Rizzo’s Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Saturday morning, Rizzo sped the Impala along the Gowanus Expressway, once again heading for Manhattan. Priscilla Jackson sat in the front passenger seat, Detective Lieutenant Vince D’Antonio in the rear behind her.

“You have the warrants?” he asked Rizzo.

Rizzo sighed. “Yeah, boss, for the third time, I have the warrants. Relax, okay?”

D’Antonio shook his head. “Yeah, relax,” he muttered. “Easy for you to say. Tomorrow, you and Jackson are the stars of the city, media darlings of the week. But I get Plaza brass chasin’ after my ass with giant hard-ons in their hands.”

Priscilla chuckled. “Don’t you just hate when that happens?” she said sweetly.

D’Antonio glowered at her profile. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Just what I need. A female version of Rizzo to deal with.”

“You won’t have to deal with her for long, boss,” Rizzo said. “Next stop for Cil is Major Case, Brooklyn homicide, Manhattan South, wherever she wants to go. And me, I’m outta here in about nine months.”

D’Antonio shook his head. “Nine fuckin’ months,” he grumbled. “Like a goddamned pregnancy.”

After a moment, D’Antonio spoke once again, his tone now conversational. “I gotta admit, though, Joe, runnin’ Cappelli past Kessler and Lombardi, that was pure genius. Did you see their faces when he quoted tomorrow’s headlines? ‘Brooklyn Cops Crack Mallard Murder’?”

Rizzo shrugged. “Wasn’t me, boss. Somebody down at the courthouse must have tipped Cappelli, remember?” He turned slightly to Priscilla. “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you, Cil?”

“Innocent as you are, Partner,” she answered. “I never even heard of Cappelli till he walked into Vince’s office.”

“Well, what ever,” Rizzo said, then addressed D’Antonio. “Like I told you yesterday, these personal accusations, suspicions, where’s it all get ya? No place. Let’s just go get this prick Bradley. That’s our main goal here.”

D’Antonio laughed. “Yeah, Joe,” he said. “Spoken like the true public servant you are.”

Rizzo met D’Antonio’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “What ever you say, boss,” he said.

Thomas Ross Bradley sat impassively on his sofa, his gray eyes cold. His wife, pale and fidgeting, sat beside him, a bewildered, frightened look on her face. Lieutenant Lombardi led a team of Manhattan South detectives through the sprawling Midtown apartment. The warrant Rizzo had served on the Bradleys authorized a search of the apartment in any area reasonably expected to contain articles of clothing. It also authorized the examination and seizure of any inner or outer garment reasonably resembling a blue or partially blue article of men’s clothing, as well as any and all pairs of gloves found in the home.

Rizzo, with Jackson at his side, stood before the Bradleys, a tight smile on his face.

“You finished readin’ that arrest warrant yet, Bradley?” he asked.

The man raised hostile eyes to Rizzo. “Yes,” he said. “And once again, I demand my attorney.”

Rizzo shrugged. “You called your attorney. He’s on his way. In the meantime, I’m placing you under arrest for the murders of Robert Lauria and Avery Mallard. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during all questioning…”

When he finished the Miranda warning, Rizzo took the arrest warrant back from Bradley and smiled down at him.

“There, now all the little technicalities of our shallow American culture have been taken care of.” He turned, leaving Bradley under guard of two uniformed officers from the host Manhattan North Precinct.

“Does that make you feel better, Mr. Bradley?” Rizzo asked, as he moved away.

Priscilla Jackson sat in the Six-Two interview room with Thomas Bradley and his attorney. She carefully completed Bradley’s pedigree for the preliminary paperwork on the Lauria homicide. She would later transport the suspect to Brooklyn Central Booking to complete the process. From there, Rizzo and Lombardi would transport Bradley to Manhattan Central Booking and prepare the Mallard paperwork. Bradley would presumably be arraigned on Sunday in each borough, and, as was customary in murder cases, be initially remanded to the Department of Corrections without bail.

At the same time, Rizzo sat in D’Antonio’s office, smoking a cigarette in defiance of the New York City ban currently in force for all public buildings. Lombardi sat to his right.

“Well, let’s hope the coat we found is a match,” Lombardi said. “That’ll be the last nail in this guy’s coffin.”

“Be nice if they get Lauria or Mallard’s trace blood off a pair of those gloves, too,” D’Antonio said.

“Let’s not get greedy, Vince,” said Rizzo. “Blood or no blood, this guy is so busted, the Queen’s teeth must be fallin’ out.”

“Yeah,” D’Antonio said, chuckling. “I bet.”

Lombardi cleared his throat. “I wanna go off the record, guys,” he said.

D’Antonio shrugged. “Okay.”

“Sure,” Rizzo agreed.

Lombardi again cleared his throat. “Just so you know, you ain’t fooling anybody here, Joe. We know what you did. Almost from day one you ran your Lauria case to get to the Mallard case-for the perks that collar would bring. You kept Manhattan South in the dark and deliberately withheld evidence from us.”

Rizzo opened his mouth to protest, but Lombardi held up a silencing hand. “Easy, guy, take it easy. We’re off the record here, remember?”

Rizzo thought a moment. “So what’s your point?”

Lombardi responded. “My point is you broke every fuckin’ rule you came across. Includin’ doing DeMaris’s attorney’s work, creating her escape route on felony murder charges with that half-assed statement you wrote. All so you could nail Bradley, Joe. You gambled big, and I guess you won big, but I want you to know, you ain’t fooling anybody. I don’t care what Cappelli says, his ‘confidential’ source at the court house is sittin’ right here next to me.”

“Off the record or on, I deny that,” Rizzo said with a shrug.

“Good for you,” Lombardi answered. “But what ever, that angle covered your ass. Nobody at the Plaza will buck a crusading reporter who’s backing your play. It’s better to just eat shit and smile, so that’s what’ll happen.”

“I’m still waitin’. What’s your point?” Rizzo repeated.

Lombardi’s tone softened. “Well, my point is-and we’re still off the record-I do appreciate what you did on the bottom line. The phone call to me, I mean. I know you’ve got the balls to end-run us completely, so you tipping us to the situation, even at the risk of getting cut out yourself, that was righteous. And I appreciate it. We appreciate it. Far as John Q. Public is concerned, the Mallard arrest was a team effort with you and Jackson as the MVPs. We can live with that.” He paused. “What else can we do?”

Rizzo shifted in his seat and waved a casual hand at Lombardi.

“No big deal, Dom,” he said. Then with a wink, added, “I kinda had a feeling I wasn’t gettin’ cut out of anything. Sort of a gut feelin’.”

Lombardi laughed. “Yeah, I figured. Nothin’ like those gut feelings, eh, Joe?”

Vince D’Antonio leaned forward on his desk. “I hate to break up this little circle-jerk you guys got goin’ here, but how ’bout doin’ me a fuckin’ favor?”

Lombardi raised his eyebrows in question. “And what might that be?”

“Well, Dom, how ’bout taking this pain in the ass off my hands before he gets me jammed up beyond repair?”

D’Antonio’s eyes moved from Lombardi to Rizzo and back again.

“How ’bout lettin’ Joe do his last nine months breaking your balls over at Manhattan South?”