Rizzo nodded. “Big time. So, about a week later, the owner of the pavilion comes to restock his ice machine. He goes around back, finds the door broken into. And when he opens the freezer, guess what? There lies Perry, duct- taped hand and foot, gagged, beat up a little. And frozen solid. They fuckin’ put him in there alive.” He shook his head. “When I was a kid, I couldn’t even watch my grandfather cook live crabs. He’d throw the poor bastards into the boilin’ water, then talk to them in Italian and whack them off the rim of the pot with a wooden spoon when they tried to climb out.”
With another head shake, he added, “But Quattropa and the boys, they got no problem tossin’ some dumb-ass teenager into the deep freeze.”
After a moment, Priscilla spoke up. “Now I can see why the Six-Two street crime stays manageable.”
He laughed. “Yeah, and there are other examples. ’Course, none a those incidents could ever be traced back to Louie. But everybody knew. Cops, citizens, skells, everybody.”
Priscilla finished up her notes and started the car.
“Well,” she said cheerfully, “that was fun. What now, boss?”
Rizzo glanced at his watch. “Let’s go back to the house,” he said. “Drop yourself off. Then I’ll take the car and head downtown. I have to be in court this afternoon on one of me and Mike’s old cases.”
Priscilla pulled the Impala out into the street, heading for the precinct. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll catch us up on paperwork and work the phones on some of our cases.”
Rizzo nodded. “Good idea. Talk to Vince, too. Get him to switch us to four-to-midnight tomorrow.”
“Why?” she asked. “We’re scheduled eight-to-four tomorrow.”
“Yeah, well, remember inside the Hom house I said you were my lucky charm?”
“Yeah. What’s up with that?”
“Well, we just might be catchin’ a break on this mugging. But we need to do the leg work at night. I’ll explain it all tomorrow. Just get Swede to switch our tours.”
“That’s a problem for me, Joe,” she said.
He looked at her. “Oh? Why’s that?”
She shrugged. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday. I got my writing class at the Y. Six-thirty to nine. I was expecting a day tour, not a night tour.”
Rizzo raised his brows. “Well, excuse me,” he said. “I forgot about that. Okay, then, Wednesday. Have Swede switch us on Wednesday.”
“Okay, I appreciate it, Joe.”
“Hey, it’s the least I can do,” he said. “After all, who else can I find to write my memoirs?”
He lowered the passenger window and spit his chewed-up Nicorette into the street.
“I sure as hell couldn’t do it myself,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, RIZZO SAT at his desk in the Six-Two squad room, frowning down at a copy of the
He sighed and reached for his coffee. It was three forty-five, and Priscilla would be arriving shortly for their rescheduled four-to-midnight.
He looked back to the newspaper. Statewide election coverage from the day before was featured. The local results were much less prominent, but had hit Rizzo’s eye like a laser.
Councilman William Daily of Bay Ridge, running on his usual platform of family values, law and order, and good government, had easily won reelection over the local attorney who had run a barely active and knowingly hopeless campaign against him.
Rizzo sipped slowly at his coffee, the frown tugging at his facial muscles. He carefully studied the photo that accompanied the article.
Daily, standing triumphantly between his wife and oldest daughter, was smiling broadly, his right arm raised above his head, his left outstretched and pointing, presumably at the adoring crowd of unseen supporters before him.
The photo showed no sign of his younger daughter, Rosanne. Rizzo scanned the text of the story a second time, again noting the absence of even a passing mention of the younger girl.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, rummaging through the papers and notebooks randomly contained within. He took hold of a worn, brown note pad, flipped it open and then, satisfied, lifted it to the desk surface. He thumbed through the pages until he found the entry he sought and reached to the black phone on his desk.
“This is Detective Sergeant Joe Rizzo, NYPD,” he said to the crisp-voiced female who answered. “I’d like a word with Dr. Rogers, please. If he’s available.”
“One moment, sir, I’ll check,” the woman said.
Soon the familiar voice of Dr. Raymond Rogers came through the line.
“Hello, Sergeant Rizzo,” the psychiatrist said. “What can I do for you today?”
“Well, I was just reading the paper, Doc, and I see our friend, Bill Daily, was reelected yesterday. They even ran a family portrait in the local section. So I thought I’d give you a call, see how Rosanne was doing. The article about Daily didn’t mention her.”
Rizzo heard the doctor sigh. “No,” he said, “I imagine it wouldn’t.” But when the psychiatrist continued, a new, satisfied tone had entered his voice. “As for Rosanne, she’s doing well, Sergeant. Very well, in fact, although we’re still early in the game. Her detox seems successful and the psychotropics, particularly the newer ones, have been quite effective. She’s at a facility in Westchester County, one that specializes in teens and young adults. I visit her often, almost weekly. And Father Charles sees her every few days. He’s been marvelous, actually. Extremely helpful.”
Rizzo nodded. “Good,” he said. “That sounds great. I’m glad I called.”
“Well, I am, too, Sergeant,” Rogers said. “After all, if it hadn’t been for you and your partner, Detective McQueen, God only knows where the poor girl would be today.”
“Yeah, Doc,” Rizzo said with some bitterness, “a couple a real heroes.”
“Yes, indeed,” Rogers replied, not noticing or perhaps choosing to ignore the irony in Rizzo’s tone: Rizzo couldn’t decide which.
They made some small talk then bid each other good-bye. Rizzo hung up and sat back in his seat. He noticed Priscilla approaching, and chased Rosanne and her father from his thoughts.
“Hello, Cil,” he said as she took a seat beside his desk. “Ready to do some leg work?”
“Sure thing,” she said. “Always ready.”
“Good.” Reaching across the desk, he removed a manila file from his pile of papers and flipped it open. “I’ve been reading the precinct jacket on those other two robberies. Same pattern as the Hom situation: lone mugger, comes up from behind, grabs the elderly vic around the throat, makes his threats, takes the wallet in the first case, purse in the second, then shoves the vics forward hard enough for them to fall to the ground. By the time they recover, perp is gone, runnin’ away. Best description we got here is from the Homs. It’s the only case with two victims. Guess our perp figured all white boys look alike to old Chinese, so he wasn’t too worried about taking on two vics at once.”
Priscilla took the file from Rizzo’s hand, scanning it. “If the Hom description is the best we have, we ain’t got squat,” she said, raising her eyes to Rizzo’s. “All they say is male white, average height, nothing about build, hair/eye color, possibly a teenager. No help at all.”
Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, I know that, but like I said, you may be my lucky charm.”
“Yeah,” said Priscilla, “you told me that twice already. What’s your point?”
“Well, we caught a real break with that street corner, Seventy-second and Fifteenth. The northeast corner. We may have somethin’ there.”
Priscilla closed the precinct file, flipping it casually onto the messy desktop. “And what would that be?” she asked.
Rizzo sat back in his seat. “Frankie Fits,” he said.
“Frankie Fits?” Priscilla asked. “Who the fuck is Frankie Fits?”
