plate, no make. I need a house-to-house for witnesses. We got plenty of uniforms here, use them to help out. We need to get on it while people are still awake. It’s bedtime soon. Okay?”
Rossi nodded. “Okay,” he said. “What else?”
“CSU or Borough Evidence Recovery will be here by midnight. Make sure a blue-and-white sits on the scene till they show. I’m gonna talk to the pizza guy. I got two uniforms lookin’ for a shell casing. If they find it, tell CSU I need photos, then bag it for prints. That oughta do it.”
With that Priscilla walked up, Rossi’s Friday come-on to her still fresh in her mind. She smiled at him, her face radiating beauty. “Hiya, lover boy,” she said in a schoolgirl cadence. “How’s it hangin’ to night, baby?”
Rizzo’s and Schoenfeld’s laughter was countered by Rossi’s raspberry.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his head shaking.
Rizzo and Priscilla turned and headed into the pizza place, still laughing.
As they entered, the owner-operator of Vinny’s Pizzeria greeted them from behind the counter.
With a glance at Priscilla, he swung his eyes to Rizzo and smiled broadly, eyeing the gold detective-sergeant badge.
“Hey, Sarge,” he said. “I been waitin’ for you guys to show; otherwise, I’da closed up by now.”
Priscilla looked at the wall clock. “It isn’t even ten-thirty yet,” she said.
“She worked Manhattan, Nunzio,” Rizzo said by way of explanation. “The Upper East Side, no less.” Now he turned to Priscilla and continued. “This isn’t like the city, Cil. Here, this time of year, the streets are empty. ’Cept for pockets of teenagers hangin’ out here and there. And once the winter sets in and it gets dark by four-thirty, it’s like a ghost town. These are workin’ people live here, punching time clocks. They come home from work, eat dinner, do some chores, watch TV, then go to bed. Right, Nunzio?”
The man nodded. “Yep. That’s about it. ’Cept, maybe in the spring and summertime. Then it’s different.”
The man waved a hand at Rizzo. “Go,” he said. “Go sit down, Joe. I got some slices warming in the oven. On the house, no problem. Sit, I’ll bring them over. What are ya drinking?”
“Sprite for me, thanks. Cil?”
She thought a moment. “You got bottled water?”
Nunzio nodded happily. “I got everything, Detective, what ever you want.”
“The witness told me the perp was seated in a booth,” Rizzo said to him. “Which one? Maybe we can lift some prints from it.”
“Sorry, Joe,” Nunzio said sheepishly. “I already wiped it clean. After the guy left, I was closin’ down, cleaning up. So… I wiped it down with Lysol.”
“Okay,” Rizzo said. “I understand, no big deal.” Then he and Priscilla moved to a rear booth in the empty dining area.
“So it looks like you know this guy Nunzio,” Priscilla said.
Rizzo shrugged. “All the Six-Two cops know him. Six-Eight, too, since Thirteenth Avenue is the precinct dividin’ line. He’s a good guy, and he makes the best pizza around. I get takeout pies for me and Jen and the girls. I live about twelve blocks from here, in the Six-Eight.”
Nunzio approached the table, a large plastic cup of soda for Rizzo and a bottle of Poland Spring for Priscilla. He placed the drinks on the Formica table and moved away quickly, returning with a round metal tray and four smoking slices of Sicilian pizza on paper plates. He took a seat next to Rizzo.
“So,” he asked, his voice somber. “How’s the kid that got shot?”
Rizzo reached to the tray and took a plate. “I don’t know. Didn’t sound fatal but it didn’t sound too good, either. I hear he lost a lot of his foot. We’ll see.”
Nunzio compressed his lips and shook his head, anger touching at his eyes.
“Crazy son of a bitch who shot him, he ever comes in here again, I got somethin’ for him, believe me. He likes to fuck with guns? I got somethin’ for him.”
Rizzo blew on the hot pizza and smiled. “Don’t say nothin’ stupid now, Nunz,” he said.
The man bobbed his head. “I said what I hadda say. Let him show his face in here again. Let him.”
“Ever see him before to night, Nunzio?” Rizzo asked.
“Sure. Guy’s been in here five, six times this year alone. Always the same, always all pissed off. Don’t even enjoy my pie, just wolfs it down like a
Priscilla smiled, chewing her first bite. “Hmmm,” she purred. “This is some good fuckin’ pizza, Nunzio.”
Nunzio’s flush deepened, and he turned back to Rizzo. “But,” he said, “I gotta tell you, Joe, I know squat about the guy. No name, nothin’. To night, he was loaded, like most times he’s been in here. Shit, I could smell the booze on ’im from way over there, by the friggin’ chopped garlic.”
Rizzo smiled. “The three kids were a little fired up, too, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.
Nunzio shook his head sharply. “Few beers, Joe, couple a beers. For the holiday. I know those kids. They grew up in here eatin’ my pies. They’re good kids. And Gary, the one got shot, he coulda been a middleweight contender. Fastest hands I ever seen. Semifinaled the Golden Gloves when he was seventeen, won the next year. Even the freakin’ nig… black guys couldn’t lay a glove on him.”
He glanced again at Priscilla. She smiled tightly and twisted the cap off her water bottle. “How ’bout the spics, Nunzio?” she asked coldly. “They have any better luck?”
Again, Nunzio reddened, his eyes darting away from Priscilla’s. Rizzo reached out a hand, patting him gently on the face. “I got an idea, Nunz,” he said. “Knock off the narrative. I’ll ask the questions, you give the answers. You know, like in the movies.”
Nunzio nodded. “Okay,” he said sheepishly. “That sounds like a good idea.”
When they had finished with the man, Rizzo and Jackson left, meeting up with Officer O’Toole at the door.
“Just coming to get you, Sarge,” she said. “We found that casing.”
Rizzo lit up. “Show me,” he said.
The brass casing lay in the gutter, nestled among cigarette butts and scraps of paper. Using O’Toole’s flashlight, Rizzo bent to the casing and examined it.
“Thirty-oh-six,” he said. “Like Sastone figured.”
He stood and brushed grit from his pants leg. “Thanks, O’Toole, good work. Tape off the area. When forensics shows, let them get some pictures and bag the shell.”
The cop, fair-skinned and twenty-something, smiled.
“You got it, boss,” she said.
Later, following Rizzo’s directions, Priscilla drove the Impala toward the Lutheran Medical Center.
“You may hear an occasional ‘nigger’ slip out here and there, Cil,” he said. “Kinda comes with the local territory.”
“Yeah,” she said without anger, “I know. Territory keeps gettin’ smaller, though. So that’s a good thing.”
“Yeah,” Rizzo said absently. “Anyway, you got any thoughts on this case, Cil?”
She shrugged. “Shooter knows Vinny’s, been there a few times before. Chances are he lives local somewhere. Nunzio didn’t remember ever seeing the guy pull up in a vehicle, so maybe he lives in walking distance. The guy likes to booze it up, we oughta check out the local bars. See where he was drinking to night. How many guys coulda been running around wearing fatigue pants on Columbus Day?”
Rizzo pursed his lips. “Pretty good,” he said. “And those fatigues-ever since Bush the Elder sent Stormin’ Norman and the boys and girls into Kuwait, the civilian fashion statement of choice has been brown-and-tan desert fatigues. The green-and-black jungle fatigues are from the old Vietnam days. But our shooter, according to the witnesses, he goes green and black.”
“Maybe he’s some bugged-out Viet vet,” she said.
“Too young for that,” Rizzo said. “Everybody who saw him pegs him about forty.”
Priscilla shrugged. “So he’s a military buff. Likes to dress the part, show what a hard-case dude he is.”
“Not likely,” Rizzo said.
Priscilla glanced at his profile as she drove.
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“Well,” Rizzo began, “it don’t add up like that. Guy had on a winter Thinsulate civilian jacket over the fatigue pants, and he was wearing dark brown boots. A wannabe army guy in jungle gear would have on a military jacket
