Rizzo’s Fire (32 page)

Priscilla craned her neck, scanning the letter in Rizzo’s hand. She smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “I know how that works. After all those years sending out short stories, I have a drawer full of letters like that.”

Rizzo frowned, his right eye twitching slightly. “Yeah,” he said distractedly, “but, what I’m wonderin’ is, how’d this play get out there to where Mallard or somebody close to him coulda gotten a look at it?”

“Well,” Priscilla suggested, “off the top of my head? Maybe by one of those agencies he sent it to.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m thinkin’. Tell me something: How does a guy protect himself against this kinda scam?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I just used to mail stuff out and hope for the best. Then, once I hooked up with Karen, she advised me to use the poor man’s patent on anything I sent.”

“The what?”

“Poor man’s patent,” she repeated. “See, you take a copy of your work, mail it to yourself certified mail, return receipt requested. Then, when the post office delivers it, you never open the package. If it ever should become an issue, you put it before a judge with the dated receipt, and he opens it with everybody’s lawyers present. Then they have a copy to compare to the published work you figure somebody stole from you. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Rizzo said, “but we didn’t find anything like that in Lauria’s place or in his cousin’s garage.”

She nodded. “Yeah, well, if there was a sealed package somewhere in Lauria’s apartment and the person who whacked him was in the business, he’d have known enough to take it.”

“I figure if Lauria had a package like that, he’da put it in the garage and we’da found it,” Rizzo said.

“Or locked it up in some safe-deposit box somewhere,” she said.

Rizzo continued to rummage through the Lauria material, pulling papers free from the pile on his desk and scanning them. “Well,” he said, “we ran all his banking and finances. There
is
no safe-deposit box.”

“Figures,” she said. “Guy probably never even heard of the poor man’s patent thing. Only reason I did was ’cause I was hooked up with a lawyer.”

Rizzo dropped the financial reports, again picking up the rejection letters. “First thing tomorrow, we call these three agencies. Better still, we go up to their offices. These letters are all signed. We’ll talk to the signers, see if we can develop a link between any of them and Mallard or anybody associated with him.”

She nodded. “Okay, Joe, so what’s on for today?”

“Well,” he answered, “first, we spend an hour or two on the phones working our other cases. They’re getting backed up. Then we have two appointments in the city.”

“We do?” she asked.

“Yeah. On my RDO, I made a couple a calls. We’re gonna meet Mallard’s last girlfriend today. First, though, we’re goin’ to see the director of the play. I got him on the line Friday. It’s all set up.”

“Okay,” Priscilla said. “I’ll get started on the prescription case and that auto vandalism thing on Ovington Avenue. Call me when it’s time to roll.”

NEW YORK’S
August Wilson Theatre was located on West Fifty-second Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. Rizzo and Jackson sat comfortably in two leather chairs before the small desk of the director’s office.

Larry Thurbill, forty years old, had parlayed several successful off-Broadway musical productions into an opportunity to pursue his first love, legitimate dramatic theater. Now he was the overseer of Avery Mallard’s final work,
An Atlanta Landscape.
Thurbill smiled across his desk at the two detectives.

“How is the coffee?” he asked.

“Great,” Rizzo said over the rim of his cup. “Coffee always tastes better when it’s served in really good china.”

“One of the perks of a big hit show,” the director said. “Believe me, I’ve had my share of coffee in cardboard.”

Rizzo placed his cup down onto its saucer, then pulled the notepad from his jacket.

“Well, Mr. Thurbill,” he said, “it was good of you to see us, we’ll try not to take up too much time.”

Thurbill waved a hand. “Take all the time you need, Sergeant, the matinee begins at three, run-through at twelve. I have tons of time. And please, call me Larry.”

“Okay, Larry,” Rizzo said clicking his Parker. “I’m Joe, this is Priscilla.”

Rizzo began a slow, informal questioning, subtly reinforcing the deliberately misleading impression he had given the director, that he and Priscilla were merely revisiting the Mallard murder. They had identified themselves only as NYPD detectives, without mentioning precinct, allowing Thurbill to make assumptions.

After nearly a half hour, Rizzo moved more toward the ground he had come to tread. Thurbill, relaxed and comfortable with the two amicable cops, answered readily.

“So, the producer,” Rizzo asked. “What’s his name again?”

“Bradley,” Thurbill said. “Thomas Bradley. He heads the group of investors who backed the play, so, technically, he’s the producer. But they all claim a bit of that role. Rightfully, I might add.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said, “there ain’t no art without the cash, I guess.”

“Succinctly and quite accurately put, Joe,” Thurbill said.

Rizzo continued. “I don’t know very much about this kinda stuff, Larry, but I think I read somewhere that directors and producers butt heads a lot on these kinda things. You know, plays, movies, television.”

Thurbill nodded. “Yes, we do. I’m afraid our motivations are often at odds—a director’s quality and integrity of product versus a producer’s concern for commercial viability. It does become difficult at times.”

“I’ll bet. How ’bout here, with
Atlanta
?” Rizzo asked. “Any problems between you and Bradley?”

Priscilla leaned forward. “My partner gets nosy sometimes, Larry,” she said.

“No, no, not at all,” Thurbill said. “I’m sure it’s one of the perks of
your
job. Obtaining inside info on a variety of professions and fields. Actually, to answer your question, there was a problem or two, but, of course, Avery was alive then and very much involved in preproduction, particularly with casting and story arc. Plays are not like movies, Joe. Hemingway once said the best way to sell your book to Hollywood was to go to the California-Nevada border, have them toss you the money, then toss them your novel. With a play, on the other hand, the author is very much involved, has quite a say. It is, after all,
his
vision which brings us all here.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said, “I can see that. So, you had a little problem with Bradley, and Mallard straightened it out?”

“Not exactly,” Thurbill said. “Thomas Bradley is quite easy to work with actually, from a director’s point of view. In fact, we sort of reversed traditional roles a bit in one particular instance. It was more a . . . I don’t know, let’s say a situation, between Thomas and Avery. Thomas seemed to be pushing a bit, in my opinion. Overstepping his bounds, I think. He was adamant about the love triangle being written out of the play, and he pressed Avery right up to the actual start of rehearsals last year. It was interesting to watch the interplay. They seemed more coauthors than author-producer. Of course, in the end Avery prevailed, as he should have.”

“So you figure the love angle added to the play? Artistically?” Rizzo asked.

Thurbill smiled, leaning forward in his seat, speaking in an exaggerated tone of conspiracy.

“Ah, Joe,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I never actually said that, now did I? No, the love angle’s merely fluff. To help fill seats. It’s a time-honored tradition in theater. Shakespeare himself inserted one or two superfluous scenes into his works. Some risqué lines and what passed as sexuality in those days. To fill the pit, you see, the area in front of the stage where the proletariat class would stand to view the production. It was good business then and remains so today.

“Avery was hungry for a hit, and, frankly, so was I. Circumstances have delivered a successful run of
musicals
to me.” He smiled more broadly, fluttering his hands in parody of an excited, stereotypical gay male.

“Keeping me in character, you see,” he said cheerfully. Then he grew somber. “But my goal has always been serious direction. I require meaningful works to direct.
An Atlanta Landscape
is meaningful. Maybe Pulitzer caliber. No, if Avery’s little sexual triangle would get the play seen, get it some attention, that was fine with me. I encouraged Avery, and so, yes, I did bump heads with Thomas a bit. But by that point, I was pretty well entrenched, I enjoyed Avery’s full support as director. I wasn’t afraid of Thomas’s firing me. So”—he shrugged—“I could afford to make a noble gesture and give my support to Avery and his agent. The love affairs remained.”

Rizzo sat back in his seat. “You really thought Bradley might want to fire you over it?”

Thurbill stood and came around the desk, pouring fresh coffee for the two detectives. “Oh, yes. He may be easy to work with, Joe, but he’s also quite ruthless, you see.”

* * *

MAGGIE RICHARTE
was thirty-two years old, a successful and influential buyer for a world-renowned New York fashion house. She had met Avery Mallard, nearly thirty years her senior, two years earlier while she was on a buying trip to Milan and he was touring Italy. They had become lovers, and their affair continued until six months prior to his death. The breakup had been amicable, and they remained friends.

Maggie smiled sadly across the airy living room of her East End Avenue co-op apartment.

“Is that what the fussy little wuss told you?” she asked with a laugh. “That Bradley is ‘ruthless’? My God, I’ll never get used to these people, no matter how many of them I work with. Larry Thurbill is a nice man, Sergeant, but he’s not the toughest Marine in the platoon, if you know what I mean. Avery and Thomas were at odds over that one aspect of the play, but Thomas certainly didn’t kill Avery because of it.”

“I don’t think that’s crossed anyone’s mind, Ms. Richarte, unless maybe yours?” Rizzo asked.

“No, Sergeant, not at all. Believe me, Thomas Bradley had nothing to do with Avery’s murder, and when last I spoke to Lieutenant Lombardi about this, he seemed convinced it was just a horrible, random killing. Just a wasteful, stupid, stupid thing.” She shook her head, her eyes moistening.

Priscilla cleared her throat. “That’s the theory, ma’m. We’re just double checking.”

Richarte nodded, dabbing lightly at her eyes with the tip of her pinky finger. “Avery was a genius, you know, a true genius.” After a small pause, she smiled sadly.

“And the most wonderful lover I’ve ever known,” she added wistfully.

ARTHUR WAIN
sighed, looking from one detective to the other, then meeting Rizzo’s eyes.

“I’ve already been through this,” he said wearily. “More times, and for too many hours, than can possibly be necessary.”

Rizzo and Priscilla stood at the front door of Wain’s home at number twelve Adams Mews—the building next door to Mallard’s former residence.

“I can appreciate that, Mr. Wain,” Rizzo said politely, “and I know Manhattan South is satisfied that your involvement was limited to having found the body. I just have a question or two, that’s all. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Wain scowled. “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, Sergeant, and I know it’s chilly out here, but my wife has had quite enough of all this. She was very fond of Avery, and all these police inquiries have served only to magnify her stress level. Can you ask your questions here? Without coming inside?”

“Sure,” Rizzo said, “no problem. First off, take a look at this.” He produced the photo of Lauria, the same one he had shown to Keller-man, Thurbill, and Richarte. “Ever see this man, Mr. Wain? With Mr. Mallard, maybe? Or hanging around the street, near the house, anything like that?”

Wain looked carefully at the photo. “No,” he said after a moment, “I can’t say that I have.” He raised his face back to Rizzo, a faint glimmer evident in his eyes. “Is he a suspect?” he asked hopefully. “Do you think he might be Avery’s killer?”

Rizzo shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Just someone who maybe can point us in the right direction. It’s a long shot.”

Wain replied with a sad, ironic smile. “A long shot,” he said softly. “How appropriate.”

Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Why’s that?”

Wain shook his head, then explained. “Every August, my wife and I would go up to Saratoga to the racetrack with Avery and whichever wife or girlfriend he was involved with at the time. We shared a liking for the horses, you see.”

“And?” Rizzo asked.

Wain sighed, extracting a cigarette from his shirt pocket, searching absentmindedly for his lighter.

“Well, Avery always liked the long shots, Sergeant,” he said. Then, with another sad smile, added, “And I must say, quite often they came in for him. Quite often.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

MONDAY MORNING THE TWO DETECTIVES
once again returned to Lauria’s former home. There, they showed a recent photograph of Avery Mallard to the Annasias. Neither remembered ever having seen him in Lauria’s company or in the vicinity of the house.

As Rizzo drove once again to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, Priscilla commented from the passenger seat, “I like workin’ Brooklyn, Joe. I get to spend lotsa time in Manhattan.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “And the tolls are on the city.”

Her face grew serious. “I still think we shoulda called first. This could be a waste of time. These people may not even be in today . . .”

“Yeah, could be,” Rizzo said, “but I wanna catch ’em cold. I don’t want them with any time to think about this, why two cops are comin’ to see them. With Kellerman and Thurbill and the others, they already talked to cops, they knew they were involved. These people at the agencies, they have no reason to think cops are coming to talk to them. It’s better this way, trust me.”

She nodded. “Well, when you put it like that . . . I guess so. Okay, so we’ll just drop in.” Her face brightened. “We can say, Oh, we were just in the neighborhood and figured we’d stop by and ask, ‘Hey, you kill these two guys? You know who did, maybe?’ I can deal with that.”