Rizzo’s Fire (7 page)

“Makes sense. So, what now?”

Rizzo sat back in his seat. “Well,” he said, “I figure we discuss it. The shooting, I mean. I got a theory.”

“Yeah, Mike told me about those theories of yours. So let’s hear it.”

Nodding, Rizzo said, “Okay. By the way, Mike says ‘hi.’ Next time I’ll bring you along, he’d love to see ya.”

“Good deal, Joe. So, what’s the theory?”

“Okay, get comfortable,” Rizzo said. “You read the statements. Whadda we got? Incident starts in a well-known, popular local pizza joint, a place the shooter’s frequented over the last year. So, let’s assume he lives someplace close by. He wears jungle fatigues and drives a pickup truck. Schoenfeld and Rossi and the uniforms canvassed the residents of Seventieth Street, presumably where the truck was parked while the shooter ate his pizza then got his ass kicked by Tucci. Nobody they spoke to could say anyone livin’ on the block owns a pickup. This ain’t Texas, not too many noncommercial pickups around. And Cocca said the truck was clean, no writing or company logo on the door. Seventieth Street is all residential, mostly two-story, one-and two-family homes. Most families been living in those houses for generations. They all know one another. If there was a truck-driving, fatigue-wearin’ lunatic livin’ on the block, they’d all know about it. So, we can assume the shooter
doesn’t
live on Seventieth Street.”

Priscilla smiled. “All this ass-umin’ could be risky,” she said.

“Yeah, well, it usually is, but hear me out. So, Tucci smacks the shooter around. Shooter makes his threat, the young guys leave. Nunzio says the shooter leaves the pizzeria less than a minute after the kids. Nunzio goes in the back room, starts getting ready to close, cleans the booths and hits the head. Next he knows, the radio cars are lightin’ up the avenue.”

Rizzo paused, taking a Nicorette from his pocket. Priscilla watched impatiently as he fumbled with the packaging.

“Damn, Joe,” she said harshly, “give it here.”

She took the gum and stripped the backing, pushing the Nicorette partially through the foil and handing it back to him. “Now tell me the fuckin’ theory before my first pension check gets here.”

Rizzo pushed the gum into his mouth.

“Guy runs out of the store and around the corner. Then, about two minutes later, he’s a block south at Seventy-first Street, waiting for Tucci to come out of Ben’s candy store.” Rizzo paused. “Question: Where’d he get the rifle from so fast? Assumin’, as we are, that he don’t live right there, right on Seventieth Street.”

Priscilla shrugged. “The truck, I guess. He got it out of the truck.”

Rizzo pointed at her. “Bingo. Where else? Now, answer this: Who’s runnin’ around Brooklyn in a pickup truck wearing jungle fatigues and packing a thirty-oh-six rifle?”

Priscilla smiled slowly. “A Great White Hunter,” she said.

“Once again, bingo. A hunter. While you were readin’ the statements, I went online. Hunting season just got under way upstate New York, parts a Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Connecticut. Deer, mostly. Some bear. This asshole is a hunter. That explains the brown boots. He’s not a military nut, probably was wearin’ Timberlands. And his heavy camouflage hunting jacket woulda been too hot for the drive back home from whatever-the-fuck woods he was in, so he slipped on a lightweight civvies Thinsulate. He was probably boozin’ the whole three-day weekend, maybe even in the truck driving home. Probably struck out, Bambi outsmarted him and he’s coming back empty-handed. Instead of going home and smackin’ the old lady around, he maybe stops local for some more booze, then figures he’ll grab a couple a slices of Nunzio’s Sicilian. When Tucci steps on his friggin’ foot, three days of macho bullshit erupts in the guy’s squirrel brain. Then the kid TKO’s him without breakin’ a sweat, and it’s just too much. The guy feels his dick shrinkin’ by the minute, so he figures he’ll grab his rifle and grow some of it back. See?”

“So we start checkin’ out the gun shops, hunting clubs, what ever. Right?” Priscilla asked.

He nodded. “Exactly. Guy probably needs to show photo I.D. for his ammo buys. We could get lucky. There can’t be more than a half-dozen hunting joints in the whole borough, only one or two in the precinct. And if the shooter is a Bensonhurst boy like we figure, he probably shops local. Most people around here do, the whole neighborhood is like a small town.”

“Yeah,” Priscilla said. “A town in the freakin’ Ozarks. Ten years I worked a radio car, two in the South Bronx, eight more up and down Manhattan. I saw a lot of crazy shit, Joe, but this is the first street shooting I ever seen where a rifle was the weapon of choice.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what got me started. That and the camouflaged jungle fatigues. We don’t get many shootings in the Six-Two, but when we do, it’s usually a mob hit. Head shots, up close and personal. And always with a handgun.”

“So,” Priscilla said. “I guess we drop the idea of checkin’ the bars.”

“For now,” he answered. “It’s still a good idea. But I think we’ll put it on hold for a while. What we need is a sketch of this guy. I want to go see the boss, D’Antonio. The Swede. Have him call over to Borough, set up the police artist with the three eyeballs and the vic. Then we can hit the gun shops
and
the bars with a sketch of the guy in our hands. See where we get lucky first.”

“Okay,” Priscilla said, standing. “Let’s go see the boss.”

Rizzo smiled. “Not just yet, Cil,” he said. “I think I see a lawyer, and he’s coming this way.”

She turned. A tall, disheveled-looking man with sandy brown hair, a worn blue suit, and wire-rimmed glasses was nearing Rizzo’s desk, a uniformed officer beside him.

“Hey, Joe,” the cop said. “This guy’s a lawyer. Said he needs to talk to you.”

“Okay, Randy, thanks.” Rizzo stood and indicated the chair Priscilla had just vacated.

“Have a seat, Counselor,” he said easily. “Forgive me for not shaking hands. Germs and all.”

The man’s lips turned down, but he sat.

“I’m Sergeant Rizzo. My partner here, Detective Jackson.”

The man cleared his throat. “Dan Webster,” he said. “I’m Bruce Jacoby’s attorney.”

Rizzo laughed. “Well, imagine that? Daniel Webster, eh? Any ‘Devil and . . .’ jokes you ain’t heard yet?”

Webster smiled weakly. “Probably not,” he said.

“Okay then,” Rizzo said, sitting down again. “What can I do for you, Mr. Webster?”

“Well, Sergeant, my client is very upset. He says you and your partner, presumably her, came to his home last night. He says you threatened him. He also said—”

Rizzo held up a hand and silenced the man. “I don’t really give a fuck what he said, Counselor, and neither does
she.
Let’s get down to it: Jacoby has four prior arrests for public lewdness. He copped to three of ’em, one was dropped. That vic was twelve years old and her parents didn’t want her playing in the sewer with all the shit bags down at the Criminal Court house. I got four positive I.D.’s from victims in this case. They picked your guy out from a photo array. One of the vics is a thirty-something-year-old teacher. Spends a lotta time partying at Club Med or wherever the fuck, and she gave us some details on your guy’s schlong. Sorta like an expert opinion, you could say. Plus, I already spoke to Brucie’s boss. Seems like every time a daylight incident took place, Brucie was either off or out sick that day.”

Here Rizzo paused and looked up at Priscilla, winking at her discreetly.

“So,” he continued, “if you came here to threaten me, Counselor, my boss is across the squad room in his office. Name’s Vince D’Antonio. Lieutenant Vince D’Antonio. He’ll be glad to listen to your complaint, give you the telephone number of Civilian Review, in case you don’t have it memorized, and then he’ll throw you the fuck outta here.”

Rizzo leaned in closer to the man. “But,” he said, his voice turning softer, “if you came here to talk, we can do that, too.”

The lawyer, a few years older than Rizzo, smiled.

“It’s oddly refreshing to do business with an old-timer, Sergeant,” he said. “Most of the younger cops are so tentative and nervous, they almost appear paranoid.”

Rizzo laughed. “So, okay. What’s the deal?”

The lawyer shifted the briefcase he held on his lap and glanced at his wristwatch.

“Well,” he said, “in view of what you’ve said, and assuming it’s accurate . . .”

Rizzo nodded. “It’s accurate. You can leave here with victim statements and copies of Brucie’s work timesheets, if you want ’em.”

Webster sighed. “Won’t be necessary. Mr. Jacoby is willing to surrender to the District Attorney’s Office. I just have one favor to ask.”

“Tell me,” Rizzo said.

“Mr. Jacoby is particularly close to his mother. This Saturday is her seventieth birthday. He’d like to be with her to celebrate. I’m asking for a surrender date after that. Say, next Monday.”

“No,” Rizzo said, shaking his head. “Fuck him and his mother’s birthday. He wants a favor from
me,
he surrenders to
me.
Not the D.A. Me. Me and my partner. If you can’t agree to that, me and Jackson here get in the car and go grab him right now. I don’t need anybody’s permission to lock up some shit-head.”

Rizzo smiled and leaned back in his seat. “You know, Counselor, just between us old-timers.”

Webster drummed his fingers on the briefcase, weighing the options.

“And if we agree, you’ll give him till Monday?”

Rizzo leaned forward, close to the lawyer. “Hell yes, Counselor,” he said. “I’ll even send the old gal a friggin’ birthday card.”

LIEUTENANT VINCE
D’Antonio looked across his desk to Jackson, then Rizzo.

“And you figure this shooting warrants a police artist, Joe?” he asked.

Rizzo nodded. “Absolutely. It’d be a shame to waste these witnesses here. All four of ’em saw the guy in the pizza store, under those fluorescents, while everybody was still relatively calm. We can get a good composite from them. Then me and Cil show the sketch around the bars and gun shops. We’re sure to get a hit.”

Vince D’Antonio, the fifty-three-year-old commanding officer of the Six-Two detective squad, sat back in his chair and frowned. His fair skin, blue eyes, and blond hair had earned him the nickname “Swede.”

“This might be a tough sell,” D’Antonio said after a moment. “After all, this isn’t a murderer or a rapist or child molester. Borough Command may nix it.”

Rizzo shrugged. “Try, Vince. All I’m askin’. And remember, after Tucci got shot, the guy pointed the rifle at Cocca’s chest and worked the trigger. It was a bolt-action rifle, not a semi, so it didn’t fire. But we can still make an attempt murder out of it. That makes
two
counts attempted murder, criminal use of a firearm, assault one, and whatever else the D.A. can find in the penal law.”

“I read the DD-fives. I know the story.” D’Antonio paused and rubbed at his eye. “I noticed you didn’t talk to the victim yet, this Larry Tucci kid.”

“Gary,” Rizzo said. “Gary Tucci.”

D’Antonio nodded. “Yeah. Gary. What ever. Before we go to Borough, shouldn’t you at least talk to the kid?”

“We tried. But they had to dig bullet and cement fragments out of his foot, then try to put it back together. He was under the knife when we got to Lutheran.” Rizzo looked at his watch. “Doc told me we could see the kid to night. Why don’t you think about the artist request, Vince. Me and Cil will talk to the kid. We’ll find out when he’s getting discharged. Then the artist can sit down with all four. One-shot deal. You get us that sketch, boss, we’ll get you the shooter.”

After a moment, D’Antonio nodded. “Okay. Talk to the kid first. In a couple a days, if we need to, maybe we can get it done.”

Rizzo pushed his chair back and stood up. Jackson did the same. “Thanks. You know I never ask you for this kinda shit. But Borough is tough. I don’t have anybody left I can call over there to cash in a favor.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” D’Antonio said. “At least there’s one place in the department that doesn’t owe you.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo answered. “Speakin’ of which, Ronnie Torres called me about twenty minutes ago. He
does
owe me, so he pushed that shell casing to the head of the line. He took a partial print from it. Not enough to run for an I.D., but he lifted enough points to call a match if we print a suspect. You get us that sketch, we put a name to the face, lock him up and print him. Then we nail him with the witnesses
and
the print. Case closed.”

D’Antonio nodded and reached for his pen. Turning back to his paperwork, he spoke once more.

“Talk to the victim, Joe. Then we’ll see.”

“Okay, boss, thanks,” Rizzo said, turning to leave.

D’Antonio looked up at them. “By the way, how are you two getting along?”

“Great,” Rizzo said. “No problem.”

D’Antonio turned his eyes to Priscilla. “And you, Jackson?”

“Fine, Lieutenant. Just fine,” she said.

“He treating you okay?” D’Antonio asked.

“Yeah, boss, he’s glad to have me. I may not be as pretty as McQueen was, but I’m a hell of a lot smarter.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“
SO, GARY
,”
RIZZO ASKED
in the cramped confines of Gary Tucci’s hospital room. “How you doing?”

It was nine-fifteen, just after the official end of visiting hours. Rizzo and Jackson, after making their introductions, had taken seats next to the large hospital bed. Tucci, pale and drained-looking, sat propped against three pillows, his wounded foot elevated and bandaged.

The young man tried to smile. “I’ve had better nights, Sarge,” he said. “Lot better.”

“I’ll bet,” Rizzo said. “Then again, you had worse, too. Like for instance, last night—when this guy shot you.”

Tucci nodded, his lips tightly compressed.

Rizzo shifted in his seat, pulling out his note pad.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened, Gary,” Priscilla asked. “Start from the beginning at the pizza place.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo added, clicking his Parker. “Tell us.”

The young man sighed and nodded again. After a moment, he began his narrative, adding nothing Rizzo and Priscilla hadn’t heard from the other witnesses. When he was finished, his eyes were moist with the memory, but no tears escaped.