When Rizzo finished reading the play, his head ached slightly. He had a vague, nagging feeling that the story was familiar: characters, setting, plot, all of it. And not from anything Lauria had written, since Rizzo hadn’t yet read his copy of Lauria’s A Solitary Vessel. No, Rizzo thought. It wasn’t Lauria.
“Damn,” he said aloud with sudden realization. “It’s Tennessee Williams.” Reincarnate a thirty-year-old Paul Newman, and he could play either brother, Rizzo thought. An equally young Joanne Woodward or Elizabeth Taylor could be the female lead.
Jennifer entered the room, her hair tied behind her head, flannel pajamas loose about her body.
“Coming to bed soon, Joe?” she asked.
He glanced at the small clock on the table beside him. “Wow, I didn’t realize so much time had passed.”
Jennifer moved closer and sat on the arm of the recliner, placing a hand on his shoulder and peering down at the play on his lap.
“It must have been pretty good to hold your interest,” she said. “The last thing I saw you reading was…” She thought for a moment. “I can’t even remember.”
“Not really,” he said. “Reminded me of some old movies I’ve seen. But, according to Cil, the critics loved it, and it’s a sure thing for the big awards. They can’t print the tickets fast enough on Broadway. Probably make a friggin’ movie in a couple a years.” He shrugged. “Like I said, sounded a little old to me, familiar. Sorta like, ‘Screwballs on a Hot Tin Roof,’ if anybody asks me.”
Jennifer laughed. “Well, I don’t think anyone will ask you.” Her smile faded. “And once more, just for the record, I’m against this scheme of yours. If these two cases are connected, you should report it to D’Antonio. Let him make the call on it. Cover your butt.”
“Vince would punt this whole thing right over to Manhattan South, with a cc to the Plaza.”
“As well he should,” Jennifer said sternly. “Haven’t you had enough excitement lately? Haven’t we all? That whole Daily business and the I.A.D. thing with Morelli? Wasn’t all that a close enough brush for you? I swear you’re like a reckless teenager with a new car, tearing around like a lunatic, defying the odds. I’m just saying…”
Rizzo reached up and stroked her cheek. “I know, hon, you already said what you had to say. I get it. But I’m on top of this, believe me. Cil and I struck out today on trying to find a life for this guy Lauria. We’ll follow up, but I’m not expecting anything to turn up. Next, we’ll start to look at Mallard. On the Q.T. Then, we’ll see. We can always drop it in Vince’s lap. But first, let’s see how it goes. Okay?”
She shook her head. “No. Not okay.”
“Think about this for a minute, Jen. I’m not being reckless, in fact the complete opposite. If I nail Mallard’s killer, I’m gold. It buys me a pass with that whole Daily situation, the thing that has you so worried. Don’t you see that? Mallard is my insurance, mine and Mike’s. It’s not reckless, hon. It’s just good business.”
“My God, Joe,” she said softly. “Are you really that callous? What about Priscilla? What about her? You’re exposing her to serious risk: This is not just about you and Mike. What about her?”
Rizzo sighed. “Go to bed, hon. I got enough problems trying to keep her on board without complicating it with too many explanations. And I do have her best interest at heart, too. After this is over, if it all works out, her career is made. Believe me, and just trust me, okay? I know what I’m doing. Now I just wanna look over Lauria’s play, convince myself it’s the same as Mallard’s. I’ll be up in about a half hour, forty minutes.”
She glared at him, anger rising in her eyes. He held out a calming palm toward her. “Relax, Jen. Don’t make me regret tellin’ you about this stuff. Okay?”
Jennifer slid off the arm of the recliner, removing her hand from his shoulder.
“What ever,” she said coldly, turning and leaving the room.
Rizzo picked up the photocopy of Lauria’s manuscript and began reading.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ON WEDNESDAY, RIZZO AND JACKSON spent most of their tour continuing to search through the fragments of Robert Lauria’s life, using names and numbers culled from the worn, black address book retrieved from the murder scene. Other than family members already spoken to, the few remaining entries consisted of former landlords, employers, doctors, dentists, and the occasional tradesman or business number. Nothing pointed them in a meaningful direction.
Robert Lauria had been as isolated and unconnected as any person living in modern-day New York City could possibly be.
By late in the tour, both detectives were convinced.
“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.”