Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 924 & 925, September/October 2018

Rizzo’s Gun Moll by Lou Manfredo

Called “the most authentic cop in contemporary crime fiction” by Kirkus Reviews, Joe Rizzo (the protagonist of this new story) has appeared in three critically acclaimed novels and a number of short stories. His creator, Lou Manfredo, a twenty-five-year veteran of the Brooklyn criminal-justice system, has been compared to Joseph Wambaugh.

Sergeant Joe Rizzo gazed downward to the bloodied corpse prone at his feet. His brow furrowed as he glanced briefly at his partner, Detective Mark Ginsberg, then back to the corpse lying between them.

The man had been stabbed repeatedly and with great fervor, Rizzo surmised, based upon the numerous jagged puncture wounds on his upper chest, glistening scarlet against the pale grey of the man’s shirt.

“Somebody really tore into this guy,” Ginsberg said as he dropped to a squat beside the body. “Gotta be — what? — ten, twelve wounds?”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said, also lowering himself to the corpse. “At least.”

The detectives and victim were situated in the kitchen of a sprawling six-room apartment, the entry door behind them open, a uniformed officer standing guard. Detective Angela Paulson entered the room, notepad in hand.

“I’ve got the rundown, guys,” she said. “Ready?”

“Yeah, Angie,” Rizzo said, his eyes still scanning the body. “Shoot.”

“Victim is Benjamin Cornwal, forty-seven, divorced, lived alone. Been a tenant here almost eight years, currently in second year of a two-year lease. Emergency contact listed with super is his brother, lives in Dyker Heights.”

Rizzo stood slowly, looking to his left. The large living room, complete with wood-burning fireplace, commanded a panoramic view of lower New York Bay, bordering the predominantly Italian-American enclave known as Bensonhurst. He watched as sunlight twinkled on the still waters, flat and green this mild autumn morning. The lushly appointed apartment sparkled, immaculately kept.

Rizzo turned to Paulson. “This is one of Brooklyn’s priciest apartment buildings. What did Cornwal do for a living?”

“Owned a string of laundromats all over the city. Those gentrified ‘Fresh as Mom’s’ places the hipsters use.” She dropped her eyes briefly to the corpse. “Lucky guy, made a ton of dough. His luck seems to have run out.”

Ginsberg rose to his feet, adjusting the fit of his latex gloves. “Yeah. And from the looks of things, I’d say it was sometime today, earlier this morning. Place hasn’t been ransacked, probably not a gone-bad burglary.”

“Okay, Angie,” Rizzo said. “Me and Mark have done a look-around, we’ll do a thorough search. How many detectives are on scene?”

“Me, Bobby, Art, Nick, and Mo.”

“Get them on it. They know the drill. Gather security videos if they exist, talk to the doorman; any interesting neighbors, me and Mark will follow up later. And have the uniforms search this building and surrounding blocks. I imagine we’re looking for a knife. A big one. Maybe a Shun eight-inch carving knife with a black pakkawood handle.”

Paulson smiled. “Is that some kind of psychic vision, Joe?”

“No.” He gestured with a thumb to a wooden knife block on a corner countertop beside a Sub-Zero refrigerator. “It’s the only one missing, not in the sink or dishwasher or any of the utensil drawers. Maybe our killer used it, took it with him, and then tossed it somewhere.”

“Okay, Joe, I’m off and running. I’ll let you know what we find.” Paulson tore a page from her notepad. “Here’s the brother’s contact info. The precinct is handling notification. The earliest the M.E. can get here is about ninety minutes.” She turned and left the apartment.

“So, what do we have?” Ginsberg asked Rizzo. “No signs of forced entry, doorman on duty downstairs. We’re on the fifth floor; nobody coulda climbed in a window. Good chance the knife was a weapon of opportunity, not brought by the killer. So — most likely not premeditated.”

Rizzo nodded. “Maybe. That means we’re looking for somebody he knew, maybe another tenant.”

“Lover’s spat?” Ginsberg suggested.

“From the savagery of the attack, I’d say the doer was male. And strong.”

“We can verify, see if the vie was gay.”

“Yeah. But on our look around, I checked the bedroom. Walls are covered with paintings of naked women, and there’s a photo of him with a gal who looks like a movie star on some tropical beach — maybe a jealous husband?”

Ginsberg shrugged. “Okay.”

“Yeah. We’ll ask around. But I’m thinking the doer’s a straight male acquaintance the vic knew well enough to let in early in the morning. From the liquidity of that blood, he hasn’t been dead long.” Rizzo glanced at his Timex. “It’s only eleven-ten now.”

“I’m gonna start a detailed search, Joe. When is Crime Scene getting here?”

“Soon.”

“Okay. Time we start violating this guy’s privacy.”

Rizzo gave a small nod, looking down at the corpse once more. “Not to mention his dignity,” he said.

Later, in an interview room at the 62nd Precinct’s Detective Squad department, the partners discussed various possibilities.

“Probably a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Ginsberg said. “Some problem exists between vic and doer, doer stops by to discuss, it gets out of hand, he grabs a knife and goes berserk. M.E. says wounds consistent with the missing eight-inch Shun.”

“Okay. The victim’s watch and three hundred dollars cash were on his dresser, no random burglar would have missed that. The doorman reports no strangers entered the building all morning, just a few tenants. Crime Scene says the rear basement service door has double locks, a deadbolt and a latch that locks automatically, and both are always locked. When Crime Scene checked, only the auto lock was engaged, not the deadbolt.”

“So maybe the doer entered and left through that door.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo agreed. “Maybe. Crime Scene says there were a couple of internal markings consistent with somebody picking the locks. Possibility, not definite. So after the murder, the doer leaves through the door, but he can’t relock the deadbolt without the key.”

Ginsberg considered it a moment, then spoke. “That door is only used to move a new tenant in or an old one out, no security camera. Basement freight elevator accesses every floor.”

“And a staircase too.”

“So — probably a targeted job?”

“Could be. Someone the vic knew sneaks in, heads to the apartment, and the vic lets him in.”

“But without a weapon?” Ginsberg shrugged. “What was the doer’s intent? If not to kill the guy, why not just walk in through the lobby?”

“I don’t know. But if Cornwal knew the guy, the doer might have known those knives were there.” They sat in silence for a few moments before Rizzo spoke again. “Looks like we just may have to get lucky on this one, partner.”

“We ever solve anything we didn’t get lucky on, Joe? Luck is most of it.”

“Usually.”

Ginsberg stood. “I think I heard the pizza guy. Lunch is here. Or dinner, I guess. Let’s eat.”

“Okay. Then we’ll talk to the brother and formulate a plan. Ramon from Crime Scene promised me print and basic forensic verbal by early tomorrow afternoon.”

Harry Cornwal, seated at his office desk, gave a sad sigh before responding. “If I’m inferring correctly, Detective, you’re wondering if my brother was gay. He was not. In fact, he was quite the lady’s man. It cost him his marriage. Ben loved women — no, let me amend that. Ben loved life, and women were part of it. He lived every day like it was his last.” The man’s eyes watered and he dropped his gaze away from Rizzo’s. “How awful that sounds now,” he said softly.

After a respectful moment, Rizzo continued. “He seemed like a big earner, Mr. Cornwal. His monthly rent was nearly double most people’s mortgage payments.”

“Yes, Ben did quite well. His business sense combined with his investment skills were considerable.”

“Any enemies that you know of?”

“No. Not a one.”

“Business associates he may have had a conflict with?”

“My brother was a lone wolf, Detective. He had no partner and wanted none. Years ago he offered me a role in his company, but it was a mere formality based on brotherly affection. My law practice does very well. And I will say, without modesty, I’m a damn good lawyer.” He smiled. “Not such a good businessman. No. That was Ben’s forte.”

Ginsberg looked up from his notepad. “What about his ex-wife? Any friction there?”

“Not for years. They’ve been divorced for — let’s see — about ten years now. She’s living with a man in Florida and, as Ben’s attorney, I can tell you her alimony is quite generous.”

“How does it look for her now, with your brother gone? Any insurance pending, inheritance due, anything like that?”

Cornwal pondered a moment. “No. I handled the divorce and Ben’s will. They have a daughter, my niece. As part of the divorce agreement, Ann — that’s Ben’s ex — was allowed to relocate to Florida with their then-minor daughter. In return for that consideration, no life insurance was required to be maintained with Ann as beneficiary. My niece, Heather, is now nineteen. She’ll inherit most of Ben’s estate. Under the terms of the will, which I have on file and a copy of which Ben kept in his safe-deposit box, I will liquidate his businesses as trustee, and my firm will receive a prorated fee. The cash balance will be placed in trust for Heather until age twenty-five. Ann’s alimony will continue for two years from date of death, paid from estate funds, then cease. Actually, she would have fared much better had Ben lived to be one hundred.”

Rizzo tapped his pen against his knee and sat back in the plush leather chair before Cornwal’s desk.

“Somebody killed him, Mr. Cornwal, and we have good reason to suspect it was someone he knew. Any other family besides you and his ex and daughter?”

“We have cousins and an uncle in Rhode Island. Our uncle is ninety-one.”

“Did your brother employ many people?”

“Well, each location has a caretaker to oversee daily operations, but the businesses are largely automated. The employees are mostly retirees or local housewives. The laundromats are located in upscale, gentrified neighborhoods: Brooklyn Heights, Park Slope, Tribeca, the West Village. And as I said, pretty much automated — the machines work on cash, credit, and such.”

“Did he use a management company for maintenance and whatever?”

“Yes. I have all that information with his papers of incorporation. I can give you copies of everything.”

“Okay. And a copy of that will, to compare to the one we’ll find in his personal papers. And contact info for the ex, his daughter, and those cousins.”

“Certainly.”

“One more time, Mr. Cornwal,” Rizzo said, rising in anticipation of leaving. “Is there anyone — anyone at all — you think could have done this? A jealous rival for a woman, a cuckold husband, some crazy friend, current or former employee? Anyone at all?”

“No. I’m sorry, Detective. Obviously someone killed my brother. I have no idea who that could have been.”

Rizzo hung up the phone and swiveled in his chair, facing Ginsberg at the squad-room desk next to his own. “Even if it somehow made sense for her to kill him, the ex-wife is out. I just confirmed everything she told us. The cruise line says she was returning aboard ship off the coast of Florida when our boy was stabbed. And her boyfriend was with her.”

Ginsberg shrugged. “Let’s call Palm Beach Gardens P.D. and have her arrested anyway. Hell, it’s always the ex. She hired somebody and booked a cruise to cover her butt. Brilliant! Could be a Columbo episode.”

“Sure. And even though it loses her some dough, she still did it. A gal of principle.”

“And what about that cash?” Ginsberg asked. “The money the ex told us Cornwal stashed around the house when they were married?”

During the detective’s telephone interview with the former Mrs. Cornwal, she had, with a touch of some bitterness, told them of her husband’s old practice. Dealing in what was primarily a cash operation, he would often come home with a shoe-box full of bills and hide it, thousands of undeclared dollars, in various places around the house.

“You know, on a closet shelf, in the garage, literally under the mattress,” she had said. “Ben and that shyster brother of his managed to base my alimony payment only on Ben’s reported income. They convinced my lawyer that if I raised a squawk, any tax-evasion issues would impact me as well. So — even though I was completely innocent of any such thing, I decided it best to back off.” After a moment, she continued, “Did you find large sums of cash in his apartment? Tens of thousands? If not, there’s your motive, gentlemen. Robbery. Unless, of course, the first officers on the scene had sticky fingers... I’ve heard that does occur from time to time.”

Ginsberg interjected lightly. “No, ma’am. You’re thinking of firefighters, not cops.”

Now Rizzo pondered it. “We need to go back to that apartment and take another look. If he was still in the habit of stashing cash, maybe he got a little more creative. A concealed safe, something like that.”

“Yeah, Joe. Or a secret panel in the bookcase. We can play Hardy Boys!”

“Yeah, well, stuff does happen, Mark.”

Angela Paulson approached. She dropped into the straight-backed wooden chair beside Joe’s desk, angling it to address both detectives and dropping her photocopied notes onto Rizzo’s desk.

“So, here’s the neighbor roundup. This Cornwal guy was like the local Hugh Hefner, banging blondes the way Desi Arnaz banged congas. Seems like women all loved him and men all wanted to be him.” She smiled coyly at Ginsberg, then Rizzo. “You know — like you two wanna be James Bond. Like that.”

Rizzo grunted. “Anything relevant here, Detective Paulson?”

“Actually, no. Nobody seen nothin’, boss. Might as well have been a Mafia hit on Bath Avenue instead of a high-class homicide in that palace by the bay.”

“Anybody you figure we need to talk to?” Rizzo asked.

“Just a long shot. The only other tenants on that floor are two old gals. One lives across the hall, the other next door. One is, like, eighty, the other mid seventies and some character. She told me she used to be a gun moll. Last time I heard that term was when I was a kid watching reruns of The Untouchables. This guy Cornwal was so smooth he even got two old ladies giggling into their Polident. They cooked for him, baked cakes, whatever. In return, he’d stop in and share a cup of coffee with them. But get this: never all three together. Just one old dame at a time. He even bought them separate dinners now and then in that upscale joint on Eighty-Sixth and Fifteenth, the one with the opera-singing waiters.”

“Please, Angie,” Ginsberg said. “Please tell me it was platonic. I’m beggin’ ya, sweetheart.”

Paulson raised her right hand in pledge. “Clean as a whistle. Auntie stuff. But I’m convinced it got the old gals wishing they were a few decades younger. Especially the gun moll.”

“You figure it’s worth interviews?” Rizzo asked.

She shrugged. “I just did a prelim, got the lay of the land. If anybody in that building knew Cornwal’s habits, comings and goings and such, it was these two. I’d say — yeah, it’s worth a trip over there. You should start with Rita, the gun moll.”

Rizzo’s desk phone rang. “Rizzo, Sixty-two Squad,” he said absently into it. A slow smile began to spread on his face. “Well, well,” he said. “Thanks, Ramon. If this pans out, I owe you a beer.” He hung up.

“What?” Ginsberg asked.

“Ramon, from Crime Scene. They got a hit. He’s faxing it over now. Prints on the granite counter in the vicinity of that knife block near the refrigerator. An ex-con named Maury Schuller, did nine years on Assault One, made parole and successfully served it out. He’s free as a bird now. Lives out in Canarsie.”

“Rap sheet?” Ginsberg asked.

“Dating back to age eighteen.”

Ginsberg nodded. “Career skell. Bingo. We can skip the old-lady fest.”

Rizzo stood, glancing to the whirling fax machine, watching it pump out paper.

“Yes. Yes we can,” he said.

The late-afternoon sun greeted them as they stepped out from the black Ford. Rizzo eyed the neat, attached, three-story brick home as he unbuttoned his outer coat. Reaching to the holstered Colt strapped to his belt, he broke open the safety strap with a deft, practiced thumb stroke. Ginsberg, standing at Rizzo’s right, mirrored the movements. They moved forward to the basement-apartment door, and Rizzo gave a hard knock.

As the door swung open, they faced Maury Schuller. According to his former parole officer, Schuller was fifty-one, single, and gainfully employed. He had completed his parole without incident and was seemingly reintegrated into society. The parole officer thought it unlikely Schuller had killed anyone.

Rizzo displayed his gold shield and identification card from its worn leather casing. He noted Schuller’s six-foot, solid frame, the pale, weathered face.

“Hello, Maury,” he said with a smile, his peripheral vision scanning the man, watching his hands. “Got a few minutes?”

Schuller sighed sadly, stepping aside and opening the door wider. “Sure,” he said in a somber tone. “I figured you guys would get here sooner or later. I shoulda just called my ex-P.O. How’d you turn me up so quick?”

“Let’s talk inside, Maury. I’m Rizzo, this is Ginsberg.”

“Come on in,” Schuller said, gesturing with resignation.

They sat in the small living room, Rizzo and Ginsberg on beaten upholstered chairs, Schuller on a newer leather couch.

“So,” Rizzo began. “Why’d you figure we’d show and maybe you needed to call your former parole officer before we got here?”

Schuller leaned forward, forearms braced on his legs, grey eyes boring into Rizzo’s. “Two reasons. One: I read the papers. Two: I’m an ex-con.”

Rizzo held the man’s gaze. “Clarify,” he said.

“That guy, that guy Cornwal. The one got murdered, the playboy all the papers been talking about and cashin’ in on. I sorta knew the guy. I been up to his place a coupla times, maybe three altogether. But not for the last two, three weeks. You can check my work orders.”

“Clarify,” Rizzo repeated.

“Somebody musta saw me there a time or two or you lifted an old print, whatever, so naturally you figure I did it. But you musta checked me out, talked to my old P.O. I got a job. You know where, right?”

“Prestige Repair Services,” Ginsberg said.

Schuller nodded. “Exactly right. Today’s my day off. I been there five years, ever since I got out of the joint. I repair high-end appliances, and Mr. Cornwal had some expensive stuff. His refrigerator? Nine thousand, two hundred, retail price. And — it’s an average piece of equipment, breaks down same as a basic Westinghouse. I’ve repaired it maybe two-three times. Warranty work. We got the Sub-Zero authorized service contract for half a Brooklyn. Check it out if you don’t believe me.”

“Yeah. We will... and the day Cornwal got wasted? Where were you that morning? Say between seven and ten?”

“Right here. With my girlfriend. She spent the night, left maybe nine or so. I got dressed, went to work. I was on eleven a.m. to eight p.m., my usual shift. With these high-end buyers, you need to provide round-the-clock coverage. Evening and weekend service. They all got careers and whatever.”

“And this girlfriend. She’ll vouch?”

“Yeah. Call her, call her right now so’s later you don’t say I got to her first. Go on — I’ll dial her number, you speak to her.”

Rizzo smiled. “Hey, Maury, this isn’t our first rodeo. If you needed to set an alibi, you already did.”

Schuller sat back heavily in his seat, his face clouded with resignation. “Right. Ex-con. Lay it on him.” He sighed. “Check me out, guys. That’s all I’m askin’. A fair shake. I been bustin’ my ass for five years and I’d do anything to stay outta that state pen. All I’m askin’ you — check me out.”

Rizzo pondered it then glanced to Ginsberg, knowing what his partner was thinking: If Schuller had appeared at Cornwal’s door, he would have been a familiar face. Cornwal would certainly have allowed him in.

Ginsberg, a slight frown touching his lips, spoke. “So what’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Carla. Carla Alksnis.”

After a moment, Rizzo conceded. “Okay, Maury... Get Carla on the line.”

Two days later, Rizzo and Ginsberg sat before the cluttered desk of the Detective Squad commander, Lieutenant Vince D’Antonio. His deep blue eyes, normally cold, now appeared to be balls of solid ice. He was not happy.

“The news media is running wild with this ‘Brooklyn playboy murdered’ crap, and I’m gettin’ phone calls from the Plaza every friggin’ day. You need to put this to bed.”

“Relax, Vince,” Rizzo said casually. “Any day now some senator will get caught bangin’ his sister-in-law inside the Lincoln Memorial, and all the reporters will scurry under that rock.”

D’Antonio eyed him. “Let’s hope. But — for now — run this down for me. I’ve read the DD-fives. I want the finer points.”

“We figure the brother, ex-wife, current girlfriend, and relatives in Rhode Island are clear on this,” Rizzo said.

“Based on the squad interviews, alibis, and background stuff?”

“Yeah.”

D’Antonio nodded. “I agree. What about the ex-con?”

Ginsberg spoke. “Not sure, but he may be clear too. Alibied by his girlfriend, not the best witness, okay, but... he seemed legit to us.”

“What about her — what’s her name? Carla something. She legit too?”

“Best as we could tell over the phone.”

D’Antonio’s eyes flared. “The phone? What’re you guys, census takers? You never sized her face to face?”

“Not yet, Vince. We will,” Rizzo said. “First we have two neighbors to see.”

“The women Angie Paulson flagged?”

“Yeah. This isn’t our only open case, Vince,” Rizzo said forcefully. “I know you’re gettin’ phone calls, but—”

“Save it, Joe. You want a light work load, get a job at the library. You wanna be a lead detective on my squad, you do this job right. Go see the old ladies. And that con’s girlfriend. Today.”

Rita Sora was seventy-four years old but appeared closer to fifty. Her grey hair had a rich sheen and was obviously professionally tended. Despite it being only midmorning, Rizzo and Ginsberg found her dressed in a gold velour pantsuit, jewelry sparkling on her fingers and wrists, eyes made up. Rizzo felt as though he had stepped into a time warp of at least a few decades. He smiled from his seat in her somewhat garishly but expensively furnished living room.

“Nice place, Ms. Sora,” he said.

“Forget the Miz, honey, I’m old school. I’m a miss and damn happy about it. Call me Rita. I’ll call you two bulls Joe and Mark, and if you got any problem with that, you can get the hell outta my house.” She smiled sweetly. “But — I gotta say, I’d rather you stay. You guys ain’t bad looking. For cops, that is.”

“Okay, Rita,” Rizzo said, a slight chuckle in his tone. “Deal. Now, you know why we stopped by?”

“Sure. Lookin’ for whoever whacked poor Ben.” She shook her head. “Hell of a thing in a fancy joint like this.” She sighed. “Sometimes I think I’m a jinx.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Look, guys, I’ll be straight. How you figure a dame like me can cover the nut in this place? You ever hear of Tommy Pitangelo? Tommy Pits they called him.”

“Sure. Back-in-the-day Gambino crew. Ran the docks for the old man.”

“Yep, that was Tommy. Me and him, we were a longtime item. He never married, you know, and he held onto a nickel like it was a life jacket and he was on the Andrea Doria. When he died, he found out it was true: You can’t take it with you. So — I took it with me. Between that pile and my Social Security, I live high. Always did. I was arm candy to a bunch of the boys.”

“And the jinx part?” Ginsberg asked.

Rita gave a dry laugh. “Every hood I bedded wound up dead. Shot. Blown up. Throat cut, whatever. And now — this poor schmuck Ben Cornwal takes me out to dinner a time or two, and somebody carves him up.” She shook her head sadly. “A jinx.”

“About that,” Rizzo said. “What exactly was the relationship there?”

“Benny liked to hear my stories from the old days. In return, he kept me company now and then. Had respect, he did.” She smiled broadly. “And I know how cops think, so you can knock it off — I’m too old for men. Especially Benny. He was quite a hound. I’da met him forty years ago, it woulda been different. Good-looking guy. Had plenty of money, and he liked to spend it.” She shrugged. “That covers mostly everything I ever needed in a man.”

“Can you point us at anybody who maybe had it in for him?”

“Nope. We didn’t talk much about him, more about me.” Rita smiled again. “Another trait I like in a man.”

“His ex-wife told us he maybe stashed cash around his place. Unreported stuff from his businesses. He ever mention that?”

“Sure. See — I’d tell him about Tommy Pits or my other steady, Tony Temper — that was Tony Santorino, a real hothead lunatic — ever hear of him?”

“Sure.”

She nodded. “He’s dead too. They blew him up in his Caddy forty years ago. See — jinx.”

“About the money.”

“Yeah, well, Ben told me about it. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was forty, fifty Gs. See, he used it as spending money. Paid cash for everything. And he always liked a fat roll in his pocket, like the old mob guys.” She shrugged. “He was a wannabe, maybe. Probably why he liked me. I knew the real stories.”

“Did you ever mention that cash to anybody?”

“Naw. Benny made me swear not to. Wasn’t the first secret I ever had ta keep, you can imagine, right?” She paused for a moment. “But now that I think about it, I did tell Karen.”

“Karen?” Rizzo asked. “Who Karen?”

“The other old bat in Benny’s life, Karen Vanags. She lives across the hall. See, Ben and me, we had our thing — I’d tell him mob stories, he’d stop in now and then to watch a ball game, keep me company, take me out for dinner sometimes. Karen — well, she figured Benny was just nuts about her — she’d bake him cookies, sew his buttons, cook that crappy Latvian food they’d eat, stinkin’ up the whole hallway. So — I told her about the dough. Just to sort of let her know who Benny really trusted.”

Rita gave a wide, happy smile, looking first to Ginsberg, then to Rizzo. “See, Joe? I may be old, but I’m still a mean little bitch.” She laughed. “It’s in my blood, I guess.” After a pause, she stood. “Hey, you guys want a drink? I got some kick-ass bourbon I just treated myself to.”

Eighty-one-year-old Karen Vanags sat daintily on a piano bench, back to the keys and facing the two seated detectives.

“Such a shame,” she said, tears pooling in her clear green eyes. “Ben was a lovely, lovely man.”

“So we’re learning,” Rizzo said gently. “We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Vanags. We know you and Mr. Cornwal were close.”

“Yes. I told the nice lady detective about that. He was like a nephew to me.” The sadness in her face deepened. “More like... like a son, actually. I never... I never had children of my own.”

“Did he ever say anything to you about a problem he was having? Maybe someone had it in for him?”

“No, never. Everyone liked Ben. Everyone.”

“We understand he was a bit of a ladies’ man. We thought maybe there was a woman — a married woman or one with a steady boyfriend. And maybe Ben got himself involved, and this other man—”

She shook her head. “I knew all about his girlfriends over the years. He wasn’t some lothario, Detective. Ben was a one-woman man. One at a time, anyway. And none of them were married. I would have known. As I’ve said, he was like a son to me.”

“We have reason to believe that he kept large amounts of cash in his place,” Rizzo went on, “And according to Ms. Sora—”

“Oh,” Vanags said, rolling her eyes. “That one.”

“Yes, well, Ms. Sora said she told you about it. The money, I mean. Do you remember that?”

Vanags thought a moment. “Yes. Yes, I do. But you really can’t believe everything that woman says; she’s full of tales. Ben and I would laugh about her from time to time.”

“But it’s true — she did tell you about the money?”

“Yes. I believe so. But I never mentioned it to Ben. It would have embarrassed him. He was really a very genteel person.”

“Did you ever mention the money to anyone else?”

She thought awhile, then answered. “No. That wouldn’t be wise, would it? To let strangers know about cash in a person’s home? No, I’d never tell that to anyone.”

“You’re sure about that, ma’am?” Rizzo prodded gently.

“Oh yes, Detective, quite sure. The only person I ever told was my niece, Carla.”

Rizzo and Ginsberg exchanged glances. Carla. They read the “BINGO” in one another’s eyes.

“So, Maryann, you’re positive? You can absolutely state you were in Mr. Cornwal’s apartment the evening before he was murdered?” Rizzo asked.

The young woman nodded. “Yes. You can check at the My Housemaid office on Cropsey Avenue. They’ll have my recorder sheets with all the job orders listed: times, dates, location, time spent at each job, everything.”

Ginsberg addressed the young housecleaner. “And you definitely washed down the countertop on that particular visit?”

“Of course. It’s right next to the refrigerator by the knife box, and it’s a work area. It gets messy. I washed it with Top Job, then rubbed it down with granite cleanser-polisher. Mr. Cornwal paid extra for that treatment. He liked the granite to sparkle.”

Rizzo looked down to the Prestige Appliance repair order in his hand. The last time Maury Schuller had serviced Cornwal’s appliance was fifteen days prior to the murder.

“Maryann, is there any way,” Rizzo asked, “fingerprints could have survived on that countertop for fifteen days?”

The girl grimaced. “No way. I cleaned that apartment three times these last two weeks. I don’t know anything about criminal stuff, but I know plenty about fingerprint marks. Everybody has these stainless-steel appliances and fancy counters. There are fingerprints on everything. And if I miss just one little spot, I hear about it from some rich creep. It’s like I was guilty of a crime or something. No siree. That counter was cleaned and polished to a T when I left Mr. Cornwal’s place.” She crossed her arms against her chest and gave a curt nod. “Guaranteed.”

Rizzo and Ginsberg, along with Assistant District Attorney Juanita Smalls, sat opposite Vince D’Antonio in his office.

“Okay, guys,” Smalls said. “Let’s organize it. Run it down, Joe.”

Rizzo flipped open his notepad, scanned it, then spoke. “Maury Schuller was known to the vic in his capacity as repairman. Schuller knew Cornwal’s general work schedule from prior dealings; we can figure he knew when he’d find Cornwal at home.”

“Why would he want him at home? Why not break in when the place was empty and just grab the cash?” Smalls asked.

“Neither female neighbor knew exactly where the cash was. Coulda been in a safe, a secret compartment in a wall, whatever. Schuller needed Cornwal present to tell him where it was and, if necessary, unlock a safe. Plus, he knows from his girlfriend, Carla, old lady Vanags’s niece, that those two women always kept an eye out for Cornwal. Schuller couldn’t afford to be out in that hall picking locks for any length of time.”

“So Schuller went in with the intention of killing Cornwal?”

“Had to. Cornwal could identify him — and Schuller told us he’d do anything to avoid going back to prison.” Rizzo shrugged. “And he meant it.”

“Okay. Go on, Joe.”

“So, Schuller makes some pretense, a follow-up check on the refrigerator service call, whatever, and Cornwal lets him in. Schuller appears to move toward the refrigerator, but instead heads for those knives he knows are there. He’s not wearing gloves and inadvertently leaves some prints. With the info from the maid, we know those prints had to be placed there between seven p.m., when she left the night before, and the time we arrived at the scene, ten a.m. Maybe the knife was lying on the counter-top and when Schuller picked it up, he touched that polished granite. Schuller’s a big guy, intimidating. Armed with that knife, he forced Cornwal to get the money and then killed him.”

“And you figure he had the skill set to pick that rear service-door lock?” Smalls asked.

“The guy’s a career criminal, did a long stretch of state time. That’s like graduate work at Felony University. The service door was wiped down; no prints. Schuller knew if he left any there, he wouldn’t be able to explain them away. He got careless in the apartment because he had legit prior presence to explain any forensics. Just for the hell of it, we can check with Attica and get a list of his cellmates. I say we hit on some really talented B and E men.”

“Go on.”

“We have a clear path to Schuller through Carla Alksnis. Her aunt admitted mentioning the cash to Carla. Carla tells her boyfriend Maury, and his eyes light up. ‘I know that guy,’ he woulda said, ‘I can waltz myself right into his place.’ ”

“What else?”

“We did a little checking into Carla when she first alibied Maury. She’s not Bonnie Parker, but she’s no virgin either. Between the two of them, they have about fifteen hundred bucks in banks. We get warrants and search their apartments, guaranteed we find stacks of cash — small, beat-up bills. Let them explain that.”

“Plus,” Ginsberg said, “when we spoke to Schuller, he was wearing a wrist watch and two rings. You stab somebody twelve times in the chest, you get bloodied. Maybe he was smart enough to toss the clothes he wore, but the jewelry? We seize that and the lab guys will pull Cornwal’s trace blood off it. You know it’s impossible to get rid of every residue of blood.”

Smalls sat back in her seat, considering it. “Sounds like we have some big ‘ifs’ here, guys.”

Ginsberg shrugged. “You want slam dunk, tune in to NCIS. I think it’s on tonight.”

Smalls gave a laugh. “Yeah. Okay.” She thought for a moment. “We can come at it from Carla. Lean hard on her, Murder Two, twenty-five to life, et cetera. Then let her lawyer start suggesting alternatives.”

“Works for me,” Rizzo said. “She pulls Schuller’s alibi, he’s toast.”

“Okay, then,” D’Antonio said. “We pick them both up separately, let them get a quick glimpse of each other in the precinct, then hustle them off to different rooms. See who starts pointing fingers first.”

“What about Karen Vanags, Joe? You think she was in on this for a taste?” Smalls asked.

“No. There’s absolutely no basis to suspect her. We checked; she’s very well-off. She’s educated and refined. I’m thinking, if Schuller and his mutt girlfriend hadn’t hit Cornwal, they might have targeted Auntie Vanags sometime in the future.”

“Probably would have gotten around to her regardless,” Ginsberg said.

“Okay,” D’Antonio said. “Joe, Mark, I know I leaned on you to get this done. I appreciate your efforts, so here’s the payoff: You can pick up the female. I’ll send Nick and Mo and some uniforms to collar the gorilla, keep you two out of harm’s way.”

“Gee, Vince, that’s very generous of you,” Rizzo said sarcastically.

D’Antonio smiled. “Let me finish. I’m also sending Angie down to the courthouse to swear out search warrants. While she’s working, you guys grab some coffee and donuts.” His smile broadened. “My treat.”

Three days later, Rizzo sat in the plush easy chair opposite where Rita Sora perched demurely on her sofa. They sipped bourbon.

“So, Rita, here’s the deal,” Rizzo said. “Me and Mark owe you big time. You tipped us to the fact Cornwal’s cash was out on the grapevine, and that led us to Mrs. Vanags’s niece, Carla. They found Cornwal’s cash in her apartment. Forty-two grand in small bills.”

“And she gave up her boyfriend?” Rita shook her head sadly. “Never woulda happened in my day. Molls knew how to dummy up back then.”

“Yeah, well, whatever,” Rizzo said, smiling. He sipped at his bourbon. “Thing is, though, without you, we maybe could have missed this. We were leanin’ to cutting Schuller some slack. He seemed legit. He even had his parole officer bamboozled, and those guys wouldn’t believe it if the pope claimed to be Catholic. Plus, I should have immediately realized any bachelor apartment that clean had a working maid.”

Rita furrowed her brow. “You don’t figure I got Benny whacked, do you? ’Cause I told Karen about that dough?”

“No. Not at all. He’d have gotten around to telling her himself eventually.”

She considered it. “Maybe. But — like I told you before, I’m kind of a jinx.”

Rizzo waved a hand in dismissal. “Forget that.” He shifted in his seat and dug a thick wad of tissue from his pocket. “I got something here for you. See, I shoulda made this case without your help. We’re supposed to be good at this. Me and Mark led the borough in cleared cases last year.”

Rita gave a derisive snort and reached out for the bourbon bottle. Rizzo waved off her offer and watched as she refilled her own glass.

“So what?” she said. “How hard could that have been? Most bulls I knew couldn’t find their twin brother if they were both still in the womb, so that’s who you two were competing against.”

“I should’ve seen it, Rita. This is Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Ninety percent Italian. And here we are working a case with a vic named Cornwal and two involved women with Latvian surnames. What were the odds of that? We shoulda made the connection — Karen Vanags, next-door neighbor, Carla Alksnis, suspect’s alibi.” Rizzo shook his head. “Shoulda seen that right away.”

Rita waved a hand. “Whatever. What’s important now is that gift you got there.” Her eyes twinkled. “Every piece of hot jewelry I was ever presented with came wrapped just like that in your hand — tissue paper.”

Rizzo laughed. “No. Not jewelry.” He leaned forward and placed the wad in her outstretched hand.

“What the hell is this?” she asked after unwrapping it. “A Saint Christopher medal?”

“Not just any medal, Rita. See, my grandfather was a detective. Retired as chief of detectives, matter of fact.”

“Well,” Rita said, a sly smirk on her lips. “That explains you gettin’ your gold shield. No wonder you needed my help on Benny’s murder.”

“Yeah. But — that medal? See, my grandfather had a thing he’d do. Any infamous case he worked, he’d grab a souvenir. Kept them in an old hatbox in his closet. After he retired, he gave it to me, with an explanation of each item.”

“And this?” Rita asked, turning the medal over slowly in her hands, examining it. “What’s this, Jimmy Hoffa’s personal medal?”

“Nope. Tony ‘Temper’ Santorino’s, your old boyfriend. My grandfather found that medal pinned to a piece of Tony’s Cadillac dashboard, forty feet away, right where it landed after they blew Tony up.”

After a moment, Rita’s face broke into a wide, happy grin. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said. “I remember seeing it on that dash. Just to the left of the radio, it was.”

“My way of thanking you for making this case, Rita.”

She nodded, then, without first asking, reached out and poured Rizzo another belt of bourbon.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m gonna enjoy looking at this. Tony was a crazy S.O.B., but we did have us some laughs.”

She sipped more bourbon before speaking again. “Joe, any time you feel like swinging by and watchin’ a ball game, feel free.” She squinted at him. “But this is a Yankee house, Joe, and I gotta say, you look a little like a Mets fan to me...”