Rizzo’s Fire (30 page)

It had only led them back to their original theory, a random burglary gone awry.

Rizzo contemplated his advantage. He and Jackson could now simply discount any and all relationships Mallard might have had except those connecting him to Lauria and both writers to the play itself, the seemingly plagiarized version of Lauria’s
A Solitary Vessel.

A distinct advantage if played correctly, but an advantage wrought with great peril.

Rizzo understood that Priscilla’s fears were grounded in cold, hard fact: it was a very dangerous game they were playing.

If a third murder were to occur, their roles in it would be hard to ascertain. Rizzo knew the procedural requirements were clear. He, as the senior detective in charge of the Lauria case, was under an absolute mandate to report the existence of any possible link between it and the Mallard murder. If anything went wrong with either case, he and Priscilla would be hard pressed if confronted for explanations.

In fact, the only vaguely exculpable excuse they could formulate was one of mere stupidity. Rizzo would have to look some boss straight in the eye and say, “Sorry, I just never saw the connection.”

He stood, switching off the desk lamp and stretching out his tired back muscles. He shook his disquieting thoughts away and squared the file off, then slipped it into the large, non–police issue manila folder.

Rizzo left the basement, quietly retiring to bed, a nervous excitement simmering beneath his fatigue.

He looked forward to the morning and what ever the new day would bring.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BY NINE-FIFTEEN THURSDAY MORNING
, Rizzo and Jackson were speeding toward the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, on their way to Avery Mallard’s Manhattan home. Priscilla wove the gray Impala deftly through the thinning rush-hour traffic.

“So,” she said. “If we turn up a blue raincoat at Mallard’s, and the fiber is a match to the one found on Lauria, we caught us a murderer.”

“Yeah,” said Rizzo. “A
dead
murderer. We clear our case, but it’ll be next to impossible to stay involved with the Mallard murder. Manhattan will jump on this new angle and brush us off like crumbs on a table.”

“I guess,” she said with a shrug. “But then we’d be off this hook we’re hanging ourselves on. And at least we’d have solved the Lauria case. They couldn’t take that from us.”

“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.”

“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.

“Well, about that,” Rizzo said. “The case we’re on is a homicide. The guy who called your office was the victim.”

Kellerman blinked twice in reaction, but remained silent. After a moment, he spoke again. “So I am now on the periphery of two homicides,” he said. “Am I right to suspect that homicide investigators look upon such coincidences with skepticism?”

“Yeah, a little bit,” Priscilla said.

“Who was this man who was killed?” Kellerman asked.

“Robert Lauria,” Priscilla answered. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mr. Kellerman?”

After a moment’s consideration, he shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it does.”

Rizzo jotted a note in his book. “Any record of incoming calls kept, sir?” he asked. “Like a log? Anything like that?”

Kellerman shook his head. “No, Sergeant. When was this call made?”

Rizzo consulted his notes, then supplied the date. Kellerman frowned.

“That long ago?” he said. “Well, unless the man distinguished himself in some way, I can’t imagine my assistant remembering the call. Perhaps this man—Lauria, did you say?—is a friend or relative of Joy, my administrative assistant.” He reached a hand toward his intercom. “Shall I ask her?”

Rizzo held up a hand. “Not just yet, if you don’t mind. We’ll talk to her about that on the way out.”

“Very well.”

“Let me ask you something, Mr. Kellerman,” Priscilla said. “This guy lived over in Brooklyn. He was just an average Joe. Would a guy like that have any reason to call your office? Do you have any ideas about that?”