AT FIVE o’clock that afternoon, Rizzo sat at the desk in his basement office, cell phone in hand. McQueen answered on the third ring.
“Hello, Mike,” Rizzo said. “I’m glad I caught you home.”
“Yeah, well, I was just about ready to leave,” McQueen said. “My folks are coming in for Thanksgiving. I’m on my way to pick them up at the airport.”
“Okay. This’ll only take a minute.”
“I’m listening.”
“The Mallard file, the one you downloaded for us. There’s a statement in there from a Thomas Bradley. The guy’s married, and he alibied himself with a girlfriend he was supposedly bangin’ at the Marriott Marquis. The cop from Manhattan South confidentialed it to protect the guy. The downloaded copy was censored, referred to the girlfriend as ‘companion,’ then, at the end where she was named, it was blacked out. And the reports on her interview were censored, too.”
“So?” Mike asked. “Is it important?”
“I wouldn’t be burnin’ up my weekday minutes if it wasn’t, Mikey. I need you to take a deeper look into the file for me. I wanna know if the alibi witness is a broad named Linda DeMaris. If it’s not her, get me the name and contact info for whoever it is.”
“Okay, I can do that easy enough,” McQueen answered. “I’ll call you tomorrow with it.”
“Thanks,” Rizzo said.
“So what’s the latest?” McQueen asked. “Is this going anywhere?”
“Oh, yeah, Mikey, that it is. Just make sure you keep your hair trimmed, they might be takin’ your picture sooner than we figured.”
McQueen laughed drily. “I just hope it’s not for a fuckin’ mug shot.”
“What is it about you young cops?” Rizzo asked. “Cil’s shakin’ in her boots, too.”
McQueen sighed. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Joe.”
“Okay, kid, tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EARLY MONDAY EVENING, Carol Rizzo swung her ten-year-old Civic into the driveway of the Rizzo home. She parked in front of the small, detached garage beside her father’s Camry. Switching off the engine, Carol stretched out her arms, weary from the traffic-clogged two-and-a-half-hour drive from the Stony Brook campus on Long Island’s north shore.
Entering the house, she was surprised by her father as he came through the basement door and into the kitchen.
“Hey, hon,” he said in greeting. “We didn’t expect you till tomorrow.”
Carol shrugged, crossing the room to exchange a perfunctory kiss with him. “I left early,” she said. “I only have one class tomorrow-sociology. The other two were canceled for Thanksgiving break, but my soc professor refused to capitulate to the crass celebration of the exploitation of indigenous peoples.”
Rizzo smiled, reaching out to brush brown strands of hair from his daughter’s face.
“So you canceled him. Good for you,” he said. “Welcome home.”
Carol dropped her travel bag to the floor and walked to the refrigerator, removing a Snapple. She opened the bottle and turned to face her father.
“So,” she said, injecting a casual tone into her voice. “When is Marie due home?”
“Wednesday. I’m picking her up at Grand Central. Maybe you can take a ride with me.”
Carol shook her head. As she crossed the kitchen to the travel bag, lifting it from the floor, she twisted her lips as she spoke.
“Doubtful,” she said. Then she left the room, making her way toward the staircase and the small upstairs bedroom she shared with her sister Jessica.
Rizzo shook his head slowly, running a hand through his hair.
“Damn,” he said softly.
THOMAS ROSS Bradley was forty-nine years old, a native of the section of London known as Kingston-on- Thames. After a voluntary stint as a British Army Commando with Special Air Ser vices, he had pursued, with assistance from his wealthy, influential family, a career as a producer of London theater. He had emigrated to New York City fifteen years earlier, carrying with him a stellar reputation in the theater world and finding quick success with a string of Broadway shows, followed by a rather rocky and unproductive five-year period, which had come to an end with the success of Avery Mallard’s
Bradley gazed across his neat, glistening black desk to Rizzo and Jackson, his gray eyes clear and probing. It was Tuesday morning, November 25.
“There’s no need to be apologetic, Sergeant Rizzo,” he said in the clipped accent of the British upper class. “I’m fully aware of the complexities in the nature of your work. I would imagine follow-up interviews are often necessary.” He paused, looking from one to the other. “This would be my third interview, Sergeant,” he said. “May I feel confident this one will suffice?”
Rizzo shrugged, taking out his note pad and pen. “Yeah, let’s hope.”
Bradley sat back in his seat, his expression stoic.
“Yes,” he said. “Let us hope.” He paused before continuing. “I’m afraid I must insist on brevity, Sergeant. I’ve an appointment of rather great importance in less than an hour’s time.”
Rizzo shrugged. “If you’re gonna insist on it, then you better tell me what it is,” he said with a smile. “Brevity, I mean.”
Bradley’s eyes moved from one detective to the other, then fell on Rizzo. His own smile appeared forced as he replied.
“Conciseness, Sergeant,” he said pleasantly. “Condensation of language. I’m in a bit of a push, you see. Short of time.”
Rizzo nodded. “Oh,” he said, slowly turning to Priscilla. “Did you know that, Cil?” he asked. “Did you know what ‘brevity’ meant?”
“Yes,” she said with a shrug, her eyes on Bradley.
Rizzo nodded again. “That works for us, too. Now we can skip all the polite public relations bullshit and get down to the questions.” He leaned inward toward Bradley. “Fair enough?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Bradley replied. “Quite fair.”
Rizzo flipped open his pad. By coincidence, the notebook fell open to the page where, earlier that morning, he had made a notation of what McQueen had reported: Bradley’s uncensored statement to Detective Lieutenant Dominick Lombardi, Manhattan South, confirmed that Linda DeMaris was Bradley’s mistress as well as his alibi witness.
Rizzo raised his eyes once again to meet Bradley’s. It was time to begin rattling the man’s cage.
“So, you’re from En gland, eh?”
“Yes. Kingston-on-Thames.”
“Where’s that?”
“In London, Sergeant.”
Rizzo nodded. “Really? Must be quite a fancy neighborhood.”
Bradley arched his eyebrows. “Oh?”
Rizzo shrugged. “Well, you ask most people where they’re from, they say, New York, Chicago, Paris, like that. You said Kingston-onthe-whatever, not just London. So I’m guessin’ it’s a fancy place, a place you’re proud of.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Bradley answered with a tight smile. “I do take pride in it, actually. However, in Great Britain, it’s common practice to refer to one’s locale quite specifically. A cultural practice, if you will.”
“Is Ms. DeMaris in?” Rizzo asked.
Bradley blinked. “Pardon?”
“Linda DeMaris,” Rizzo repeated. “Your personal assistant. Is she here today, at work somewhere around the office?”
