Two hours later, they left and returned the keys, then drove slowly northward toward a quick lunch and then a scheduled appointment with Avery Mallard’s literary agent, Samuel Kellerman.
“So,” Rizzo said, sipping coffee at the counter of the sandwich shop on West Fourteenth Street. “What’d we learn?”
Priscilla opened her bottled water, pouring some into a glass. “We learned that we shoulda’ve been playwrights instead of cops. Some cool house that dude had.”
Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, and right in the middle of the city; it was like a country house somewheres. Very cool.”
She sipped her water. “We also learned that Mallard’s place is just as middle-of-the-block as Lauria’s. Why would a burglar jump that back alley fence, then walk past five other buildings just to break into one of a line of similar residences?”
Rizzo shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Priscilla continued. “We learned that for a guy with a lotta dough, Mallard had a pretty shoddy wardrobe-and no fancy blue raincoat.”
“Yeah,” Rizzo said with a laugh, “when I was lookin’ in his closet, I thought somebody mighta put
“Seriously,” Priscilla said. “And did you see the pictures of Mallard with all those different women? Guy was a regular c-man, Joe. Wall-to-wall.”
“Wall-to-wall awards, too,” Rizzo commented. “First Pulitzer I ever seen.”
She nodded. “Somebody better get them outta there before one of ’em sticks to some cop’s fingers.”
“Yeah, tempting,” he said. “One of those Tonys almost stuck to mine. Funny how none of ’em stuck to the burglar, though, ain’t it?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Priscilla agreed. “Even if Mallard surprised the guy, and they fought and the skell strangled him, you gotta figure a junkie to grab
“Manhattan South did an inventory, Cil. Every award was accounted for. The only ones not in the display case were the three Mallard gave his ex-wives. There was no cash in the house and just a coupla pieces of jewelry missing.”
Rizzo and Jackson ate in silence. Then, as he waved for another cup of coffee, Joe glanced at the wall clock. “I’ll drink this fast, Cil. Let’s not alienate Kellerman by being late.”
SAMUEL KELLERMAN’S tenth-floor office looked out over the corners of East Sixteenth Street and Irving Place, his broad, dark cherry-wood desk situated cross corner at the left rear of the office, facing both windows.
Rizzo estimated the man’s age from mid-sixties to late seventies-it was nearly impossible to tell. Kellerman had sharp, clear blue eyes and rich sable hair, finely sprinkled with touches of gray. He was tall and lean, carrying the self-confident air of a successful athlete or very wealthy man. He wore a simple black silk shirt open at the collar, cotton Dockers, and black leather loafers. Rizzo was acutely aware of the chance he and Priscilla were taking. By meeting with Kellerman, they were risking exposure to Manhattan South. But at this point in their investigation, if they wanted to move forward, it couldn’t be avoided.
“So,” Kellerman said, “why are two detectives interested in seeing me today? Is it something further on Avery’s murder?”
Rizzo opened his note pad. “Your office number came up on a case we’re working, Mr. Kellerman,” he said. “We have a question or two.”
The man nodded, looking from Rizzo to Jackson and then back to Rizzo.
“And these questions were answered less than satisfactorily by the person you found in possession of my number, I presume?” he asked pleasantly.
“Well, about that,” Rizzo said. “The case we’re on is a homicide. The guy who called your office was the victim.”
Kellerman blinked twice in reaction, but remained silent. After a moment, he spoke again. “So I am now on the periphery of two homicides,” he said. “Am I right to suspect that homicide investigators look upon such coincidences with skepticism?”
“Yeah, a little bit,” Priscilla said.
“Who was this man who was killed?” Kellerman asked.
“Robert Lauria,” Priscilla answered. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mr. Kellerman?”
After a moment’s consideration, he shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it does.”
Rizzo jotted a note in his book. “Any record of incoming calls kept, sir?” he asked. “Like a log? Anything like that?”
Kellerman shook his head. “No, Sergeant. When was this call made?”
Rizzo consulted his notes, then supplied the date. Kellerman frowned.
“That long ago?” he said. “Well, unless the man distinguished himself in some way, I can’t imagine my assistant remembering the call. Perhaps this man-Lauria, did you say?-is a friend or relative of Joy, my administrative assistant.” He reached a hand toward his intercom. “Shall I ask her?”
Rizzo held up a hand. “Not just yet, if you don’t mind. We’ll talk to her about that on the way out.”
“Very well.”
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Kellerman,” Priscilla said. “This guy lived over in Brooklyn. He was just an average Joe. Would a guy like that have any reason to call your office? Do you have any ideas about that?”
Kellerman raised his eyebrows. “Was the man a writer, Detective?” he asked. “Established or aspiring?”
“He was a laid-off shoe salesman,” Rizzo interjected. “Like Detective Jackson said, just an average Joe.”
“Well,” Kellerman explained, “besides our usual course of business calls, we do field about ten or fifteen inquiries a day from the general public, Sergeant. Most are regarding representation or submission guidelines. My staff has been told to refer such callers to our Web site or a publication called
“I see,” Rizzo said. “So if somebody calls looking for representation, they get brushed off by your secretary.”
Kellerman smiled. “I’d rather call it ‘referred,’ Sergeant. Unfortunately, the net result is quite the same.”
“Any other reason someone like Lauria might call your office?” Priscilla asked.
“Yes, certainly, Detective. I represent three dozen authors with millions of copies in print and scores of staged works-both performed and printed. Sometimes we get calls from people requesting addresses or phone numbers for the writers. Fans, usually, most very harmless. But a few kooks as well, as you can imagine.”
Rizzo chuckled. “Yeah, we can imagine. But tell me, what’s your policy with those calls?”
“My staff is instructed to first discourage such requests. Then, and only if they believe the caller a true admirer of the author, the request must be received by us in writing, and we see that it’s forwarded to our client.”
“And do you actually do that?” Rizzo asked.
“Yes,” Kellerman answered.
“Are records kept of communications you receive and forward?” Priscilla asked.
Kellerman shook his head. “No. If it’s one of our more popular authors, we hold the intake until we have a bunch, then send them all together. For our more obscure clients, those receiving five or ten such communications a year, we forward them as they are received. A few of our more tempermental or eccentric clients have asked that we simply destroy any such material as it comes in.”
“Do you or any of your staff ever read this stuff, screen it?” Rizzo asked.
“No, Sergeant. We are simply the clearing house.”
“What about Avery Mallard, sir?” Priscilla asked. “What were his instructions about mail you received for him?”
Kellerman smiled. “I assume, Detective, that you have conferred with your colleague, Detective Sergeant McHugh? He was here after Avery’s murder, and he took my statement.”
