Rizzo's Fire

“Yeah, we know, Mr. Kellerman,” Rizzo said reassuringly. “You were in Paris the whole week, you’re not a suspect in anything. Forgive us if we gave that impression. This is all very routine, believe me.”

“Of course,” Kellerman said genially. “To answer your question, Avery had a very liberal policy. He wanted any and all correspondence we received forwarded to him immediately. I believe he even responded to much of it. Avery was deeply appreciative of his public and grateful for his talent.” Kellerman’s face clouded, the blue of his eyes softening. “He was a warm, wonderful man,” he said wistfully. “I was the only representative he ever had, from his first attempts as a novelist to his early playwriting successes and his eventual Pulitzer.”

Then he looked from one detective to the other. “He was my dear friend, Officers, as well as my client. I miss him terribly already.”

His eyes grew colder as he spoke.

“I hope you find his killer.”

Rizzo tapped his pen slowly on his note pad and sighed. “Well, I can appreciate that, and I’m sorry for your loss, but we’re actually lookin’ for Lauria’s killer, Mr. Kellerman.”

The three sat quietly for a moment. Then, to break the silence, Priscilla spoke.

“I heard Mr. Mallard had been inactive for a few years, not producing much.”

“That’s true,” Kellerman responded, conversationally, matching Priscilla’s tone. “Avery had a long dry spell. Not for want of effort, mind you. He just couldn’t get restarted. He feared he had lost his ability, his creative edge. I must say, I was beginning to wonder myself.”

“So where’d An Atlanta Landscape come from?” Rizzo asked.

“Who knows?” Kellerman answered. “I’ve been in this business over forty years, Sergeant, and I still can’t explain creative talent. I imagine no one can. Where does it come from? Where does the sun come from?”

Rizzo nodded. “My partner here, Priscilla, writes a little. Just hooked up with an agent herself.”

Kellerman turned to Priscilla. “Really? May I ask the agent’s name?”

“Robin Miller,” she said with some pride.

Kellerman’s face lit up. “Really? I know Robin, she’s wonderful. You can’t go wrong with Robin, believe me.”

Priscilla looked away awkwardly. “Yeah, well, sometimes my partner here talks too much. My writing is sorta private.”

Kellerman nodded. “Most good writing is very private, Detective. Don’t ever apologize for that.”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” Priscilla now said with a smile, “I had no intention of apologizing.”

“Take it easy, Cil,” said Rizzo. “I only brought it up ’cause you mentioned how Robin helped you out. You know, with your story and the ideas she has for the novel you’re working on.” He turned to Kellerman. “I’m curious, Mr. Kellerman. Did you ever do that sort of thing? Help your clients with the actual writing? Mr. Mallard, maybe?”

“Many times, Sergeant. Many times. It’s what a good agent does. Part of what a good agent does, that is.”

Rizzo nodded. “So what about Atlanta? You help him out with that?”

Kellerman shook his head. “No, actually, I didn’t. Well, no, that’s not entirely true.”

“Oh?” Rizzo asked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, at some point Avery was faced with a dilemma. Are you familiar with the work, Sergeant? One of the characters, Samantha Sorensen, has simultaneous affairs with two of the main male characters. Avery felt very strongly about that story arc, but apparently an acquaintance of ours and the eventual producer, Thomas Bradley, didn’t. He saw the work as stronger without the love interest angle.”

Rizzo gave Jackson a discreet glance. Her face remained neutral.

“No kiddin’?” he asked. “So the guy didn’t want the female character in the play?”

“No, actually the presence of the character was acceptable to him. Thomas just didn’t want any romantic involvement for her. Anyway, Avery brought the problem to me. He said he’d be bound by my decision-in or out with the love angle?”

Rizzo shrugged. “From what I hear, the play is gonna sweep some awards, so I guess you made the right call.”

Kellerman laughed. “Awards are marvelous, Sergeant, the backbone of egotism needed in theater, but filling the seats… now that’s truly gratifying.”

Rizzo smiled. “And sex sells,” he said.

“Ah,” Kellerman said, “how I admire the pragmatism of policemen. Yes, Sergeant, sex does sell. The director has even managed to work in a nude scene. It’s quite titillating. But you see, Bradley thought the love triangle detracted from the intensity of the conflict between the father and his two sons, which he felt to be the heart and soul of the play.”

“And did it?” Rizzo asked.

“Absolutely,” Kellerman answered. “And still does.” He smiled conspiratorily. “But as you say, now the play has sex and nudity.”

Priscilla spoke up. “From what I hear, business is pretty good. I saw the play a couple of months ago. Now there’s a three-month wait for tickets.”

Again, Kellerman’s face clouded up. “Yes, apparently tragedy is as good for box office as nudity. Since Avery’s death, the wait has actually swollen to almost a year. It is, after all, the final work of an American master. In fact, I’ve been fending off phone calls from Hollywood-everyone is lining up to option the work for a movie.” Kellerman smiled sadly. “One fellow even guaranteed me an A-list actor in the role of the father.” He sighed. “Can you imagine? Casting the movie and Avery still warm in his grave?”

“So I guess you haven’t made the deal yet?” Rizzo asked.

“No, Sergeant, I’m not that ghoulish. Besides, I suppose I’ll have to clarify my legal standing. Avery and I operated on a handshake for over thirty years. Now I imagine I’ll have to reach some written agreement with the estate lawyers before I sign any contracts of option.”

After a few more moments of silence, Rizzo spoke up again. “Well, at least Mallard broke out of his writer’s block. He went out on top of his game.”

Kellerman’s face brightened. “At least it was finally broken, and Avery got to enjoy one last hurrah before… before his very last hurrah.” After a pause, Kellerman spoke once more. “But, forgive me, I must ask, what has all this to do with the case you’re working on?”

“Not a thing,” Rizzo said, allowing a small smile. “You see, Mr. Kellerman, sometimes, cops just get nosy.”

* * *

BEFORE LEAVING the office complex, Rizzo and Jackson briefly interviewed Kellerman’s administrative assistant, Joy Zimmer. No, the name Robert Lauria meant nothing to her, and she certainly had no recollection of so distant a phone call. Yes, over the years, she had forwarded much correspondence to Avery Mallard, particularly since the opening of An Atlanta Landscape. When shown Lauria’s photograph, she denied ever having seen him, as Kellerman had earlier.

“Do you remember anything bulky coming in for Mallard?” Rizzo had asked her. “Something in a large envelope, maybe eight-and-a-half-by-eleven with a bunch of papers in it?”

No, she had answered. And in today’s climate, any such bulky package from a stranger would have caught her attention. There had been no such arrival.

Later, as they sat in the idling Impala parked in a no-standing zone on Irving Place, Rizzo jotted in his note pad. Priscilla fidgeted in the driver’s seat, her finger tapping nervously on the wheel.

“This guy would be a great suspect, Joe,” she said. “If it wasn’t for that, ‘Oh, by the way, I was in Paris,’ alibi.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a pretty good friggin’ alibi,” Rizzo said, without looking up.

“How ’bout this?” she suggested. “Kellerman flies to Paris, then turns around and flies back to whack Lauria, then Mallard. ’Cause Lauria sent A Solitary Vessel to Kellerman for representation, but instead Kellerman slipped it to Mallard to break his writer’s block. And when the shit hit the fan with Lauria, Mallard