Rizzo's Fire - Hardcover

CHAPTER ONE
 
October


DETECTIVE SERGEANT RIZZO PARKED his Camry in a perpendicular parking space on Bay Twenty-second Street, in the shadow of the hulking mass of Brooklyn’s Sixty-second Precinct building. He walked around to the front entrance and, once inside, waved a greeting to the desk officer and stepped to the keyboard positioned above the radio recharger.
After removing car keys from the hook marked “DET 17/22,” Rizzo turned to leave. As an afterthought, he reached for a thin Motorola hand radio and slipped it into the outer pocket of his coat.
Back on the street, he scanned the vehicles along both sides of Bay Twenty-second Street, all the cars sitting with front wheels up on the sidewalk. He spotted the gray Impala, crossed diagonally to it, and unlocked its passenger door. He rifled through the glove compartment and removed a crumpled pack of Chesterfields. With one leg in the car and the other extended outward onto the curb, he spit the Nicorette gum he had been chewing into the gutter and quickly lit a cigarette. Drawing on it deeply, he frowned.
“A fuckin’ junkie,” he said aloud, shaking his head sadly. A fleeting thought of his wife and the promise he had made some three weeks ago now crossed his mind. “Sorry, Jen,” he said. “I’m doing the best I can.”
Joe Rizzo was fifty-one years old, a veteran New York City cop with more than twenty-six years of service. He had lived in Brooklyn since age nine and had first met his wife, Jennifer, when they were seniors in high school. Married for over twenty-five years, Rizzo, his wife, and three daughters resided in a neat, detached brick home located within the boundaries of the Sixty-eighth Precinct in the Bay Ridge–Dyker Heights section of Brooklyn.
Just as he finished the Chesterfield, the deep, rumbling sound of an engine caught his ear. Turning slightly, he watched as Detective Third Grade Priscilla Jackson swung her crimson red Harley Davidson Softail off Bath Avenue and onto Bay Twenty-second Street. She slowly nosed the bike into a spot near his Camry, straddled it, and reached down to kill the motor. Rizzo lit a fresh smoke and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.
“Good morning, Cil,” he said as he reached her. “Welcome to Bath Beach, the heart ’n soul of Bensonhurst.”
Priscilla Jackson was a thirty-two-year-old Manhattan patrol officer and the ex-partner of Mike McQueen, Rizzo’s last partner. She was reporting for her first day of field work as a detective third grade. While still in uniform, she had assisted Rizzo and McQueen on one of the last cases they had handled.
Now Priscilla pulled the black helmet from her head, shaking out her short, straight hair. She smiled, highlighting her beauty, eyes dark and wide.
“Hey, Joe,” she said, “how are you? And I gotta tell you, brother, I just rode through this neighborhood, and I didn’t see a whole lot of what I’d call soul.”
Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, well, Italian soul, mostly. And when did you start ridin’ again? I thought you had this thing locked up in a garage somewheres.”
Priscilla swung a long leg over the rear bobtail fender, dismounting. “Yeah, well, I did. When I was renting over in Bed-Sty. But me and Karen have a place together now on East Thirty-ninth Street. A bike is a lot easier to deal with in the city. Karen keeps her Lexus garaged and it costs more than my old apartment rent did.”
Rizzo stepped slowly around the Harley, examining it. “Nice lookin’ bike,” he said, expelling smoke. “Looks fast.”
Priscilla shrugged. “It’s not a pig, but it ain’t a real hot rod, either. Fourteen-fifty cc motor. I spent a lot on doodads, like the Badlander seat and the drag bar on that high riser. The bullet headlight cost me a fortune. But don’t it look cool?”
Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. Cool. Me, I figure my twenty-eight-mile-to-the-gallon four-cylinder Camry is cool enough.”
“Whatever floats your boat, Partner,” she replied with a laugh. “So, shall we go in and meet the boys and girls? Get this shit over with?”
Now it was Rizzo who laughed. “Sounds good. It’ll be nice to have a steady partner again—that bouncin’ around filling in for guys on sick or annual leave really screwed up my stats. I’d hate to end my stellar career on a downturn. I was planning on doing about six more months, but I think a year is more like it. I recrunched the numbers: a year from now, I’ll be about maxed out, pension-wise.”
Priscilla smiled broadly. “So I get a year out of you, same as Mike did. Maybe I’ll get over to One Police Plaza like he did, too.”
Rizzo tossed away his cigarette. “Not likely. That was a freak thing. Someday I’ll tell you all about it, but it’s kinda like how you got that gold shield.”
Priscilla nodded, a serious look entering her eyes. “Well, I don’t need to know all about that, Joe. I just know I owe you. Big time. The bump-up to detective pay let me do this move-in with Karen. At least now I can half-ass carry my weight with the finances. Thanks to you.”
“You earned that shield. If it wasn’t for your help, me and Mike would still be lookin’ for Councilman Daily’s runaway kid. All I did was make a call and explain that to him. Daily did the rest. The hacks over at the Plaza musta tripped over their own shlongs getting you that promotion so they could kiss up to him a little more.” Rizzo’s voice had hardened as he spoke.
After a moment he went on, his tone once again conversational. “Besides, you’re gonna be my sharp young partner, helping me get my stats back up. Then, I go out a legend and spend the next couple a years cookin’ dinner for Jen till she retires and we move to Drop Dead Acres in Florida somewheres.” Rizzo reached up and tapped his temple. “I got a plan.”
“You’ll miss the job, Joe. You just won’t admit it.”
“Yeah, I guess. But it sure has changed. Twenty-seven years ago, you told me I’d have a black female partner in the Six-Two, I’da told you, ‘no way.’ And here we are.”
“Not to mention a gay black female,” Priscilla said, her eyes twinkling.
“Oh, we always had gays, Cil,” Rizzo replied. “Not open, maybe, but we always had them. Women and men.”
Priscilla nodded. “Damn right,” she said.
“But the job’s changed in bad ways, too. It used to be like a family. One big family. Now … well, maybe we got a few too many half-retarded cousins wanderin’ around at the holiday meals. You know what I mean?”
Priscilla reached out and patted his shoulder. “Yeah, Grandpa. The good old days. I got it. Now let’s go sign in. And I’m feeling a little hungry. Do detectives start the day tour with breakfast, or is that just uniforms?”
“Cil, we start every tour with breakfast. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the boss, then we’ll get going.”
*   *   *
RIZZO SIPPED at his coffee, rereading the blurry copy of the precinct fax he held. The two detectives were seated at a rear booth of Rizzo’s favorite diner awaiting their meals.
“Son-of-a-fuckin’-bitch,” he mumbled.
Priscilla looked at him over the rim of her mug. “Damn, Joe, readin’ it over and over ain’t going to change what it says.”
Rizzo compressed his lips. The fax had come from Personnel Headquarters at...