Rizzo's Fire

got panicky. So panicky that Kellerman is willing to whack his A-list client. Next thing you know, two dead bodies. Then Kellerman flies back to Paris.”

Rizzo stopped writing and looked at his partner. “What the hell is that, Cil? Some old rerun of Columbo you saw back in high school?”

Priscilla shook her head. “Did you see that silk shirt?” she asked. “Hadda set him back a buck, buck and a half at least. And those loafers, they were Italian, three bills minimum.”

“So?” Rizzo asked.

She shrugged. “So, a big ticket raincoat would be standard in a guy like Kellerman’s wardrobe.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, probably.”

Priscilla turned in her seat. “So, except for the Paris thing, Kellerman looks good on this.”

Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, and except for the son of God thing, Jesus was a hippie.”

“I’m serious here, Joe,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s what’s scarin’ me. Look, it’s good you’re thinkin’ about this, but let’s stay grounded, okay? The guy was in Paris. And there ain’t no evil twin, either. Kellerman was in Paris. Now, he might be behind the killings, maybe in concert with someone else. Or he mighta hired a pro. We can try gettin’ a look at his finances, just not right now. That would be tough without tippin’ Manhattan to what we’re up to. Maybe down the road, if we develop anything else. We’ll see. Relax.”

Priscilla turned back in the seat, eyeing the street scene on East Sixteenth. “Yeah, Joe,” she said with resignation, “okay. Guess I’m a little wound up with all this. But… one more thing. Kellerman may be old, but he’s in real good shape.” She turned to face Rizzo. “I don’t see him havin’ a physical problem strangling these two guys, no problem at all.”

Rizzo nodded while finishing up his notes, then flipped the pad closed. “Okay, duly noted. But most likely, Lauria sees Mallard’s play or he reads about it, what ever. Realizes it’s his play. Then somehow he finds out Kellerman is Mallard’s agent, so he calls and tries to get to Mallard. Joy Zimmer says, ‘Send us correspondence, we’ll get it to Mallard.’ So that’s what Lauria does. When Mallard gets Lauria’s letter, the rest of it plays out.”

“Yeah, okay, Joe, so that leaves us right back where we started.”

“Yep, that it does,” Rizzo said. “But seein’ Kellerman was pure gold. Pure fuckin’ gold.” He smiled and tapped his temple. “You find me a ratty, old, pissed-on raincoat to wear, I’ll be your Columbo.”

Priscilla grunted and pulled the column lever into drive, glancing into the mirrors and easing away from the curb.

“It’s almost three o’clock,” she said. “Let’s go do the DD-fives and call it a day. I need to think about all this.”

“Well, we got two RDOs. You’ve got till Sunday to think.” Rizzo then leaned over, laying his left hand on Priscilla’s shoulder, speaking in an exaggerated tone of formality.

“There will be a quiz.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

WHEN PRISCILLA ARRIVED AT the squad room on Sunday morning, she found Rizzo rummaging through various materials recovered from the Lauria apartment. She crossed the empty room and sat next to his desk.

“Morning, Joe,” she said.

“Good mornin’, Cil.”

She thrust her chin at the papers in his hand. “Whatcha got there?”

“Copies of those three rejection letters Lauria got on A Solitary Vessel,” Rizzo said. “They’re all dated within an eight-month period. Seems like he sent the manuscript to some agents, got these three turndowns, then put it aside.”

Priscilla craned her neck, scanning the letter in Rizzo’s hand. She smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “I know how that works. After all those years sending out short stories, I have a drawer full of letters like that.”

Rizzo frowned, his right eye twitching slightly. “Yeah,” he said distractedly, “but, what I’m wonderin’ is, how’d this play get out there to where Mallard or somebody close to him coulda gotten a look at it?”

“Well,” Priscilla suggested, “off the top of my head? Maybe by one of those agencies he sent it to.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m thinkin’. Tell me something: How does a guy protect himself against this kinda scam?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I just used to mail stuff out and hope for the best. Then, once I hooked up with Karen, she advised me to use the poor man’s patent on anything I sent.”

“The what?”

“Poor man’s patent,” she repeated. “See, you take a copy of your work, mail it to yourself certified mail, return receipt requested. Then, when the post office delivers it, you never open the package. If it ever should become an issue, you put it before a judge with the dated receipt, and he opens it with everybody’s lawyers present. Then they have a copy to compare to the published work you figure somebody stole from you. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Rizzo said, “but we didn’t find anything like that in Lauria’s place or in his cousin’s garage.”

She nodded. “Yeah, well, if there was a sealed package somewhere in Lauria’s apartment and the person who whacked him was in the business, he’d have known enough to take it.”

“I figure if Lauria had a package like that, he’da put it in the garage and we’da found it,” Rizzo said.

“Or locked it up in some safe-deposit box somewhere,” she said.

Rizzo continued to rummage through the Lauria material, pulling papers free from the pile on his desk and scanning them. “Well,” he said, “we ran all his banking and finances. There is no safe- deposit box.”

“Figures,” she said. “Guy probably never even heard of the poor man’s patent thing. Only reason I did was ’cause I was hooked up with a lawyer.”

Rizzo dropped the financial reports, again picking up the rejection letters. “First thing tomorrow, we call these three agencies. Better still, we go up to their offices. These letters are all signed. We’ll talk to the signers, see if we can develop a link between any of them and Mallard or anybody associated with him.”

She nodded. “Okay, Joe, so what’s on for today?”

“Well,” he answered, “first, we spend an hour or two on the phones working our other cases. They’re getting backed up. Then we have two appointments in the city.”

“We do?” she asked.

“Yeah. On my RDO, I made a couple a calls. We’re gonna meet Mallard’s last girlfriend today. First, though, we’re goin’ to see the director of the play. I got him on the line Friday. It’s all set up.”

“Okay,” Priscilla said. “I’ll get started on the prescription case and that auto vandalism thing on Ovington Avenue. Call me when it’s time to roll.”

NEW YORK’S August Wilson Theatre was located on West Fifty-second Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. Rizzo and Jackson sat comfortably in two leather chairs before the small desk of the director’s office.

Larry Thurbill, forty years old, had parlayed several successful off-Broadway musical productions into an opportunity to pursue his first love, legitimate dramatic theater. Now he was the overseer of Avery Mallard’s final work, An Atlanta Landscape. Thurbill smiled across his desk at the two detectives.

“How is the coffee?” he asked.

“Great,” Rizzo said over the rim of his cup. “Coffee always tastes better when it’s served in really good china.”

“One of the perks of a big hit show,” the director said. “Believe me, I’ve had my share of coffee in cardboard.”

Rizzo placed his cup down onto its saucer, then pulled the notepad from his jacket.

“Well, Mr. Thurbill,” he said, “it was good of you to see us, we’ll try not to take up too much time.”

Thurbill waved a hand. “Take all the time you need, Sergeant, the matinee begins at three, run-through at