Rizzo's War

by Lou Manfredo

  They continued eating in silence, each with his own thoughts. After a while, Mike asked a question.

  “Joe, you started telling me what you know about Daily. Want to finish?”

  Joe nodded. “Yeah, but I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest condensed version. Daily comes from an old Bay Ridge family— the Irish equivalent to the WASPs came over here on the Mayflower. His old man was a state senator from the Ridge, Republican like most Bay Ridge politicians. He was a pretty good guy, and he got a lot of respect. Even the Italians voted for him. The Demo crats always ran an Italian against him just to try and steal the seat. So the old man tried to get ju nior into politics, brought him to the club house, introduced him around, sent him to some fancy law school down south. Even had him puttin’ up posters and answering phones during campaigns, you know, like a regular person. But the kicker was Daily Jr. was such a hard-on, so abrasive, that despite his old man, he couldn’t get anywhere. So what does he do? He jumps ship, joins the Demo crats. And they were very glad to have him; it was a slap at the old man and the controlling Republicans. They musta promised the kid something, probably a judgeship. As part of the deal, he ran against the local Republican councilman. Guy was about eighty, held the seat about forty years. The idea was ju nior would run, embarrass his father and the GOP on behalf of the Dems, and then, after he lost, they’d pay him off with some patronage job. Don’t forget, the Demo crats own Brooklyn— lock, stock, and barrel. A Republican can’t get arrested anywhere outside Bay Ridge, Marine Park, or Dyker Heights.

  “So, anyway, Daily had a brother, a younger brother. Guy went on the cops straight out of college, just like you did. But unlike you, this kid was the son of a state senator and local po liti cal leader. So after three years inside at some desk job, they make him a detective at Major Case. Imagine that? Kid couldn’t find his own dick with both hands, but they got him workin’ Major Case.

  “So one night the kid comes home to Bay Ridge and double-parks outside a grocery store on Fifth Avenue. He goes in to get some milk and cold cuts and walks straight into an armed robbery in progress. He forgets he’s an asshole and thinks he’s a real cop, so he tries to take down the perp, and ten seconds later, he’s got two rounds in him— one right through the jugular. He’s dead before he hits the ground.

  “Well, the old man, like I say, was an okay guy. He takes it real hard. Winds up stepping down from the state senate the next year and moving to Florida. And then six months later, he dies.

  “Only in this case, the apple did fall pretty far from the tree. Daily was three weeks away from the election when his brother was killed, so all of a sudden he becomes Mister Law and Order, gun-control guy. He starts all his speeches with a teary eulogy for his dearly departed brother and how it’s time to take the streets of Bay Ridge back from the gun-wielding thugs. Never mind that it’s got the lowest violent crime rate in the city and his brother was the first cop killed in Bay Ridge since 1941. But our boy Bill, he didn’t let the facts interfere with his campaign, and guess what? He wins the fuckin’ seat! Takes it right out of the hands of the Republicans who held it since Jesus registered to vote. So after he got reelected a couple of years later and showed he had a lock on the seat, the local Dems just about canonized him. Nowadays, from what I hear, he’s the power behind the Kings County Demo cratic chairman, one of the most powerful county chairs in the state, if not the whole northeast. The actual chairman is just some black businessman figure-head the bosses put in to show how progressive and open-minded they are, but it’s Daily who’s really running the county. So that’s why the Plaza jumped when he called. That’s who we’re dealin’ with here. I hope you got some asbestos jockey shorts in that sharp wardrobe of yours, ’cause you may be needing them.”

  THE STATELY home on Colonial Road had fourteen rooms and a detached three-car garage which, at the dawning of the twentieth century, had served as a carriage house. Apple and pear trees grew in the large rear yard amid manicured gardens and a lush lawn. The wrap around front porch with its white nautical-style railing held delicate, exquisitely detailed wrought-iron outdoor furniture from a bygone era of hoop skirts and parasols, knickers and buggies. A towering, majestic oak tree ruled the front yard, casting morning coolness across the facade of the house.

  McQueen swung the Impala slowly onto the narrow, circular driveway and pulled around the oak to twin iron and brass hitching posts that had stood at the entryway for over a hundred years. He shut down the motor and turned to face Rizzo.

  “Joe,” he said, “if I didn’t know for a fact that I was still in Brooklyn, I wouldn’t believe it. We’re less than, what?, a mile from your house?”

  Joe chuckled. “Well, in distance, my place is seven avenues southeast of here; in salary, it’s about three hundred grand a year from here. Approximately, of course.”

  They climbed out of the car onto the flawless cobblestone drive. Mike glanced at the Chevy: he hoped it didn’t have any leaks. Staining this driveway would be like spraying graffiti on a museum piece.

  They climbed the front steps and Rizzo leaned on the teak and copper doorbell. Three resonant, musical chimes sounded from deep within the house. A moment later, a blurry white figure of a woman approached them, her features ghosted by the thick, frosted glass of the front door.

  The house keeper looked without expression at the blue and gold of Rizzo’s detective badge as he held it up to the glass. He saw her eyes move to the identification card next to it in the leather case. She studied the photo, and then raised her eyes to scan his features.

  Satisfied, she opened the door and led them into a large room at the front of the house, which she referred to as the parlor. There, they took seats in antique, wine-colored crushed-velvet chairs. When the woman left them, McQueen’s eyes met Rizzo’s.

  “How much do you think a councilman makes, Joe?” he asked in low tones.

  Rizzo smiled broadly. “Not this much, kid, not this much.”

  William Daily was just under six feet tall, tanned, with silver-gray hair, despite being only forty-five years old. He stood erect and confident in the doorway of the parlor, looking first at McQueen, then at Rizzo. McQueen found himself standing under the gaze: Rizzo remained seated, crossing his legs and smiling at the man.

  “Councilman?” he said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Rizzo, Joseph Rizzo. I’m the best man in the Six-Two, just like you asked for.”

  Daily stood still in the doorway. McQueen saw irritation flicker briefly in the not-unhandsome face. But it vanished quickly, and the man smiled broadly, exposing pearly white but chillingly caninelike teeth. He crossed the room in long, fast strides and extended a hand to the still seated Rizzo.

  “It’s a plea sure to meet you, Detective. Good of you to come.”

  Joe stood slowly and shook the man’s hand. He nodded toward McQueen. “My partner, Mike McQueen.”

  Daily crossed the room to Mike and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming, Detective. Maybe we can get this nightmare over with and get my Rosanne the help she needs.

  Mike nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s the plan.”

  The three men left the room, Rizzo and McQueen following Daily’s lead to a large, sunlit den, also on the ground floor. A broad, old-fashioned- style bay window looked out into the rear gardens. Daily sat behind a massive mahogany desk in front of the window, the two detectives across from him in bull’s blood–colored leather armchairs.

  Daily led them in small talk for a few moments, telling them his wife would join them upon their request. During the course of the conversation, the councilman learned from Joe how Mike had come to be promoted to detective.

  “The mayor is a good man,” Daily said. “I’ve tried to convince him to switch party affiliations, but he’s adamant. Despite his clearly progressive vision for our city, he still believes that he’s a Republican. But let’s not go there— I don’t know either of you gentlemen’s po liti cal affiliations.”

  McQueen smiled inanely, but remained silent, while
Joe laughed out loud.

  “I’m an anarchist,” he said. They then turned to the business at hand.

  “My daughter is sick, gentlemen. Sick. And her mental illness is just like any other disease, no different from cancer or diabetes or hypertension. Some people get it, and some people don’t. Unfortunately, Rosanne’s got it. It’s called bipolar disorder. Are you familiar with the term?”

  “We are,” Joe said.

  “Good. But what you must realize is there still remains a stigma attached to this illness in some minds. If Rosanne did, in fact, have diabetes, no one would dream of trying to capitalize on it. But politics, being what it is, and people, being what they are, my opponents would indeed try to use this against me. Thus, these rather Machiavellian mea -sures to ensure some discretion. I am hoping to have your empathy.”

  Rizzo leaned forward in his seat and spoke softly. His tone made Mike, already uneasy with Joe’s general demeanor, even more uncomfortable.

  “Look,” Rizzo said. “I’m here to find your daughter. Period. I don’t really give a damn about the rest of it. The kid is missing and, I been told, off her medication. That’s not good. So let’s just keep our eye on the ball here, okay? If I have to walk on eggshells around you and your wife and the politics, this ain’t gonna work out. Why don’t I be the cop and you be the citizen, and let’s see what we can do.”

  Daily’s face iced over for a barely discernible microsecond. Sitting back in his chair, he reached across the desk to a heavy, wooden humidor. He removed a cigar and turned the box to face the detectives, then slid it silently across the highly polished desk.

  “If this has been an example of your walking on eggs, Joe— may I call you Joe?— I’d hate to see your less diplomatic side.”

  Joe smiled and reached out, taking a cigar and sniffing at it delicately.

  “Well, Bill— may I call you Bill?— I’ve only got one side. And thank God my wife seems to love it.”

  They lit their cigars and smoked silently for a few moments. Mike leaned to his left, as far from the smoke as possible. The councilman took note and reached a hand under his desk. Mike heard an electric motor begin a low hum from somewhere in the room.

  “A smoke-eater,” Daily said to him by way of explanation. “I go to great lengths to avoid the ‘smoke-filled room’ cliché when I meet here on po liti cal matters.”

  A few moments later, Rizzo turned back to business.

  “I’ll need your cooperation on this. Have you ever heard of a mental hygiene warrant?”

  Daily shook his head. “I hadn’t, actually. But Lieutenant D’Antonio called earlier and explained it to me. I had just gotten off the phone with a State Supreme Court judge I’m acquainted with when you arrived. I’m going down to the court house this afternoon, and I’ll have the warrant by late day.”

  “Good,” Joe said, nodding. “It pays to have acquaintances. We also need a complete list of your daughter’s friends— names, addresses, phone numbers, and nature of relationships. For instance, best friend, school-mate, casual friend, friend of a friend, college roommate, what ever. Also any boyfriends you may know of. Was your daughter being treated by a psychiatrist?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll need that information as well. And I want your permission and your wife’s permission, in writing, for us to search Rosanne’s room. If we remove anything, we’ll give you a receipt.”

  Daily nodded. “That all sounds reasonable.”

  “Good. We need a recent photo, close-up, in color. I have to know about any hobbies, pastimes, sports stuff, anything like that she enjoys. The names of any teachers at her school she talked about or admired or what ever. I need her cell phone and credit card history and numbers and prescription medication information. Does she own a car?”

  “Yes. It’s out in the garage. It has been since the day she disappeared.”

  Joe nodded. “Disable it,” he said. “Get a mechanic out here to pull the distributor. Is the car in her name?”

  “Yes, it was her high school graduation gift. Last year.”

  “Well, assuming she’s still local somewhere, which might be a big assumption, we don’t want her sneaking back home some night and takin’ the car to get farther away with. And if it’s in her name, she can take it and sell it, if she’s low on cash. Disable it.”

  “I will. Today.”

  “Alright,” Joe said, jotting a note on his pad.

  “Is there anything else?” the councilman asked.

  Rizzo looked up from his notes and smiled coolly at Daily. “Oh, yeah. There’s plenty. But for now, I’d like that written permission to search her room. And we need to talk to your wife. Can you call her in, please?”

  Daily rose from his seat, placing the cigar down into a crystal ashtray. “I’ll go get her. Please excuse me.”

  McQueen followed the man with his eyes. When he cleared the doorway, Mike leaned over to his right and spoke softly to his partner.

  “Joe,” he said, “if we don’t find the girl, this guy is going to take great plea sure in nailing your ass to the wall.”

  Rizzo smiled broadly around the butt of his cigar, puffing great clouds of smoke.

  “Yours, too, buddy,” he said matter-of- factly. “Yours, too.”

  LATER, AS the two detectives searched through the upstairs bedroom of the missing girl, they spoke in low tones.

  “How smart was it to be a wise-ass with this guy, Joe?” Mike asked. “If we find this kid and you want to tap Daily for some grease at I.A., it could come back to bite you.”

  Rizzo shrugged. “Fuck him,” he said. “Guys like him don’t do favors ’cause they like you. They don’t not do favors because they don’t like you. It’s just business to them. Don’t worry about it.”

  McQueen shook his head but remained silent, scanning the room casually.

  “It bothers me that she left the car,” Rizzo said. “What teenager takes off and leaves a brand-new car sittin’ in the garage? I sure as hell wouldn’t have.”

  McQueen, turning from the walk-in closet he had just opened, said, “Maybe she didn’t need it. Maybe she left with someone. A boyfriend, or some neighborhood kid who’s just as well off as she is and has a brand-new car, too.”

  Rizzo nodded, sliding a desk drawer open as he replied. “Could be. She called and spoke to her mother on Saturday, so we know she’s not stuffed down a sewer somewhere. At least not as of Saturday anyway.”

  McQueen scanned the messy shelves in the closet.

  “What’d you think of the mother, Joe?”

  Rizzo shrugged. “Hard to say. She might have been sedated. She seemed intimidated by Daily, don’t you think? Like she was afraid to talk too much, afraid she might say the wrong thing.”

  “Wrong thing about what?” McQueen asked.

  That brought another shrug from Rizzo. “I don’t know. But that’s the feeling I got. And Mike, I got closer to her than you did. It’s barely eleven in the morning and I smelled booze on her.”

  McQueen turned to face his partner. “Booze on her breath? Really?”

  “Couldn’t say if it was on her breath or not. It could have been oozing from her pores. That would mean a real bender last night. It’s a shame, she looks like she could be a classy dame.”

  “Well,” Mike said, “maybe it’s just the stress. It’s got to be tough having a young daughter missing, especially one with problems like this kid.”

  Mike continued searching the closet. He eyed the numerous shoe boxes strewn across the floor. They all appeared open and uncovered, some with two shoes, some with one, some with mixed pairs. One box in par tic u lar caught his eye. It was nestled in the rear corner, almost obscured by the many scattered objects around it. And this box was different from the rest: this one was closed, its top pulled and tied with a red ribbon. Mike stepped through the clutter and bent down to the box. Its weight told him there was something other than shoes inside.

  “Hey, Joe,” he called softly after opening the b
ox. “Take a look at this.”

  Rizzo crossed the plush, sea green carpet to his partner. He looked at the object Mike held.

  “Well, well,” he said with a tight smile. “The infamous teenage-girl diary. Each one of my daughters had one. They struck fear into my heart, I’ll tell you that. I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole. Some things a father just doesn’t need to know.”

  Rizzo took the thick, black, leather-bound book from Mike and dropped down heavily onto the bed.

  He flipped the diary casually to the last written page and looked at the date.

  “Last entry was a couple a months ago,” he said, then gestured to Mike to take a seat next to him. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s take a quick look, see if it’s worth taking with us. There pretty much has to be something in here that can help us.”

  After twenty minutes of scanning the pages, which were written in the consistent black ink of a roller ball pen, their eyes met.

  “My God,” Rizzo said, his head shaking slowly, side to side. “This is one fucked-up little princess.”

  McQueen felt a cold, empty knot in his stomach. The anguished, black-hued prose that comprised half the pages had read to him almost like a physical assault: he felt a gnarling, ner vous flutter in his chest. The other half of the pages, interspersed with chilling randomness throughout, were written in a florid, broad-stroked hand, contrasting as day from night, with the depressive, pain-drenched ramblings. This wild writing sang with acute glee and boundless energy, full of ambitions and dreams and improbable schemes and rallying cries of cheer and childlike exuberance.

  McQueen stood and walked to the window. He looked out at the equally regal houses that surrounded the Daily home. His eyes dropped to the yard behind the house, its fruit trees and gardens tossing colors into the morning’s bright sunlight. He turned back to face Rizzo.

  “Talk about a gilded cage,” he said.

  Rizzo nodded silently, still flipping through the diary.

  “Listen to this, Mike,” he said as he began to read a passage. “ ‘I’m lost in a pool of semen, drowning in it, fucking and sucking my way to hell. And I can’t stop. I won’t stop. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I hate these stupid boys and their stupid dicks. I hate them!’ ” Rizzo looked into Mike’s eyes. “You know why I read you that entry?” he asked.