“Good,” he said. “Now let’s go to work.”
“TO BE perfectly honest, Sergeant Rizzo, he’s never been one of my favorite patients.”
Dr. Davenport, a silver-haired, stout man of about sixty, gazed across his broad, neat desk at Rizzo and Jackson.
“And I can’t say I’m overly surprised to have police asking about him.”
Rizzo slipped his note pad from the inner pocket of his jacket.
“Why is that, Doctor?” he asked. “He ever get rough in here?”
The dentist shook his head. “No, not really. But he’s… unpleasant. A bit nasty with my staff. He usually seems in a bad mood, angry about something. So it’s no real surprise that his injuries were sustained in an altercation and not a fall, as he told me.”
Priscilla leaned in slightly.
“Can you describe him, sir?” she asked. “Height, weight, age, features?”
Davenport shrugged. “Certainly,” he said. He then gave a description matching those given by the witnesses and victim.
The detectives exchanged glances, then Rizzo clicked his Parker.
“What was that name and address, Doc?” he asked.
Davenport stood. “His name is Carl Jurgens,” he said. “I’ll need to get his folder for the rest. My assistant was supposed to put it on my desk before she left, but I guess she forgot. Give me a moment.”
“Sure,” Rizzo said pleasantly. “Thanks.”
When the dentist left the room, Rizzo leaned over to Priscilla. “Good help is hard to find,” he said.
“Be thankful you don’t have that problem,” she answered.
When Davenport returned, Rizzo jotted down Jurgens’s home address and phone number. Then he raised his eyes to the man.
“How’s he pay you, Doc?” Rizzo asked. “Cash, check, insurance?”
He quickly scanned the folder’s contents.
“Well, let me see… my staff usually handles billing.” After a moment, he found it. “Here it is,” he said. “Insurance. He pays a small yearly deductible, then we accept his insurance assignment as payment in full.”
“Is the insurance through an employer?” Rizzo asked.
The dentist ran his finger across the paper before him. “Yes,” he said, “it appears to be.”
“Who’s the employer?” Priscilla asked.
“Gordon’s Sporting Equipment,” Davenport answered, raising his eyes to Priscilla’s. “The big outdoor supplies store.”
Rizzo nodded. “National chain, I think,” he said. Then, shifting in his seat, he asked, “Any follow-up visits scheduled, Doc? For Jurgens?”
Again the doctor scanned the file. “Yes. He needs to come in when his permanent crowns are ready. That should be in about two weeks. But I see we have him scheduled for Monday afternoon first.”
“This coming Monday?” Priscilla asked.
“Yes,” Davenport said, nodding. “That would be for the chipped incisor.” He looked from one detective to the next. “I need to restore it with a bonded filling.”
“What time is that appointment, Doctor?” Priscilla asked.
He frowned. “I’m really not comfortable with all of this, Detective,” he said. “My assistant opened the door here by telling you about his injuries, and I’ve added a bit to that. I’d rather not be involved any further. If you’re thinking about intercepting him when he comes for his follow-up care, I’d really rather you…”
Rizzo raised a hand in a calming gesture. “Don’t worry, Doc,” he said soothingly. “That’s one way we could do it, but not the only way. We’ve got his address and employer, you don’t need to be involved any further. When he shows up Monday, treat him the same way you normally would. I wouldn’t mention any of this to him, and tell your staff not to, either.”
Rizzo stood, indicating the interview was over. Jackson rose also.
“ ’Course,” Rizzo said as he reached across the desk to shake hands, “don’t be surprised if he misses that Monday appointment. He may have a more pressing engagement.”
THE FOLLOWING afternoon, Thursday, at four o’clock, Joe Rizzo once again worked the phone in the Six-Two detective squad room. After some fifteen minutes, he replaced the black plastic receiver on its cradle and stood. He crossed the room and sat heavily in the chair beside Priscilla’s desk.
“Just got off the phone with Gordon’s Sporting Equipment,” he told her. “Their corporate office over in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. You ready for this? Our man Jurgens works in the Brooklyn store. Over on Bay and Shore Parkways, right here in the precinct. Gordon’s is big on hunting stuff-rifles, tents, knives, clothes, stuff like that. They’re one of only two places in the whole precinct. Imagine? We’da been showing that artist sketch around, maybe showin’ it to Jurgens himself and askin’ him if he ever saw the guy.” Rizzo laughed. “Who figured the guy
Priscilla shrugged, a smile touching her lips. “This job stopped surprisin’ me a long time ago,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes I forget how it is.”
“Did you call over to the place?” she asked.
Rizzo shook his head. “Didn’t have to. Friggin’ Nazi at corporate was all anxious to show me what good citizens these hunter types are. He went into the company payroll file. Jurgens is scheduled to work till closing to night, nine o’clock.”
“You wanna make the pinch at the store?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I think. Guy seems to be a boozer, chances are the best time to catch him sober is at work. And he’ll probably be less likely to give us a hard time if he isn’t tanked up. Plus, he may be embarrassed in front of his coworkers and just deny it all and come along quietly.” Rizzo paused for a moment. “Yeah. I think we grab him at work,” he continued. “After we bring him in, we’ll print him and have my buddy Torres compare the partial from the shell casing. That should be the clincher.”
“Let’s go, then,” Priscilla said. “We take him now, I can run him through Central Booking and still get home by midnight.”
“What makes you figure I’d stick you with the paperwork?” Rizzo asked lightly.
“Shit,” said Priscilla, “I never seen an old pro take a collar on straight time. We pinch the guy at ten to night, you’d be shoving me aside for the overtime. But not this early in the tour.”
“I forget sometimes, Cil,” Rizzo said, “you been on the job for a while.”
She nodded. “Long enough, brother. Long enough.”
“You run that DMV?” Rizzo asked.
“Yeah. Jurgens has a two-year-old black Ford F-one-fifty pickup registered to his home address on Stillwell Avenue.”
“Good,” Rizzo said. “Another nail in his coffin. You haven’t been out in the field with that gold shield for a full week yet, and you cleared two cases. You’re a friggin’ star already.”
“
Rizzo laughed. “Yeah. I forget that, too, sometimes. C’mon, let’s go grab this asshole. I got a feelin’ he’s about to lose his God-given right to bear arms.”
Later, as Priscilla drove the Impala toward the large shopping center that housed Gordon’s Sporting Equipment, Rizzo cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Priscilla glanced over.
“What?” she asked.
“Well,” Rizzo said, wrestling a piece of Nicorette from its packaging and putting it into his mouth. “This guy Jurgens. Chances are he’ll come along nice, like a good boy, but, you never know. He could decide to get stupid. Real stupid.” Rizzo looked at his partner’s profile, his eyes hooded.
“You up for some shit, Cil?” he asked.
She blinked hard. “What?” she asked.
Rizzo shrugged. “Just the two of us. If he wants to rock and roll, we gotta get it done. I’m just sayin’…”
She shot him a hard look, her dark eyes blazing.
