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.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” His face turning serious, McQueen added, “But I gotta tell you, I see myself maybe out in the cold here. Officially, I’ll have had nothing to do with it. Plus I might have a pissedoff supervisor to deal with, maybe some other brass, too.”
Rizzo waved a hand.
“Bullshit. It’s me and Cil taking all the risk. If this goes well, anybody remotely near you will be wrappin’ his arms around your shoulder and lookin’ for the nearest photographer. There’ll be plenty of glory to go around, Mike, real and invented. Believe me.”
McQueen frowned. “You really think so?”
Rizzo took a sip of water, then put the glass down and folded his hands, leaning in on the table, closer to his former partner. He lowered his voice.
“Let me tell you a story, Mike. A story about this lazy, not-too-bright patrolman from the Six-Two. It was way back when, before my time even. Son of Sam was runnin’ around the city, shooting kids parked in cars on lovers’ lanes. The last shooting was in the Six-Two, down by the highway. This patrol cop, he tags a car parked by a hydrant around midnight, just before the shooting went down. So he writes his ticket, rides back to the house, and goes home. Forgets all about it. Next day, the detectives are canvassing the neighborhood and they see a woman walkin’ her dog. They approach her. Yeah, she says, she was out with the dog last night. ’Round midnight. No, didn’t see nothin’ suspicious. Is she sure? Yeah, she said. All she saw was some fat ol’ cop writin’ a ticket for some car parked near the johnny pump about a block from the scene. So the detectives go back to the precinct and pull the house copy of the summons. They run the plate through, and guess what? The car ain’t local. It belongs to some guy David Berkowitz, lives in Westchester County, north of the city.”
Rizzo paused, draining his Dewar’s.
“And that’s how the case got cleared. The patrol cop was too dumb to make the connection, but the brass bumped him up to detective third grade anyway. For writin’ a parking ticket he never even realized the significance of.”
He looked at McQueen. “What do you figure they’ll do for you when I crack this case and tell ’em how I’da never been able to do it without your help?”
A slow smile had formed across Mike’s face. “I don’t know, but I’m beginning to think I’d like to find out.”
Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, I bet. And you know, it was a detective named Zito made that Son of Sam case. Half the cops working today, including you, weren’t even born yet when Zito made that case, but plenty of them know the name. You never know, Mike,” Rizzo added affably. “Maybe forty years from now some cops’ll be schemin’ out a scheme somewhere and one of them’ll bring up Joe Rizzo.” He waved for a second round of drinks.
“Now I see why you didn’t want Cil along today, Joe.”
“Oh?” Rizzo said, arching his brows, “and why’s that?”
Lowering his voice, McQueen said, “Daily. Councilman William fuckin’ Daily. We pull this off, we’re untouchable. We couldn’t discuss that aspect of all this in front of Cil. But you and I know, we pull this off, we could nail that prick Daily and not give a goddamn if anybody realizes it was us who did it. That’s your motivation here. We’d be fuckin’ untouchable.”
“Okay, kid,” Rizzo said with satisfaction. “You’re a good learner. We find Mallard’s killer, we’re the fair-haired boys of the news media. There ain’t a boss or a politician in the whole fuckin’ city who’d tangle with that. Not just to avenge that scumbag Daily.”
He gazed across the table and into the intent, steely blue eyes of McQueen.
“Get me that file, Mike,” he said. “Without it, I’m blind.”
McQueen pursed his lips. “Okay, I’ll do it. But it’ll take me a few days to figure out how to do it clean, so no one notices and starts asking questions.”
The waiter appeared once again and placed fresh drinks on the table, then moved away. Rizzo raised his second Dewar’s in another toast to McQueen.