“Big fuckin’ deal,” Rizzo said. “I want the Mallard case.”
Priscilla glanced at her partner. “So, maybe we’ll get lucky and not find a coat.”
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Maybe.”
After a moment, he spoke again.
“Here’s what we got, Cil, from me readin’ the case file. There was no unusual activity on Mallard’s financial resources. So it’s unlikely he hired a pro to kill Lauria. All the ex-wives come back clean. Believe it or not, Mallard was on good terms with all four of ’em, even that screwball actress. Anyway, none of that connects to Lauria. Way I see it, we got his agent, the producer of the play, and maybe the director. Long shot is that friendly neighbor a his that found the body. Him and Mallard were pretty buddy-buddy. Equal long shot, some other pal Mallard mighta had. Any one a those guys coulda helped Mallard kill Lauria, then later on killed Mallard, or maybe killed ’em both on his own for reasons unknown to us. But their alibis are good all around for the Mallard case, and they’ve all flown under the radar with Manhattan South. With the agent, his alibi covers both killings: he was in Paris. Manhattan South didn’t need to alibi anybody for the possible dates of the Lauria killing ’cause they weren’t working it as connected, never even heard a Lauria.”
“What are the alibis?” Priscilla asked.
Rizzo looked to the notes he held in his hands.
“Agent in Paris, producer havin’ an early dinner at the Marriott Marquis with his mistress, then in a room with her till midnight. Mallard got whacked about nine. The director was at the theater for the play’s matinee, then the regular evening show. The neighbor was home with his wife, went out for cigarettes ’bout nine-thirty, saw Mallard’s front door ajar, checked it out, found the body, called nine-one-one from his cell.”
“How’d they establish time of death?” she asked.
“M.E. got to the scene by ten-fifteen, no rigor mortis yet, so he ballparks it no earlier than eight-thirty. Neighbor claims he found the body nine-forty or so. The M.E. runs some more tests, puts time a death around nine p.m. Sunday, November second.”
Priscilla nodded. “So the only alibi we know of covering both killings is the agent’s, and the weakest alibi in the Mallard case is the neighbor’s.”
“Yes,” Rizzo said. “He coulda gone out for smokes, killed Mallard, set the scene up to look like a burglary, then called the cops. But what’s that got to do with Lauria?”
Priscilla speculated, “Mallard and the neighbor killed Lauria to shut him up about how Mallard stole his play. After the fact, Mallard starts to pussy out, neighbor gets scared and whacks Mallard.”
Rizzo nodded. “The boys and girls at Major Case did have some inclinations toward the neighbor. They squeezed him a little, but he stood up to it. Even demanded a lie detector test, just like on television. Everybody’s satisfied the guy is clean.”
“What about the others, Joe?”
He shrugged. “The other three were just routinely canvassed. Without the plagiarized play angle, there was no reason to do much more than that. And their alibis tested out.”
“Okay,” Priscilla said.
“By the way,” Rizzo said as an afterthought. “The producer? When we talk to him, steer clear of his alibi. Let me handle it. The cop interviewin’ him gave a confidential statement amendment.” Rizzo smiled. “Seems the guy’s afraid his wife might get a little unreasonable with the community property if she hears about his night at the Marriott with the girlfriend.”
Priscilla pursed her lips. “Thinkin’ with his dick, just like the rest of you guys.”
Adams Mews was a short, narrow passageway that ran between Jane Street and Eighth Avenue in the West Village. The alley was lined on both sides by two-and three-story attached houses. Each structure was a converted stable, some dating back to the eighteenth century, most from the mid-eighteen-hundreds. The street itself was unevenly paved in Colonial-era stones.
Priscilla carefully pulled the car’s right wheels onto the narrow north sidewalk in front of number ten Adams Mews, former home of playwright Avery Mallard. She opened the driver’s door to examine the position of the Chevrolet, satisfying herself there was enough room on the stone roadway for vehicle traffic to squeeze by.
Mallard’s home had a white stone facade, two stories high, with portions of the building spider-veined with thick, leafless tangles of vines. Fronting the ground floor were a narrow entry door and permanently sealed large carriage doors which had formerly served as the stable entrance. A small window stood between the two doorways; three larger windows, two bearing covered air-conditioning units, were evenly spaced on the second floor.
The building, although now a crime scene, was still private property. Rizzo had learned from the file that keys to the home had been left by Mallard’s attorney with a local Realtor. Rizzo’s detective sergeant badge convinced the Realtor to turn over the keys. Now, with those keys in his hand, he eyed the building, then scanned the street to his left and right.
“Let’s take a walk around before we go in.”
The two detectives came across a gated alley on Eighth Avenue that provided access to rear gardens for the homes located on the north side of Adams Mews. The gate was padlocked, but only six feet high, and ornately decorated in heavy wrought iron.
“A cripple could hop this fence,” Priscilla observed.
They found a similar entry point on Jane Street, this one providing entry to the rear areas of the south side structures on Adams. Rizzo and Jackson retraced their steps along Jane Street, again noting the five- and six-story buildings backing up to the rear yards of Adams Mews’ north side.
“Lots of windows facing the back of Mallard’s place,” Rizzo said.
The detectives then walked back to Eighth Avenue, turned right, continuing to Adams Mews and the Mallard home. Rizzo unlocked the door, eyeing the remnants of yellow crime scene tape still clinging to the door frame.
They entered the building.
From his careful reading of the file, Rizzo knew that anything resembling an address book, personal calendar, or diary had been removed and tagged by Manhattan South’s investigators. He and Jackson were there for three reasons only: to search for what could be a fiber-matching raincoat, to examine the physical layout of the home to ascertain the likelihood of a break-in, and to see if there was anything connecting Mallard to Robert Lauria or his play A Solitary Vessel.
Two hours later, they left and returned the keys, then drove slowly northward toward a quick lunch and then a scheduled appointment with Avery Mallard’s literary agent, Samuel Kellerman.
“So,” Rizzo said, sipping coffee at the counter of the sandwich shop on West Fourteenth Street. “What’d we learn?”
Priscilla opened her bottled water, pouring some into a glass. “We learned that we shoulda’ve been playwrights instead of cops. Some cool house that dude had.”
Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, and right in the middle of the city; it was like a country house somewheres. Very cool.”
She sipped her water. “We also learned that Mallard’s place is just as middle-of-the-block as Lauria’s. Why would a burglar jump that back alley fence, then walk past five other buildings just to break into one of a line of similar residences?”
Rizzo shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Priscilla continued. “We learned that for a guy with a lotta dough, Mallard had a pretty shoddy wardrobe-and no fancy blue raincoat.”
“Yeah,” Rizzo said with a laugh, “when I was lookin’ in his closet, I thought somebody mighta put my friggin’ clothes in there.”
“Seriously,” Priscilla said. “And did you see the pictures of Mallard with all those different women? Guy was a regular c-man, Joe. Wall-to-wall.”
“Wall-to-wall awards, too,” Rizzo commented. “First Pulitzer I ever seen.”
She nodded. “Somebody better get them outta there before one of ’em sticks to some cop’s fingers.”