the precinct. And if the shooter is a Bensonhurst boy like we figure, he probably shops local. Most people around here do, the whole neighborhood is like a small town.”
“Yeah,” Priscilla said. “A town in the freakin’ Ozarks. Ten years I worked a radio car, two in the South Bronx, eight more up and down Manhattan. I saw a lot of crazy shit, Joe, but this is the first street shooting I ever seen where a rifle was the weapon of choice.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what got me started. That and the camouflaged jungle fatigues. We don’t get many shootings in the Six-Two, but when we do, it’s usually a mob hit. Head shots, up close and personal. And always with a handgun.”
“So,” Priscilla said. “I guess we drop the idea of checkin’ the bars.”
“For now,” he answered. “It’s still a good idea. But I think we’ll put it on hold for a while. What we need is a sketch of this guy. I want to go see the boss, D’Antonio. The Swede. Have him call over to Borough, set up the police artist with the three eyeballs and the vic. Then we can hit the gun shops and the bars with a sketch of the guy in our hands. See where we get lucky first.”
“Okay,” Priscilla said, standing. “Let’s go see the boss.”
Rizzo smiled. “Not just yet, Cil,” he said. “I think I see a lawyer, and he’s coming this way.”
She turned. A tall, disheveled-looking man with sandy brown hair, a worn blue suit, and wire-rimmed glasses was nearing Rizzo’s desk, a uniformed officer beside him.
“Hey, Joe,” the cop said. “This guy’s a lawyer. Said he needs to talk to you.”
“Okay, Randy, thanks.” Rizzo stood and indicated the chair Priscilla had just vacated.
“Have a seat, Counselor,” he said easily. “Forgive me for not shaking hands. Germs and all.”
The man’s lips turned down, but he sat.
“I’m Sergeant Rizzo. My partner here, Detective Jackson.”
The man cleared his throat. “Dan Webster,” he said. “I’m Bruce Jacoby’s attorney.”
Rizzo laughed. “Well, imagine that? Daniel Webster, eh? Any ‘Devil and . . .’ jokes you ain’t heard yet?”
Webster smiled weakly. “Probably not,” he said.
“Okay then,” Rizzo said, sitting down again. “What can I do for you, Mr. Webster?”
“Well, Sergeant, my client is very upset. He says you and your partner, presumably her, came to his home last night. He says you threatened him. He also said—”
Rizzo held up a hand and silenced the man. “I don’t really give a fuck what he said, Counselor, and neither does she. Let’s get down to it: Jacoby has four prior arrests for public lewdness. He copped to three of ’em, one was dropped. That vic was twelve years old and her parents didn’t want her playing in the sewer with all the shit bags down at the Criminal Court house. I got four positive I.D.’s from victims in this case. They picked your guy out from a photo array. One of the vics is a thirty-something-year-old teacher. Spends a lotta time partying at Club Med or wherever the fuck, and she gave us some details on your guy’s schlong. Sorta like an expert opinion, you could say. Plus, I already spoke to Brucie’s boss. Seems like every time a daylight incident took place, Brucie was either off or out sick that day.”
Here Rizzo paused and looked up at Priscilla, winking at her discreetly.
“So,” he continued, “if you came here to threaten me, Counselor, my boss is across the squad room in his office. Name’s Vince D’Antonio. Lieutenant Vince D’Antonio. He’ll be glad to listen to your complaint, give you the telephone number of Civilian Review, in case you don’t have it memorized, and then he’ll throw you the fuck outta here.”
Rizzo leaned in closer to the man. “But,” he said, his voice turning softer, “if you came here to talk, we can do that, too.”
The lawyer, a few years older than Rizzo, smiled.
“It’s oddly refreshing to do business with an old-timer, Sergeant,” he said.
“Yeah,” Priscilla said. “A town in the freakin’ Ozarks. Ten years I worked a radio car, two in the South Bronx, eight more up and down Manhattan. I saw a lot of crazy shit, Joe, but this is the first street shooting I ever seen where a rifle was the weapon of choice.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what got me started. That and the camouflaged jungle fatigues. We don’t get many shootings in the Six-Two, but when we do, it’s usually a mob hit. Head shots, up close and personal. And always with a handgun.”
“So,” Priscilla said. “I guess we drop the idea of checkin’ the bars.”
“For now,” he answered. “It’s still a good idea. But I think we’ll put it on hold for a while. What we need is a sketch of this guy. I want to go see the boss, D’Antonio. The Swede. Have him call over to Borough, set up the police artist with the three eyeballs and the vic. Then we can hit the gun shops and the bars with a sketch of the guy in our hands. See where we get lucky first.”
“Okay,” Priscilla said, standing. “Let’s go see the boss.”
Rizzo smiled. “Not just yet, Cil,” he said. “I think I see a lawyer, and he’s coming this way.”
She turned. A tall, disheveled-looking man with sandy brown hair, a worn blue suit, and wire-rimmed glasses was nearing Rizzo’s desk, a uniformed officer beside him.
“Hey, Joe,” the cop said. “This guy’s a lawyer. Said he needs to talk to you.”
“Okay, Randy, thanks.” Rizzo stood and indicated the chair Priscilla had just vacated.
“Have a seat, Counselor,” he said easily. “Forgive me for not shaking hands. Germs and all.”
The man’s lips turned down, but he sat.
“I’m Sergeant Rizzo. My partner here, Detective Jackson.”
The man cleared his throat. “Dan Webster,” he said. “I’m Bruce Jacoby’s attorney.”
Rizzo laughed. “Well, imagine that? Daniel Webster, eh? Any ‘Devil and . . .’ jokes you ain’t heard yet?”
Webster smiled weakly. “Probably not,” he said.
“Okay then,” Rizzo said, sitting down again. “What can I do for you, Mr. Webster?”
“Well, Sergeant, my client is very upset. He says you and your partner, presumably her, came to his home last night. He says you threatened him. He also said—”
Rizzo held up a hand and silenced the man. “I don’t really give a fuck what he said, Counselor, and neither does she. Let’s get down to it: Jacoby has four prior arrests for public lewdness. He copped to three of ’em, one was dropped. That vic was twelve years old and her parents didn’t want her playing in the sewer with all the shit bags down at the Criminal Court house. I got four positive I.D.’s from victims in this case. They picked your guy out from a photo array. One of the vics is a thirty-something-year-old teacher. Spends a lotta time partying at Club Med or wherever the fuck, and she gave us some details on your guy’s schlong. Sorta like an expert opinion, you could say. Plus, I already spoke to Brucie’s boss. Seems like every time a daylight incident took place, Brucie was either off or out sick that day.”
Here Rizzo paused and looked up at Priscilla, winking at her discreetly.
“So,” he continued, “if you came here to threaten me, Counselor, my boss is across the squad room in his office. Name’s Vince D’Antonio. Lieutenant Vince D’Antonio. He’ll be glad to listen to your complaint, give you the telephone number of Civilian Review, in case you don’t have it memorized, and then he’ll throw you the fuck outta here.”
Rizzo leaned in closer to the man. “But,” he said, his voice turning softer, “if you came here to talk, we can do that, too.”
The lawyer, a few years older than Rizzo, smiled.
“It’s oddly refreshing to do business with an old-timer, Sergeant,” he said.
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