Rizzo's Fire

twelve. I have tons of time. And please, call me Larry.”

“Okay, Larry,” Rizzo said clicking his Parker. “I’m Joe, this is Priscilla.”

Rizzo began a slow, informal questioning, subtly reinforcing the deliberately misleading impression he had given the director, that he and Priscilla were merely revisiting the Mallard murder. They had identified themselves only as NYPD detectives, without mentioning precinct, allowing Thurbill to make assumptions.

After nearly a half hour, Rizzo moved more toward the ground he had come to tread. Thurbill, relaxed and comfortable with the two amicable cops, answered readily.

“So, the producer,” Rizzo asked. “What’s his name again?”

“Bradley,” Thurbill said. “Thomas Bradley. He heads the group of investors who backed the play, so, technically, he’s the producer. But they all claim a bit of that role. Rightfully, I might add.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said, “there ain’t no art without the cash, I guess.”

“Succinctly and quite accurately put, Joe,” Thurbill said.

Rizzo continued. “I don’t know very much about this kinda stuff, Larry, but I think I read somewhere that directors and producers butt heads a lot on these kinda things. You know, plays, movies, television.”

Thurbill nodded. “Yes, we do. I’m afraid our motivations are often at odds-a director’s quality and integrity of product versus a producer’s concern for commercial viability. It does become difficult at times.”

“I’ll bet. How ’bout here, with Atlanta?” Rizzo asked. “Any problems between you and Bradley?”

Priscilla leaned forward. “My partner gets nosy sometimes, Larry,” she said.

“No, no, not at all,” Thurbill said. “I’m sure it’s one of the perks of your job. Obtaining inside info on a variety of professions and fields. Actually, to answer your question, there was a problem or two, but, of course, Avery was alive then and very much involved in preproduction, particularly with casting and story arc. Plays are not like movies, Joe. Hemingway once said the best way to sell your book to Hollywood was to go to the California-Nevada border, have them toss you the money, then toss them your novel. With a play, on the other hand, the author is very much involved, has quite a say. It is, after all, his vision which brings us all here.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said, “I can see that. So, you had a little problem with Bradley, and Mallard straightened it out?”

“Not exactly,” Thurbill said. “Thomas Bradley is quite easy to work with actually, from a director’s point of view. In fact, we sort of reversed traditional roles a bit in one particular instance. It was more a… I don’t know, let’s say a situation, between Thomas and Avery. Thomas seemed to be pushing a bit, in my opinion. Overstepping his bounds, I think. He was adamant about the love triangle being written out of the play, and he pressed Avery right up to the actual start of rehearsals last year. It was interesting to watch the interplay. They seemed more coauthors than author-producer. Of course, in the end Avery prevailed, as he should have.”

“So you figure the love angle added to the play? Artistically?” Rizzo asked.

Thurbill smiled, leaning forward in his seat, speaking in an exaggerated tone of conspiracy.

“Ah, Joe,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I never actually said that, now did I? No, the love angle’s merely fluff. To help fill seats. It’s a time-honored tradition in theater. Shakespeare himself inserted one or two superfluous scenes into his works. Some risque lines and what passed as sexuality in those days. To fill the pit, you see, the area in front of the stage where the proletariat class would stand to view the production. It was good business then and remains so today.

“Avery was hungry for a hit, and, frankly, so was I. Circumstances have delivered a successful run of musicals to me.” He smiled more broadly, fluttering his hands in parody of an excited, stereotypical gay male.

“Keeping me in character, you see,” he said cheerfully. Then he grew somber. “But my goal has always been serious direction. I require meaningful works to direct. An Atlanta Landscape is meaningful. Maybe Pulitzer caliber. No, if Avery’s little sexual triangle would get the play seen, get it some attention, that was fine with me. I encouraged Avery, and so, yes, I did bump heads with Thomas a bit. But by that point, I was pretty well entrenched, I enjoyed Avery’s full support as director. I wasn’t afraid of Thomas’s firing me. So”-he shrugged-“I could afford to make a noble gesture and give my support to Avery and his agent. The love affairs remained.”

Rizzo sat back in his seat. “You really thought Bradley might want to fire you over it?”

Thurbill stood and came around the desk, pouring fresh coffee for the two detectives. “Oh, yes. He may be easy to work with, Joe, but he’s also quite ruthless, you see.”

* * *

MAGGIE RICHARTE was thirty-two years old, a successful and influential buyer for a world-renowned New York fashion house. She had met Avery Mallard, nearly thirty years her senior, two years earlier while she was on a buying trip to Milan and he was touring Italy. They had become lovers, and their affair continued until six months prior to his death. The breakup had been amicable, and they remained friends.

Maggie smiled sadly across the airy living room of her East End Avenue co-op apartment.

“Is that what the fussy little wuss told you?” she asked with a laugh. “That Bradley is ‘ruthless’? My God, I’ll never get used to these people, no matter how many of them I work with. Larry Thurbill is a nice man, Sergeant, but he’s not the toughest Marine in the platoon, if you know what I mean. Avery and Thomas were at odds over that one aspect of the play, but Thomas certainly didn’t kill Avery because of it.”

“I don’t think that’s crossed anyone’s mind, Ms. Richarte, unless maybe yours?” Rizzo asked.

“No, Sergeant, not at all. Believe me, Thomas Bradley had nothing to do with Avery’s murder, and when last I spoke to Lieutenant Lombardi about this, he seemed convinced it was just a horrible, random killing. Just a wasteful, stupid, stupid thing.” She shook her head, her eyes moistening.

Priscilla cleared her throat. “That’s the theory, ma’m. We’re just double checking.”

Richarte nodded, dabbing lightly at her eyes with the tip of her pinky finger. “Avery was a genius, you know, a true genius.” After a small pause, she smiled sadly.

“And the most wonderful lover I’ve ever known,” she added wistfully.

ARTHUR WAIN sighed, looking from one detective to the other, then meeting Rizzo’s eyes.

“I’ve already been through this,” he said wearily. “More times, and for too many hours, than can possibly be necessary.”

Rizzo and Priscilla stood at the front door of Wain’s home at number twelve Adams Mews-the building next door to Mallard’s former residence.

“I can appreciate that, Mr. Wain,” Rizzo said politely, “and I know Manhattan South is satisfied that your involvement was limited to having found the body. I just have a question or two, that’s all. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Wain scowled. “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, Sergeant, and I know it’s chilly out here, but my wife has had quite enough of all this. She was very fond of Avery, and all these police inquiries have served only to magnify her stress level. Can you ask your questions here? Without coming inside?”

“Sure,” Rizzo said, “no problem. First off, take a look at this.” He produced the photo of Lauria, the same one he had shown to Keller-man, Thurbill, and Richarte. “Ever see this man, Mr. Wain? With Mr. Mallard, maybe? Or hanging around the street, near the house, anything like that?”

Wain looked carefully at the photo. “No,” he said after a moment, “I can’t say that I have.” He raised his face back to Rizzo, a faint glimmer evident in his eyes. “Is he a suspect?” he asked hopefully. “Do you think he might be Avery’s killer?”

Rizzo shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Just someone who maybe can point us in the right direction. It’s a long shot.”

Wain replied with a sad, ironic smile. “A long shot,” he said softly. “How appropriate.”

Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Why’s that?”

Wain shook his head, then explained. “Every August, my wife and I would go up to Saratoga to the racetrack with Avery and whichever wife or girlfriend he was involved with at the time. We shared a liking for the horses, you see.”

“And?” Rizzo asked.