rizzo said happily. “Our first murder suspect.”
“Let’s go talk to the guy, Joe.”
He held up a calming hand. “Take it easy, relax. We gotta think this through. Mike said Manhattan South was pretty convinced Mallard’s killer was a burglar, but they would still have had to check out his life, so you gotta figure they already talked to the agent.”
“Sure, but they don’t know the play angle,” she said, her dark eyes glistening with excitement. “ We know that’s the key here, the freakin’ play.”
“Yeah, we definitely need to talk to the guy, and we will. But first let’s take a look at that file Mike is givin’ us. See what the agent told Manhattan South. We need to move slow here, Cil. Be real careful. We only get one shot at this before Manhattan South catches our scent and leans on us. Remember your gut feeling on this-obstruction, official misconduct, accessory to murder-like that. We need to use our heads.”
Rizzo saw her frustration and said, “Trust me here, kid. One step at a time.”
He took the fax into his hand, looking again at the 212 number. Then he slowly raised his eyes to meet Priscilla’s. “Our first suspect,” he repeated. “Don’t that make you feel all warm and fuzzy?”
Seated at the metal desk in his basement home office, Rizzo frowned across to Priscilla, then Mike McQueen.
“Manhattan South confirmed the agent was in Paris the night Mallard was killed. He flew outta Kennedy on Monday, October twenty-seventh, returned Tuesday, November fourth. That alibis him for both homicides.”
He tossed the thick computer-generated file onto his desk. “Real convenient for him, don’t you think?”
Mike shrugged. “There’s a ton of stuff in that case file, Joe; I looked it over pretty carefully. The task force working the Mallard case is pretty convinced it was a break-in. From what’s in the file, you can’t blame them. That play of Lauria’s is a key piece of evidence they’re not aware of. We’re all sitting on dynamite here.”
“Hell, Mike, relax,” Rizzo said. “If Cil hadn’t seen Mallard’s play on Broadway, we’d never even have made a connection here. No one can pin anything shady on us, believe me. Later, after we poke around a little in the city, maybe then they’ll catch on. And we’ll just say we were fishin’, just on a hunch, what ever, then hand them the play angle. So relax.”