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.”
“Yeah, tempting,” he said. “One of those Tonys almost stuck to mine. Funny how none of ’em stuck to the burglar, though, ain’t it?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Priscilla agreed. “Even if Mallard surprised the guy, and they fought and the skell strangled him, you gotta figure a junkie to grab something. Those awards looked real valuable, and some strung-out asshole junkie woulda grabbed them for sure. Then he’da hocked ’em and got himself locked up the next day.”
“Manhattan South did an inventory, Cil. Every award was accounted for. The only ones not in the display case were the three Mallard gave his ex-wives. There was no cash in the house and just a coupla pieces of jewelry missing.”
Rizzo and Jackson ate in silence. Then, as he waved for another cup of coffee, Joe glanced at the wall clock. “I’ll drink this fast, Cil. Let’s not alienate Kellerman by being late.”
SAMUEL KELLERMAN’S tenth-floor office looked out over the corners of East Sixteenth Street and Irving Place, his broad, dark cherry-wood desk situated cross corner at the left rear of the office, facing both windows.
Rizzo estimated the man’s age from mid-sixties to late seventies-it was nearly impossible to tell. Kellerman had sharp, clear blue eyes and rich sable hair, finely sprinkled with touches of gray. He was tall and lean, carrying the self-confident air of a successful athlete or very wealthy man. He wore a simple black silk shirt open at the collar, cotton Dockers, and black leather loafers. Rizzo was acutely aware of the chance he and Priscilla were taking. By meeting with Kellerman, they were risking exposure to Manhattan South. But at this point in their investigation, if they wanted to move forward, it couldn’t be avoided.
“So,” Kellerman said, “why are two detectives interested in seeing me today? Is it something further on Avery’s murder?”
Rizzo opened his note pad. “Your office number came up on a case we’re working, Mr. Kellerman,” he said. “We have a question or two.”
The man nodded, looking from Rizzo to Jackson and then back to Rizzo.
“And these questions were answered less than satisfactorily by the person you found in possession of my number, I presume?” he asked pleasantly.