Rizzo's Fire

Bradley shook his head, his face without expression. “No, she’s taking today off.”

“Sick day?” Rizzo asked. “Vacation? What?”

Bradley remained silent, holding Rizzo’s eyes. Rizzo smiled at him.

“You wanted brevity?” He shrugged. “I’m figurin’ this is it.”

Still expressionless, Bradley answered. “Ms. DeMaris worked all day yesterday, Sergeant. At the theater as well as here in the office. It was a very long day. So, in compensation, she is not working today.”

“Okay,” Rizzo said, jotting in his pad.

With a frown, Bradley spoke once again. “Just what is your interest in Ms. DeMaris, Sergeant?” he asked, his accented tones sounding cool.

“Interest?” Rizzo asked, looking up from his notes.

“Yes, Sergeant. Interest.”

“Nothin’ special,” Rizzo said. “Just followin’ the same lead to her that we followed to you.”

Bradley laid his hands palms down on his desk and leaned forward. Annoyance tugged at his facial muscles as concern dawned in his eyes. Rizzo took notice, still smiling benignly.

“Perhaps you should explain yourself, Sergeant. What is this ‘lead’ you mention?”

“Well,” Rizzo responded, cocking his head to one side. “Do you know a guy named Samuel Kellerman?”

Bradley’s brow furrowed, and he sat back in his seat. “Sam? Yes, of course, I know Sam very well. He’s a dear friend, in fact.”

“Really?” Rizzo said, raising his brows. “Funny, he didn’t put it like that when we spoke to him.”

Bradley’s eyes narrowed, and Rizzo noted slight color come into the man’s cheeks.

“Sergeant,” he said, glancing pointedly to the Rolex on his wrist. “I must insist you get to what ever point it is you are here to make. As I told you, I have an appointment. If it becomes absolutely apparent that I must, I shall call Lieutenant Lombardi, whom I assume to be your superior officer, and have him intercede in this. I have had his assurance that certain factual information I provided to him is confidential and for his eyes only, and now you are indicating that…”

Rizzo held up a hand, palm outward, his smile turning cold. “Take a beat, Bradley, okay? I’m just doin’ my job, that’s all. I don’t even know this Lombardi guy, and I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about with ‘confidential.’ ”

Bradley’s face flushed, his effort to maintain composure becoming obvious. “Explain yourself, Sergeant,” he said, his voice tight with surpressed anger.

Rizzo nodded, lowering his hand, allowing his smile to fade.

“Sure. And as you requested, with brevity.” He cleared his throat and began. “We’re workin’ this Brooklyn case, and Kellerman’s name comes up, so me and Detective Jackson here, we follow it up. It leads us to a few other people-you, for instance. And this DeMaris woman who works for you. And so, here we are.”

Bradley’s expression remained neutral as he looked from one detective to the other. Priscilla remained silent, allowing Rizzo to play his line out.

“Brooklyn case?” Bradley asked. “I had assumed you were here inquiring into Avery Mallard’s murder.”

“Oh?” Rizzo asked. “What gave you that idea?”

Bradley shook his head. “Well, when you called to set up this appointment, you identified yourself as a police officer, so I assumed-”

Rizzo looked up. “I couldn’t help but notice that picture, Mr. Bradley,” he said, indicating with a tilt of his head a black-and-white, eight-by-ten photo hanging on the wall to his left. “You in that fancy combat uniform. See, once, when I was in the Army, I had this sergeant, tough old son of a bitch, tell me, ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘never assume nothin’.’ ” Rizzo leaned forward.

“Didn’t they ever tell you that, Mr. Bradley?” he asked in a low, threatening tone. “In the ser vice, I mean?”

Bradley glanced at the photo showing him in full S.A.S. Commando combat dress, face darkened with grease, automatic assault weapon in hand, his eyes shadowed by the Kevlar-and-steel helmet on his head.

“What is this inquiry about, Sergeant?” he asked softly.

Rizzo continued. “Like I say, we have this case in Brooklyn we’re investigatin’. Some sad-sack semirecluse type got himself murdered. Looks like just a break-in, same as what happened to Mallard. We found somethin’ in the guy’s apartment leads us to Kellerman. He was Mallard’s agent, matter-of-fact. See, that’s why it don’t pay to start makin’ assumptions, Mr. Bradley.” Rizzo smiled. “Like, for instance, I could start figuring Kellerman’s involved here somehow. In both murders, maybe. Only that would be an assumption, and my old drill sergeant, he was pretty friggin’ clear about that: you assume, you make an ass outta you and me.”

Bradley became impatient. “How am I relevant here, Sergeant? Please explain yourself.”

Rizzo shook his head. “Far as I can see, you aren’t relevant,” he said. “We’re just takin’ a look around Kellerman and his associates, that’s all. He mentioned you’re the producer of Mallard’s last work, this play on Broadway. What’s it called, Cil?”

“Atlanta Landscape,” Priscilla replied.

“Yeah, right.” He looked back to Bradley. “I hear it’s pretty good.”

Bradley nodded. “A typically American understatement. This play is a very serious work of art, Sergeant, rendered even more remarkable when you consider its contemporaries currently in production. Restagings of tired musicals from other eras, mindless chronicles of faded pop stars, recycled film works, and even, God help us, comic book characters.” He smiled sadly. “An Atlanta Landscape is Broadway at its best, Sergeant. Theater at its best, as it was meant to be, not merely drivel designed to amuse tourists from Iowa and God knows where else. This work rates amongst All My Sons, The Iceman Cometh, The Glass Menagerie, Angels in America.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said, nodding. “I saw those movies.”

Bradley looked at Rizzo, his lips pursing. He shook his head. “I fear the death of Avery Mallard is a tragedy unfathomable by the superficial fabric of your rather sad American culture, Sergeant,” he said. “Now, if it had been some bubbleheaded blonde pop singer in between rehabilitations, that would be considered a true American tragedy, I’ve no doubt.” He shook his head once more. “That would be something you people could take to heart.”

Rizzo laughed. “You know, it amazes me how many foreigners I run into bitchin’ about the U.S.” He allowed a moment to pass, then continued. “Makes a guy wonder, how come they’re over here bitchin’? Why didn’t they just stay the fuck home, where everything was so perfect?”

With growing anger, Bradley responded. “Once again, Sergeant, get to your business. My appointment cannot be delayed.”

“Okay, relax,” Rizzo said. “Here we go: Kellerman ever mention a guy named Robert Lauria to you? A shoe salesman from Brooklyn?”

Bradley shook his head, his face now without expression. “No,” he said.

Rizzo smiled. “Just like that? ‘No’? You don’t even have to think about it?”

“No, Sergeant. I do not have to think about it. Sam never mentioned any shoe salesman to me. From anywhere.”

“Maybe in some other context, some other reference? Robert Lauria.” Rizzo spelled the last name.

“No. Never.”

“Okay,” Rizzo said, as he wrote in his pad.

“What’s the connection between Sam Kellerman and this murdered shoe salesman, Sergeant?” Bradley asked.

Rizzo looked up from his note pad. “Oh, that’s kinda confidential, Mr. Bradley,” he said lightly. “You know, like what ever you got goin’ with your lieutenant, that guy Lombardi.” He paused. “And did I say Lauria was the murder victim? I don’t remember saying that.” He shrugged. “Guess you’re assumin’ again. Only this time… you happen to be right.”

Bradley did not respond.

“I understand you helped Mallard out with writing that play,” Rizzo said. “That Atlanta thing.”

“Your understanding being based on what information exactly, Sergeant?”