She shook her head. “Please, don’t fuck with me. You know what I’m sayin’ here. We deliberately conceal this link between the two homicides, they can nail us for obstruction and official misconduct.”
“Relax, okay? Nobody’s nailin’ us for nothing. Hell, if you hadn’t seen that play with Karen, we never would’ve made the connection. And besides, it’s nothing but speculation so far. Let’s take a look, nose around a little, that’s all I’m saying. A couple of unlikely misdemeanor charges shouldn’t right away put our tails between our legs. Let’s just look into it.”
She considered it. “How about this, Joe? How about while we’re ‘considering’ it, the killer strikes again? Suppose it is the same guy who whacked Lauria and Mallard? We don’t know why, other than maybe something connected to the play. There could be a third party somewhere, some other big shot like Mallard or another schmo like Lauria, and the killer decides to get rid of them, too. That makes us accessories. Accessories to fuckin’ murder. Think about that.”
Rizzo shrugged. “Million-to-one shot. Besides, if the killer had a third target, it’s already too late. He took out Lauria and Mallard within a day or two of each other. I don’t think he’s been sitting on his hands for two fuckin’ weeks to take out a third guy. If there was another party, he’s dead already. Done deal.”
She sat silently fingering the pages she held.
“It’d be blood on our hands if it did happen, Joe,” she said after a moment. “Even if we never got jammed up for it, it would still be blood on our hands.”
Rizzo turned in his seat and faced his young partner. A tired smile came to him. “Cil, listen to me. I’ve been doing this a lot of years. Now I’m near the end. I been laboring in obscurity for a long time, just the way I wanted it. No flashy squad, no silk stocking precinct, just me and Brooklyn, for better or worse. And I managed to build a solid rep anyway. Cops all over the city have heard of me and all the bosses know how good I am at this, but you know what, Cil? It’s gettin’ a little old for me. Sometimes, lately, I kinda feel like I’m the greatest chef in… in Ireland. At the end of the day, nobody really gives a damn who boiled the fuckin’ potatoes.
“But… if we develop this, if we tie into Mallard, break that case, I go out on the A-list.”
Rizzo leaned close to her. “And you. What about you? Your stock goes way up. You’d have the friggin’ politicians tripping over their mistresses rushin’ to get you promoted. You could call your own tune. Think about it.”
Priscilla held his dark brown eyes. A moment elapsed.
“And if somebody else does get killed, Joe. That’d be okay with you?”
He shrugged. “I explained that already. Nobody else is getting killed. And besides, what do you think, we hand this over to Manhattan South and they solve it in twenty minutes? With the resources Mike can provide us, you and me got the same chance as Manhattan does. Hell, we got a better chance.” He paused and turned back in his seat, once again gazing out at the snowflakes dancing across the car’s hood.
Priscilla spoke to his profile. “Because you’re smarter than they are. Right?”
He nodded without turning to her. “Your call, Cil. I’ll leave it up to you. I want to poke around some, see where it goes. I told you why. I’ll leave it up to you.”
After a long moment, she spoke, her tone pensive. “Okay, Joe. We’ll take a look. But if it’s starts getting heavy, we gotta reconsider.”
Rizzo reached for his shoulder harness, pulling it forward, securing it.
“Okay then, let’s go. I’ll tell you how I think we should handle it.”
“Where to?” she asked, as she turned and secured her own shoulder harness.
“Well, first, back to Lauria’s place. We need to get that suitcase and the box full of rejection slips. And anything else related to his writing, even that old IBM. It could all be evidence. I want the suitcase dusted for prints, even though we were pawin’ at it without gloves on. Maybe the killer got careless when he searched it for Lauria’s copy of the play and left some prints on it. We have to inventory the contents of both suitcases, the one from the apartment and the one from the garage. Then we’ll secure them in the precinct evidence locker. The chain of possession is fucked up enough already, we gotta start stabilizin’ it, recording everything. So, we’ll go to Lauria’s place, then the precinct.”
“Okay,” she said.
“But first,” he added, “head back up Rockaway Parkway. Find me a candy store.”
He smiled into her questioning eyes.
“I gotta pick up one absolutely last pack of cigarettes.”
AFTER THEY had secured all the gathered evidence in the precinct’s property locker and were seated at Priscilla’s desk in the squad room, Rizzo asked her for one of the two copies of Lauria’s play she had run off.
“I guess I’ll have to read this crap,” he said absently. Then he pulled the note pad from his jacket and dropped it onto her desk. “Do me a favor. Contact the Air Force and get confirmation that Carbone’s brother’s been overseas at least the last couple a months. Check if he had any leave in October or early this month. All the names and numbers are in my notes.”
Priscilla nodded, glancing at the note pad. “Okay, and I’ll call the cousins on Long Island and over in Jersey, size them up a little. Like we did with Carbone and her husband.”
Rizzo nodded. “All right, thanks. See if they can point us at any other relatives or family friends who mighta had any kinda relationship with Robbie. Anything at all they can add to this.”
“I’m on it, boss,” she said. Rizzo moved back to his desk, checked his address book, then punched Mike McQueen’s work number into the phone.
“Comstat, Detective McQueen,” he heard through the line.
“Hello, Mike, it’s Joe.”
“Joe, hi, how are you?”
“Couldn’t be better, kiddo, couldn’t be better. You got a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Well, me and Cil got us a situation here. I’d like to discuss it with you. Face-to-face.”
There was a pause. “Everything okay?” McQueen asked, the caution in his tone not fully disguised by the superimposed casualness.
“Right as rain, buddy, right as rain. You workin’ tomorrow?”
“Yeah, Joe, I’m steady eight-to-fours, weekends off.”
“Well, good for you, banker’s hours. Good for you. Listen, how ’bout lunch? Down at Pete’s maybe, like last time, or I can come into the city. I’m off tomorrow.”
“Sure, Pete’s is fine, just five minutes across the bridge from the Plaza. How about one o’clock?”
“Great. Looking forward to it. See you then.”
“Okay,” McQueen said. “Is Cil comin’?”
Rizzo hesitated. “Not this time, Mike. Next time, maybe.”
Now it was McQueen who hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “But everything is all right?”
“Yep, everything is just fine,” Rizzo said. “But we don’t need Cil along this time.”
Another hesitation. “Well, okay, Joe. See you tomorrow.” The line went dead.
Everything was just fine, Rizzo thought. Just fine.
FRIDAY AT one o’clock, Rizzo smiled across the table in Pete’s Downtown Restaurant. “Well, you sure look fancy today, Mike. Another new suit?”
“Yeah,” McQueen said. “To celebrate my bump up to second grade.” He waved for a waiter, then turned to Rizzo.
“Double Dewar’s, rocks?” Mike asked Rizzo.
“Sure.”
With drinks before them and their lunch orders placed, Rizzo raised his glass.
“To us, Partner. And to the future.”
After sipping his drink, McQueen rotated the Manhattan glass slowly between his fingers, then asked, “So, what’s up?”