Rizzo’s Fire

CHAPTER TWO

That evening, Priscilla Jackson gazed across the table into the happy, animated face of Karen Krauss. Karen raised her glass of Chardonnay.

“To your promotion,” she said. “We never really celebrated. Let’s do it now.”

Priscilla reached out, clinking her vodka gently to Karen’s glass of wine.

“As my new partner would say,” Priscilla said, “ salud.”

The restaurant, on Third Avenue in Manhattan, stood just two blocks from their newly rented brownstone apartment on East Thirty-ninth Street. Its main room was softly illuminated beneath a deco style ceiling, a massive oval wooden bar dominating the center of the dining area. Discreet servers hurried to and fro as the restaurant began to fill. It was the start of the long Columbus Day weekend.

Priscilla looked around. “Nice place,” she said. “How are the prices?”

“Not bad, considering the location and style. Not to mention the food, which is terrific.”

Priscilla sipped at her drink. “Sounds good,” she said. “We should make it an early night, though. I’m off till Monday. Tomorrow we can pick up paint and rollers and stuff and get started painting the apartment. Hell, it’s only four small rooms; by Sunday night we can have it mostly done.”

Karen’s smile broadened. “Well, we’ll have to talk about that. But first, tell me about your day. How’d it go? Anything exciting?”

“Yeah,” Priscilla said. “Lots. I took a tour of the precinct, met the squad boss. They call the guy ‘The Swede,’ and believe me, he’s even whiter than you are. Then I got hit on by some asshole lover-boy first grade named Rossi. Had to straighten him out. Word should get around the house pretty fast that I’m one of those.”

Karen chuckled. “You know, Cil, there is something to be said for subtlety.”

“Yeah, right. Maybe at your law firm, with all the good little boys from Hah-vaard. But not at the Six-Two. I got the message across the way I had to. Like a brick through a plate-glass window.”

Karen beckoned for a server. “Let’s order,” she said. “I’m starved.”

When the waiter had left them, Priscilla continued. “The rest of the tour, Joe and I went over his caseload. He brought me up to speed. On Monday, in Bensonhurst, most people will be off from work. They take Columbus Day very seriously there. He says it’ll be a good day to work the cases.”

As they ate their first course of soup, Priscilla asked, “So what’s up? You said we have to talk about the painting.”

Karen’s face brightened. “Well, I had lunch with my mom today. She’s arranged for her decorator to come by our place tomorrow. He’ll bounce some ideas off us and then he’ll arrange everything: painting, papering, carpets, tile-whatever. And it’s all on Mom and Dad. A gift to celebrate our moving in together.”

Priscilla paused mid-motion, lowering her spoon into the cup before her. “Are you kidding?” she said, her voice flat. “We’ve talked about this. I may not be in the Krauss family income bracket, but I’m not a freakin’ beggar.”

Karen frowned. “It isn’t charity, it’s a gift, a gesture, from two very supportive and caring people. They think of you like a daughter, Cil, they love you. You know how it is for people in the life, not to mention interracial. Name someone you know with folks as cool as mine.”

Priscilla sat back in her chair, sipping her vodka. She thought of her own mother, a troubled, alcoholic wreck of a woman who, upon learning her youngest daughter was gay, had nearly assaulted and then banished Priscilla from her life. They had not seen or spoken to one another since.

She smiled sadly and raised her hands, palms outward. “Okay,” she said. “They are righteous. Who knows? Since they’re cool with the gay thing, and cool with the black thing, maybe your mother can even get cool with the cop thing.”

Karen reached for her wineglass. “And the decorator?” she asked.

Priscilla sighed. “Okay. We’ll listen to what the little fag has to say.”

Karen smiled and sipped her wine. “Good. That’s settled.” She leaned back over the table and added, “And don’t say ‘fag.’ ”

On Monday afternoon, Columbus Day, traffic heading into Brooklyn was light. Priscilla arrived at the Six-Two twenty minutes early to start the night tour with Rizzo. She signed in, nodded greetings to the half dozen faces she recognized from Friday’s introductions, then sat at her gunmetal gray desk in the corner of the squad room and began to fill out the Precinct Personnel Profile form required of all new transfers. While she carefully listed Karen’s cell and work numbers under the emergency notification section, a shadow fell across the desk’s surface. She raised her eyes to see Rizzo standing there smiling at her, a paper coffee cup in each hand.

“One sugar, splash of milk, right?” he asked.

Priscilla returned the smile and took the offered container. “Yeah, Joe, exactly. Mike never told me you were a mind reader.”

“No mind reader. I saw you mix it at breakfast Friday, that’s all.”

“Well, thanks.”

Rizzo sat on the corner of her desk, sipping his coffee. “Speaking of Mike, this here is his old desk. Probably still smells like that fancy cologne he used.”

“Two years I smelled that,” she said. “Gave me a goddamned headache.”

“Well, you put up with shit for a good partner. Working with him was one of the best years I had on the job. Mike’s a good guy.”

“The best,” Priscilla replied with a nod. “And we should get along okay, having Mike in common and all.”

Rizzo shrugged and drank coffee. “Let’s hope,” he said. “He’s a good-looking son of a bitch, too, so at least you still got that. With me, I mean.”

“Not quite, Joe, not exactly,” she said.

Rizzo feigned shock. “What?” he said. “My wife says I’m fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Priscilla turned back to her paperwork. “Yeah, well, straight women are like that. They’ve got to be a little delusional. Keeps ’em sane.”

Rizzo stood. “Don’t feel you gotta hold back… you just speak freely, you hear?”

“No problem, Partner. That’s my style.”

He turned to move away. “Give me a holler when you’re ready. I’d like to get out on the street. We need to get to work on our cases. Especially that asshole over near New Utrecht High who’s been wavin’ his dick at schoolgirls down by the train entrance. I got a lead on ’im and we need to talk to some of the victims. I’ll be at my desk.”

“Okay, I only need a few minutes more.”

“Take your time,” he said, crossing the cramped squad room to his own cluttered desk near the window.

Three men sat in a rear booth of Vinny’s, a small corner pizzeria in Bensonhurst. All in their mid-twenties, they had spent the last few hours of Columbus Day drinking beer and shooting pool at the Park Ridge Bar and Grill, three blocks south of the pizzeria. Now, slightly intoxicated and hungry, they talked and laughed loudly as they devoured a thick-crusted Sicilian pie.

The street beyond the plate-glass window in front was dark. A cold October wind was blowing, the streets of the working-class neighborhood dark and deserted.

At ten minutes to nine, one of the group, Gary Tucci, slid out from the booth and rose to his feet.

“I gotta get going,” he said. “I got to be in at six tomorrow. Take it easy, guys, I’ll see you.”

Tucci’s two companions waved him good night, and he turned to leave. Walking along the narrow pathway between the ser vice counter and a row of booths to his right, Tucci stumbled. Looking down, he realized he had tripped over the extended right leg of the pizzeria’s only other patron, a brooding, dark-haired man of about forty.

“Sorry, guy,” Tucci said. “Didn’t see your foot.”

The man’s face darkened. “Maybe you oughta watch where the fuck you’re walkin’, asshole,” he said.

Tucci paused and turned slightly toward the man. “Yeah?” he said. “And maybe you should keep your big feet outta the aisle.”

The man glanced to the rear of the pizzeria, noting Tucci’s companions, now turning in their booth toward the sound of voices.

“You a tough guy, with your two friends backin’ you?” the man said, shifting in his seat, beginning to stand.

“Hey, fellas,” the owner said from behind the counter. “Take it easy, it was just a little accident.”

“Bullshit,” the man in the booth said. “This prick kicked me. He saw my foot there, I don’t see no Seein’ Eye dog leadin’ him outta here. He fuckin’ kicked me.”

Now, with considerable speed, the man cleared the booth and stood up, shoving Tucci hard, forcing him onto the countertop. Tucci, despite his own drinking, caught the odor of alcohol coming from the man. He also saw the blind rage burning in his eyes.

“Yo, chill out, guy,” one of Tucci’s companions said, standing as he spoke.

“Sit down, Coke,” Tucci said. “I can handle this.” He then turned his gaze to the man. “You got a problem here, buddy, come outside and let’s do it,” he said, his voice low and tight.

The man’s face contorted with even greater rage. “Fuckin’ punk,” he said, throwing a looping right round house at Tucci’s head.

Leaning backward, Tucci raised a stiff left forearm to intercept the blow. Then, crouching slightly, he thrust forward, pumping a short, fast right uppercut. His balled fist caught the man squarely on the jaw, driving it upward, teeth smashing together and shattering with the impact. Pinkish, blood-tinged saliva sprayed about his upper lip and right cheek, and his legs buckled. Tucci bulled forward, shouldering the man backward, sprawling him into the bench seat of the booth.

“Stay down, asshole,” Tucci hissed, “or I’ll send you to the fuckin’ hospital.”

Andy Hermann, the second of Tucci’s companions, approached, a broad smile on his face.

“Don’t start shit with a Golden Glover, Jack,” he said to the dazed, bloodied man, using his best Frank Sinatra inflection. Then he turned to Tucci. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. Let’s pick up the paper and go home.”

Tucci, adrenaline pumping, considered it. Then the third young man, nicknamed Coke, grabbed him, pushing him toward the door. “C’mon, Gary,” Coke said. “Walk.”

Reluctantly, Tucci allowed himself to be shoved along. As the three reached the exit, the man in the booth pulled himself upright in his seat, his legs still too shaky to risk standing.

“I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker,” he called. “Kill you!”

Tucci’s face flushed with renewed anger. “Yeah? Well, when you decide to do it, you can find me at Ben’s candy store, over near Seventy-first Street. That’s where I hang out. Come kill me over there. I’ll be waitin’ for you.”

With that, they left. After a moment, the man stood, his face red, blood trickling from his mouth.

Nunzio, the owner of the pizzeria, shrugged from behind the counter. “I tried to warn you, buddy. Nobody fucks with that kid. Nobody.”

The man glared at Nunzio, then turned and reeled out the door, turning right and stumbling around the corner and down Seventieth Street.

The huge, white-faced clock on the pizzeria wall read eight fifty-six.

Ben’s candy store, one block south of Vinny’s, was an illuminated oasis on an otherwise darkened stretch of Thirteenth Avenue. The other stores, depending on their specialties, had either closed early for the traditional Italian-American Columbus Day observance or had been closed the entire day. The streets were empty, with only the occasional passing of a vehicle or a rumbling city bus. Periodically, a car would veer into the bus stop in front of Ben’s and someone would jump out and run in for the late edition of the Daily News, a Daily Racing Form, cigarettes, or a container of milk.

Gary Tucci, Jimmy “Coke” Cocca, and Andy Hermann made their way along the darkened avenue. As they had done since childhood, Coke and Andy shared by association in Tucci’s short, sweet, and devastating victory in a fight he had neither sought nor encouraged. Their youthful invincibility made them oblivious to the chilling wind, their laughter echoing through the concrete and glass, steel and asphalt canyon they knew so well.

It was easy enough, then, for the brooding man to surprise them, when, some brief moments later, they emerged from Ben’s, newspapers in hand, still high on the night’s adventure.

The man leapt from the shadows of the Majestic Gift and Lamp Shop, the storefront to the right of Ben’s, a rifle grasped tightly in his hands.

It was Coke who reacted first. The sight of the angry man sent Coke back in time, back to the darkened, narrow streets of the slums of Baghdad, and back further still to his training days at the Marine base on Parris Island.

Coke sprang forward, grabbing the rifle barrel, twisting it violently downward and to his left.

“Gun!” he shouted, then again, “Gun!”

But it wasn’t a trained, armed, and deadly Marine comrade who responded to his call, it was Gary Tucci, now frightened and confused, and driven not by training and experience but by instinct, terror, and an innate courage. Tucci stepped forward, also to Coke’s left, and reached out for the man.

They were all stunned by the flash. It appeared to come out of nowhere, illuminating the darkened street and turning the scene into a surreal, sharply shadowed false daylight. Then came the sound. A deafening, ear-ringing release of energy and black powder exploding. Then, almost simultaneously, a lesser bang sounded from across the broad avenue as the darkened fluorescent bakery sign shattered under the ricocheting bullet.

The scene froze for an instant before Tucci collapsed, falling to the pavement like a puppet with severed strings. Then, like a resumed video recording, the scene began to play itself out once again.

Startled by the shot, Coke had let his hold on the weapon’s barrel weaken, and the shooter pulled it from his grasp. All three men looked downward to the fallen Tucci. He looked up at them, one to the other, a calm, detached look on his face. Then they followed his dropping gaze.

Tucci’s right foot lay shoeless, his black Nike having been blown from it, landing in the gutter twenty feet away. The dark gray athletic sock he wore was pushed inward into a gaping, black hole rimmed with white froth, where his instep had once been. As they watched, the hole suddenly welled with thick, rich-looking blood. It was the color of dark burgundy wine and pulsated in rhythm with his increasing heartbeat. Then came Tucci’s scream, the gut-wrenching, ear-shattering howl of unbearable agony.

The sound shattered the brief stillness of the scene, once again seemingly freed from its eerie pause mode. The shooter, now trembling and panic-stricken, backed away. Andy Hermann dropped to his knees, reaching out to Tucci, watching the blood overflow and bubble out onto the dirty sidewalk. Jimmy Coke, rage now roaring in his brain, turned to the shooter.

The man backed farther away, his eyes wild, his finger jerking on the trigger of the rifle pointed at Coke’s chest. The weapon, a bolt action Winchester. 30- 06, did not fire; the bolt had not been recharged.

The man then turned and ran diagonally across the avenue to the far sidewalk and back toward Seventieth Street. A moment later, a reanimated Coke took off after him, his mind whirling, his fingers twitching, searching for the reassuring feel of his Marine Corps M-16 1A automatic weapon.

Reaching the halfway point to Seventieth Street, the man, still running, pulled furiously on the bolt of the weapon, chambering a second round. He then spun to face his pursuer, raising the weapon.

Coke, now crashing back to the reality of the situation, suddenly confronted his danger. He threw himself to the left, behind a black Buick parked at the curb, waiting for the shot to sound.

But the shot never came. When, after a moment, he peered around the right quarter-panel of the Buick, he saw the man turning the corner of Seventieth Street, heading east toward Fourteenth Avenue. After another few seconds, a dark pickup truck roared out from Seventieth Street, turning right onto Thirteenth Avenue and disappearing into the night, its engine straining under full throttle.

Coke twisted around, pressing his back into the reassuring bulk of the Buick. Listening to his heart pound, his head fell forward, dangling on suddenly weakened neck muscles. As his body undertook the familiar, quaking reaction to the subsiding adrenaline rush, his eyes welled.

He sat there for a time, making no effort to stop the tears.

At nine-twenty p.m., Rizzo sat behind the wheel of the Impala jotting notes into his pad, Priscilla sitting beside him, the car parked before a large apartment house on Sixteenth Avenue. They had just come from the small apartment of one Bruce Jacoby. Rizzo had been developing Jacoby as the prime suspect in a series of indecent exposure incidents that took place near the local high school.

“So,” Priscilla said. “You figure this guy for the perp?”

Rizzo responded without looking up. “Yeah. No doubt. That’s why he lawyered up so fast.” He finished his notes, then reached to start the engine. “When his lawyer comes into the squad room tomorrow, we’ll settle this. Guy’s guilty as sin.”

At that moment, the Motorola beside Priscilla squawked to life.

“Dispatch, six-two one seven, copy?” a female voice sounded in singsong cadence.

“That’s us,” Rizzo said.

Priscilla raised the radio to her mouth. “Six-two one seven dispatch, copy, go.”

“Six-two one seven, see the detective eye-eff-oh seven-one oh-six, say again, seven-one oh-six one-three avenue, copy?”

Priscilla reached across the seat and took Rizzo’s note pad, bracing it against her leg and slipping a Bic from her pocket.

“Dispatch, one-seven to seven-one-oh-six, one-three avenue,” she replied, jotting the address. “What’s the job, copy?”

“One-seven, male white shot, nonfatal. See the detective, k?”

“Ten-four dispatch, one-seven out, k?”

“Ten-four.”

Rizzo pulled the car away from the curb and headed for Thirteenth Avenue. “What was that location?” he asked.

“In front of Seventy-one-oh-six Thirteenth,” Priscilla said. “See the detective.”

“That’s interesting,” he said. “Why see the detective? Why not see the uniform or the citizen or whoever? If there’s a bull there already, whadda they need with us? The call wasn’t to aid investigation, it was a response to incident.”

Priscilla shrugged. “Don’t know, Partner, I’m new at this, remember?”

Approaching Seventy-first Street, Rizzo slowed the car and carefully negotiated the thin crowd of onlookers, police cars, and uniformed officers milling in and around the expanse of Thirteenth Avenue. Nearing the sidewalk area cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, he double parked the Chevy and shut it down.

Rizzo and Jackson approached a short, squat man wearing a weathered overcoat, a blue and gold detective badge dangling upside down from the lapel.

“Hello, Anthony,” Rizzo said to the man. “How you doing tonight?”

Detective Anthony Sastone smiled. “Fine, Joe. How about you?”

“Good. This here is my new partner, Priscilla Jackson. Cil, Anthony Sastone, Six-Eight squad. Our neighbor.”

They shook, then Rizzo turned to the business at hand.

“Tell me,” he said to Sastone.

“Male white, twenty-four, gets into a fight with the perp over at Vinny’s on Seventieth Street. The vic wins. Perp says, ‘I’m gonna kill you.’ Our hero says, ‘Well, I’ll be on the corner, hanging out by the candy store. Come and kill me there.’ Two minutes later, the perp shows up with a rifle. There’s a struggle, gun goes off, blows half the guy’s foot off. Look here, see? Round went right through his foot and into the sidewalk, ricochetin’ across the street and blowing out the storefront fluorescent on the bakery. I took a look. Bullet may be lodged in the mortar between the bricks. Probably beat to hell, though. No ballistic value, other than maybe caliber.”

Rizzo looked down at the sidewalk. A chunk of cement had been pulverized, leaving a gaping hole the size of a paddle ball, blood splattered all around it. Puddles of blood sat at the bottom of the hole and on the rough cement surrounding the area of impact.

Rizzo looked up to Sastone. “I got a question, Anthony,” he said, his voice neutral.

“Shoot,” Sastone answered, with a sly smile.

“Why do I care about this? I’m standing on the west side of the avenue. This is Six-Eight territory.” He pointed over Priscilla’s shoulder to the other side of Thirteenth. “That’s the Six-Two over there. Feel free to cross over and dig that bullet out, paesan. I’m always willing to cooperate.”

Sastone laughed. “Yeah, I figured there might be an issue. When I rolled up and got the story from the Six-Eight uniform, I got on the horn. My boss called your boss. You ever hear the term ‘continuous stream,’ Joe?”

Rizzo nodded and reached for his cigarettes. “Yes,” he said, “yes, I have. It means if shit flows across the street and pools up, some lazy cop might want me to walk over and step in it.”

Again Sastone laughed. “The bosses, Joe. They decided between them. Your shift commander agreed: the assault which resulted in the shooting was part of one criminal action, and that action started over there”-he reached around Rizzo and pointed one block north to Vinny’s Pizzeria-“on the east side. The Six-Two side.”

Rizzo lit a cigarette and turned to Priscilla. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Call the house and check this out.”

“Okay,” she said, reaching for her cell and walking away to make the call.

“What,” Sastone said in mock disbelief, “you don’t believe me?”

Rizzo laughed. “Well, you know, Anthony, I been a cop over twenty-six years and not once in all that time has another cop ever lied to me. I’m figurin’ the law of averages gotta catch up sometime. Maybe to night’s the night.”

“Okay,” Sastone said with a shrug. “Knock yourself out. But just so you know, the Six-Two sector is holding the two eyeballs over there. The vic got bussed to Lutheran Hospital. He lost a lot of blood, but he should be okay. His waltzin’ days may be over, though.”

Rizzo looked again at the bloody hole in the concrete. “That there hole didn’t get punched by a twenty-two, that’s for sure.”

Sastone shook his head. “No. More like a thirty-oh-six, at least.”

Rizzo scanned the scene. “Find any shell casing?”

“No. Time the sector got here, the place was crawlin’ with citizens. Lotsa kids, too. Casing coulda got grabbed for a souvenir. If there even was a casing, that is. Only semiautomatics throw casings after a single shot, and I haven’t ID’d the weapon yet.”

“You talk to the witnesses?” Rizzo asked.

“Just a little. I figured this for a Six-Two case, Joe. Didn’t want to contaminate the investigation for you.”

Rizzo grunted and blew smoke at Sastone. “Very considerate of you,” he said.

Priscilla returned to Rizzo’s side.

“Boss says it’s ours,” she said, her face expressionless.

Rizzo shrugged. “Okay. Let’s do it, then. Anthony, you get a description of the shooter?”

“Yeah,” Sastone answered, pulling out his note pad and flipping it open. “Male white, about forty, six feet even, ’bout one-ninety. Brown hair, short. Wearing a plain dark jacket and camouflage fatigue pants with dark brown boots.”

Rizzo frowned, reaching absentmindedly to rub at a slight eye twitch. “What kinda fatigues?” he asked.

“Military fatigues,” Sastone said.

Rizzo shook his head and flipped the Chesterfield into the street. “No shit?” he said. “Military fatigues? I thought sure theyda been prom fatigues.”

Sastone furrowed his brow. “What?” he asked.

“Were they brown and tan desert fatigues or green and black jungle fatigues?”

Sastone shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s the fuckin’ difference? The guy had on fatigues. Me, I was in the Navy. We dressed like gentlemen.”

“Okay, Anthony. Thanks. I’ll take it from here. Leave the two Six-Eight sectors here. I can use the help, okay? Professional courtesy.”

Sastone nodded. “No problem. Glad to help. You want my notes?”

Rizzo shook his head. “I’ll make my own. See you ’round.” He turned to Priscilla. “Let’s go and talk to the two eyeballs. Call the house again, see if they can send some bodies over here. Watch where you step, there’s blood behind you.”

Rizzo crossed the street to the blue-and-white Six-Two radio car, idling softly, its light bar flashing white and red. He approached the uniform leaning against its front fender.

“Hey, Will,” he said. “I need a minute with the witnesses.”

The cop shrugged. “Go ahead, Joe. I got nowhere to go.”

Rizzo climbed in behind the wheel, turning to face the two men in the rear seat. They appeared in their mid-twenties, casually dressed and nervous, a distinct odor of alcohol on their breath.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Rizzo,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jimmy Cocca,” one said.

“Andy Hermann,” said the other.

“Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning, the pizza store or whenever this thing got started. One at a time.”

Rizzo looked them over and decided on Cocca. “You start,” he said, pointing at the man. “And you. Don’t interrupt him. Let him tell me what he saw, then you can tell me what you saw. It might not be the same thing.”

“Okay,” Hermann said.

“And Jimmy. Don’t get dramatic. Just stay calm and tell me, okay?”

“Okay,” Jimmy answered.

Rizzo smiled, trying to relax the young man. “What do they call you, Jimmy?” he asked. “Your buddies, I mean.”

The man smiled weakly. “Coke,” he said. “They call me Jimmy Coke. But not causa the drug or nothin’. Because of my name, Cocca. So Jimmy Coke.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “I figured. Okay, Coke. Tell me.”

At that moment, Priscilla climbed into the passenger seat.

“Shift boss is sending another radio car. When Schoenfeld and Rossi finish up what they’re doing, they’ll come by and help.”

“Cil, it’d be nice for you to sit in on this interview, but I need you on the street till Schoenfeld gets here. Get the uniforms organized. Canvass the crowd, see if anybody knows anything. Most of ’em probably live in the apartments above the storefronts. Maybe somebody was lookin’ out the window and saw something. Get plate numbers on all the cars parked within a block of that pizza place. And notify CSU. I’d like somebody to dig that bullet outta the wall and take some shots of that hole in the sidewalk.”

“Okay, Joe. I’m on it.” Priscilla climbed from the car.

Rizzo then turned back to Coke. “Go ahead. Tell me.”

When the man was done, Andy Hermann gave his version. It was the same as Coke’s.

“So neither of you ever saw the shooter before Vinny’s, right? He was a stranger to you both?”

“Yeah.”

“Never saw the guy before.”

Rizzo turned to Coke. “And the rifle was a bolt action?”

“Yes,” Coke answered. “Absolutely.”

Rizzo nodded. Priscilla returned then, climbing back into the passenger seat of the radio car.

“Nobody else coming forward,” she reported. “CSU said either them or Borough Recovery will be here by midnight. Uniforms are working the license plates. Still no Schoenfeld or Rossi.”

Rizzo turned back to the men in the rear seat. He addressed Coke. “We’ll call you chasin’ the guy heroic, Coke,” he said. “But somebody else might call it a little dumb.”

Coke shrugged, but remained silent.

Rizzo continued. “Where exactly was the guy when you saw him jack that fresh round into the chamber?”

Coke thought a moment before responding. “I ducked behind a parked black Buick. He was maybe three cars up from me.”

Rizzo nodded. “Okay. You guys are almost done here. Tomorrow come down to the precinct. Bath and Bay Twenty-second Street. There’ll be a steno to take your statements.”

“Can we go see Gary at the hospital?” Hermann asked.

“Not to night,” Rizzo said. “We need to talk to him, that’ll be enough for him. Let him get some rest. Visit tomorrow if he’s still there. Who knows, they might discharge him to night.”

Cocca shook his head. “No way, man. I did two tours in Iraq, I seen shit like this. His foot is fucked; they got to operate on it.” He glanced at Priscilla. “ ’Scuse the language,” he said.

She smiled at him. “I think I heard the words before,” she said easily.

“Wait here, guys,” Rizzo said. “Let me talk to my partner a minute. Then the officers will drive you both home. Remember, tomorrow, the precinct. Come at twelve noon. Okay?”

They nodded. “Sure,” Cocca said. “We’ll be there.”

Rizzo and Priscilla stepped out of the car. Rizzo led her out of earshot of the witnesses.

“Do me a favor, Cil. Get all their contact info. Take their addresses off their ID’s or licenses or what ever, get their work locations and phones, home phones and cell numbers, okay?”

“Sure. What’s next?”

“Well, I gotta fill you in on the details. We need to talk to the pizza guy and take a look around up there. Then we’ll go to the hospital and talk to this Gary Tucci. We’ve got a good description of the shooter from Coke and Hermann, but Tucci may have more to add. Plus, who knows? By tomorrow, the guy could be dead from a staph bug he picks up in the ER. So we better go to night. And I need Schoenfeld and Rossi to canvass Seventieth Street. I’ll tell you why later. For now, just get that contact info. Then meet me up at that pizza joint. Tell all the uniforms to send Schoenfeld over to me when he shows up.”

“Yassa, boss,” Priscilla said, rolling her eyes at him.

Rizzo laughed. “Hey, that’s why they call it ‘detective third grade.’ Get goin’.”

She smiled and walked away.

Rizzo turned and headed toward the pizzeria, scanning the street as he went. When he reached the corner, he saw two Six-Eight uniforms jotting down license plate numbers of parked cars. He approached the nearest one and glanced at her name tag.

“Hey, O’Toole, how you doing?” Rizzo asked.

The cop looked up from her memo book, took in the gold shield on its silver chain dangling from Rizzo’s neck.

“Peachy,” she said with a smile. “And you, Sarge?”

Rizzo returned the smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Me, too. Peachy. Listen, you got batteries in that flashlight on your belt? Do me a favor. Somewhere a couple a cars north of that black Buick over there, the shooter bolted the rifle to chamber a round. Take a guy or two with you and see if you can find a spent shell casing. If you do, leave it where it is and call me. I’ll be in the pizza joint.”

She flipped her memo book closed and reached behind her back, stuffing it into a rear pocket.

“Sure, Sarge, no problem.” She turned and looked over her shoulder, calling to her partner. “Hey, Ricky, c’mere. I need you, baby.”

Rizzo walked away, toward the pizzeria, thoughts of his daughter, Carol, entering his mind. The sight of Detectives Schoenfeld and Rossi rolling to a stop next to him in their black Impala turned his attention back to business.

“Hey, guys,” he said through the open passenger window. “Thanks for coming up.”

Detective Nick Rossi smiled, his pearly white teeth and deep blue eyes twinkling with the reflected neon of the nearby pizzeria.

“No problem, Joe,” he said. “Just keep that mullenyom partner of yours on a leash. I don’t think she likes me.”

Rizzo laughed. “Now what broad wouldn’t like you, Nick? With that shiny black hair and all.”

Detective Morris Schoenfeld leaned over from the driver’s seat. “Whaddya need, Joe?” he asked. “I think we got the picture here-fight inside there, loser gets a gun, shoots winner. I’d like to get started so we can wrap it by midnight, okay?”

Rizzo nodded. “Okay, short and sweet. Shooter had a vehicle on Seventieth Street, dark-colored pickup, no plate, no make. I need a house-to-house for witnesses. We got plenty of uniforms here, use them to help out. We need to get on it while people are still awake. It’s bedtime soon. Okay?”

Rossi nodded. “Okay,” he said. “What else?”

“CSU or Borough Evidence Recovery will be here by midnight. Make sure a blue-and-white sits on the scene till they show. I’m gonna talk to the pizza guy. I got two uniforms lookin’ for a shell casing. If they find it, tell CSU I need photos, then bag it for prints. That oughta do it.”

With that Priscilla walked up, Rossi’s Friday come-on to her still fresh in her mind. She smiled at him, her face radiating beauty. “Hiya, lover boy,” she said in a schoolgirl cadence. “How’s it hangin’ to night, baby?”

Rizzo’s and Schoenfeld’s laughter was countered by Rossi’s raspberry.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his head shaking.

Rizzo and Priscilla turned and headed into the pizza place, still laughing.

As they entered, the owner-operator of Vinny’s Pizzeria greeted them from behind the counter.

With a glance at Priscilla, he swung his eyes to Rizzo and smiled broadly, eyeing the gold detective-sergeant badge.

“Hey, Sarge,” he said. “I been waitin’ for you guys to show; otherwise, I’da closed up by now.”

Priscilla looked at the wall clock. “It isn’t even ten-thirty yet,” she said.

“She worked Manhattan, Nunzio,” Rizzo said by way of explanation. “The Upper East Side, no less.” Now he turned to Priscilla and continued. “This isn’t like the city, Cil. Here, this time of year, the streets are empty. ’Cept for pockets of teenagers hangin’ out here and there. And once the winter sets in and it gets dark by four-thirty, it’s like a ghost town. These are workin’ people live here, punching time clocks. They come home from work, eat dinner, do some chores, watch TV, then go to bed. Right, Nunzio?”

The man nodded. “Yep. That’s about it. ’Cept, maybe in the spring and summertime. Then it’s different.”

The man waved a hand at Rizzo. “Go,” he said. “Go sit down, Joe. I got some slices warming in the oven. On the house, no problem. Sit, I’ll bring them over. What are ya drinking?”

“Sprite for me, thanks. Cil?”

She thought a moment. “You got bottled water?”

Nunzio nodded happily. “I got everything, Detective, what ever you want.”

“The witness told me the perp was seated in a booth,” Rizzo said to him. “Which one? Maybe we can lift some prints from it.”

“Sorry, Joe,” Nunzio said sheepishly. “I already wiped it clean. After the guy left, I was closin’ down, cleaning up. So… I wiped it down with Lysol.”

“Okay,” Rizzo said. “I understand, no big deal.” Then he and Priscilla moved to a rear booth in the empty dining area.

“So it looks like you know this guy Nunzio,” Priscilla said.

Rizzo shrugged. “All the Six-Two cops know him. Six-Eight, too, since Thirteenth Avenue is the precinct dividin’ line. He’s a good guy, and he makes the best pizza around. I get takeout pies for me and Jen and the girls. I live about twelve blocks from here, in the Six-Eight.”

Nunzio approached the table, a large plastic cup of soda for Rizzo and a bottle of Poland Spring for Priscilla. He placed the drinks on the Formica table and moved away quickly, returning with a round metal tray and four smoking slices of Sicilian pizza on paper plates. He took a seat next to Rizzo.

“So,” he asked, his voice somber. “How’s the kid that got shot?”

Rizzo reached to the tray and took a plate. “I don’t know. Didn’t sound fatal but it didn’t sound too good, either. I hear he lost a lot of his foot. We’ll see.”

Nunzio compressed his lips and shook his head, anger touching at his eyes.

“Crazy son of a bitch who shot him, he ever comes in here again, I got somethin’ for him, believe me. He likes to fuck with guns? I got somethin’ for him.”

Rizzo blew on the hot pizza and smiled. “Don’t say nothin’ stupid now, Nunz,” he said.

The man bobbed his head. “I said what I hadda say. Let him show his face in here again. Let him.”

“Ever see him before to night, Nunzio?” Rizzo asked.

“Sure. Guy’s been in here five, six times this year alone. Always the same, always all pissed off. Don’t even enjoy my pie, just wolfs it down like a gafone. I swear you can smell the acid in this prick’s stomach, he’s wound so tight.” Then he glanced sheepishly at Priscilla, his face beginning to redden. “I’m sorry, Priscilla, excuse my French.”

Priscilla smiled, chewing her first bite. “Hmmm,” she purred. “This is some good fuckin’ pizza, Nunzio.”

Nunzio’s flush deepened, and he turned back to Rizzo. “But,” he said, “I gotta tell you, Joe, I know squat about the guy. No name, nothin’. To night, he was loaded, like most times he’s been in here. Shit, I could smell the booze on ’im from way over there, by the friggin’ chopped garlic.”

Rizzo smiled. “The three kids were a little fired up, too, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.

Nunzio shook his head sharply. “Few beers, Joe, couple a beers. For the holiday. I know those kids. They grew up in here eatin’ my pies. They’re good kids. And Gary, the one got shot, he coulda been a middleweight contender. Fastest hands I ever seen. Semifinaled the Golden Gloves when he was seventeen, won the next year. Even the freakin’ nig… black guys couldn’t lay a glove on him.”

He glanced again at Priscilla. She smiled tightly and twisted the cap off her water bottle. “How ’bout the spics, Nunzio?” she asked coldly. “They have any better luck?”

Again, Nunzio reddened, his eyes darting away from Priscilla’s. Rizzo reached out a hand, patting him gently on the face. “I got an idea, Nunz,” he said. “Knock off the narrative. I’ll ask the questions, you give the answers. You know, like in the movies.”

Nunzio nodded. “Okay,” he said sheepishly. “That sounds like a good idea.”

When they had finished with the man, Rizzo and Jackson left, meeting up with Officer O’Toole at the door.

“Just coming to get you, Sarge,” she said. “We found that casing.”

Rizzo lit up. “Show me,” he said.

The brass casing lay in the gutter, nestled among cigarette butts and scraps of paper. Using O’Toole’s flashlight, Rizzo bent to the casing and examined it.

“Thirty-oh-six,” he said. “Like Sastone figured.”

He stood and brushed grit from his pants leg. “Thanks, O’Toole, good work. Tape off the area. When forensics shows, let them get some pictures and bag the shell.”

The cop, fair-skinned and twenty-something, smiled.

“You got it, boss,” she said.

Later, following Rizzo’s directions, Priscilla drove the Impala toward the Lutheran Medical Center.

“You may hear an occasional ‘nigger’ slip out here and there, Cil,” he said. “Kinda comes with the local territory.”

“Yeah,” she said without anger, “I know. Territory keeps gettin’ smaller, though. So that’s a good thing.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said absently. “Anyway, you got any thoughts on this case, Cil?”

She shrugged. “Shooter knows Vinny’s, been there a few times before. Chances are he lives local somewhere. Nunzio didn’t remember ever seeing the guy pull up in a vehicle, so maybe he lives in walking distance. The guy likes to booze it up, we oughta check out the local bars. See where he was drinking to night. How many guys coulda been running around wearing fatigue pants on Columbus Day?”

Rizzo pursed his lips. “Pretty good,” he said. “And those fatigues-ever since Bush the Elder sent Stormin’ Norman and the boys and girls into Kuwait, the civilian fashion statement of choice has been brown-and-tan desert fatigues. The green-and-black jungle fatigues are from the old Vietnam days. But our shooter, according to the witnesses, he goes green and black.”

“Maybe he’s some bugged-out Viet vet,” she said.

“Too young for that,” Rizzo said. “Everybody who saw him pegs him about forty.”

Priscilla shrugged. “So he’s a military buff. Likes to dress the part, show what a hard-case dude he is.”

“Not likely,” Rizzo said.

Priscilla glanced at his profile as she drove.

“Why’s that?” she asked.

“Well,” Rizzo began, “it don’t add up like that. Guy had on a winter Thinsulate civilian jacket over the fatigue pants, and he was wearing dark brown boots. A wannabe army guy in jungle gear would have on a military jacket and matching black combat boots. So it don’t add up.”

They drove in silence for a few moments.

“Too bad Nunzio didn’t see him tear-ass away in that pickup,” Priscilla said after a time.

Rizzo nodded, scanning his notes as he answered. “Yeah, well, everybody has to hit the head once in a while. Bad timing for us.”

Priscilla turned her lips down. “I hope that cracker washed his fuckin’ hands before he kneaded the pizza dough I just ate,” she said distastefully.

“A-fuckin’-men,” Rizzo said, laughing.

“ Is it my imagination,” Rizzo asked Priscilla, “or was that nurse comin’ on to you?”

Having been informed at the hospital that Gary Tucci was in surgery and could not be interviewed until Tuesday evening at the earliest, Rizzo and Priscilla returned to the Impala.

Priscilla unlocked the driver’s side door and climbed in. “You mean that little redhead with the cleavage? Bet your ass, honey.”

Rizzo shook his head. “Bad enough when I was workin’ with Mike I was the invisible man. Now with you, too?”

Priscilla laughed as she started the engine. “Hey, Joe, I am smokin’. Ain’t you noticed yet?”

“Yeah, I noticed. Are there even any straight women left, for Christ’s sake?”

“Don’t worry, Joe, there’s plenty. More than enough to keep the species going.”

Now it was Rizzo who laughed. “Well, ain’t that a black lining to a silver cloud. But how’d she know? The nurse, I mean? You give her the secret handshake? Is it like that Star Trek guy with the fingers? What?”

“You get a vibe, sometimes. If you’re interested, you put out a feeler. If you don’t get ignored, you flirt a little. That’s all that just happened, Joe, so don’t start hyperventilatin’ on me.”

“Hey, it don’t bother me,” Rizzo said. “A nurse or two hit on me here and there. Back in the day.”

Priscilla smiled broadly. “Is that right? So, you tellin’ me that Florence Nightingale chick was straight? That what you sayin’?”

“Just look where you’re going, wise ass. More than a few drunks out here to night.” He glanced at his Timex. “Let’s go back to the scene, check in with Schoenfeld and Rossi. I wanna make sure that shell casing is photoed and bagged for prints. CSU’ll do it for sure, but if it’s Borough, who knows?”

They rode in silence, Rizzo deep in thought. After a while, he said absentmindedly, “That nurse, that redhead. She was pretty hot-looking.”

Priscilla shrugged. “My trolling days are over. Me and Karen forevah and evah.”

“That’s good, Cil.”

“But I gotta tell you, it ain’t gonna be easy. This cop gig is a babe magnet. It’s what hooked Karen on me. At first, anyway. Now she gets all righteous and concerned and tells me to quit and hook up with one of her old man’s business dudes, but, deep down, she really gets off on the cop thing.”

Rizzo laughed. “I think Jen did, too, back when I was in the bag, all blue and shiny.”

“See?” Priscilla said. “It’s all the same shit. All the same.”

“That reminds me,” Rizzo said. “I got a speech I give all my new young partners. Seems like only yesterday I was givin’ it to Mike.”

Priscilla glanced at him quickly, negotiating a stop sign at the same time.

“Is it the ‘You gotta have options’ bullshit Mike told me about? Some crap you’re always telling your kids?”

“No, not that one. And it’s not crap: it’s gospel.”

“Okay. What then?”

“It’s my other speech,” Rizzo said. “I got three single young daughters. I need you to steer clear of them. And don’t get your pan ties all twisted up,” he interjected quickly when Priscilla’s head snapped around and her eyes burned into his face. “Relax. It’s got nothin’ to do with you being gay. Or friggin’ black, either. Although, I gotta say, either one would be enough to kill my mother.”

Priscilla shook her anger away. “Are they gay?” she asked in tight tones. “Your girls?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he said.

Now color came to her face beneath the cafe-au-lait skin tone. “Then what the fuck, Joe? You think I got some magic dust I sprinkle on their asses to switch ’em over?”

He chuckled. “Whadda I know? But it don’t matter-like I said, I tell all my partners the same thing. Ask Mike if you don’t believe me. I just don’t want any cop sons-in-law. Guy cops, lesbian cops, cops from outer space, it don’t matter, no friggin’ cops. Period.”

Priscilla slapped lightly at the wheel of the Chevy.

“Another one! Another fuckin’ cop bigot like Karen’s mother.”

Rizzo smiled and opened the glove compartment, digging out an unopened pack of cigarettes.

“So sue me,” he said, tearing at the cellophane.