Rizzo's War

by Lou Manfredo

  McQueen felt his facial muscles begin to tighten. “No, Joe, I don’t. But do me a favor, okay? No jokes. This isn’t funny.”

  Rizzo smiled sadly. “No shit, Mike. I got three daughters. It’s a whole fuckin’ lot less funny to me than it can ever be to you. I read that page because the next page is torn out. Here, look, you can see the remnants down in the inner spine of the book.”

  Mike crossed the room and followed Joe’s finger to the fold of the diary. He saw the slight, ragged end of the missing page.

  McQueen nodded. “What’s your point, Joe?”

  Rizzo scratched at his temple. McQueen noticed the slight ner vous eye tic begin to blink in his partner’s eye.

  “I’m not sure. But doesn’t it strike you as bein’ odd that this kid writes, in graphic terms, about screwing around and then decides to tear the next page out? What the hell was on there? Who was she afraid would see it? Her mother or father? She wasn’t concerned about the fuckin’ and suckin’ coming up at the dinner table, so what the hell was she worried about? There’s drug references in here, too— marijuana and cocaine. But apparently she wasn’t worried about anyone seeing that either. And the stuff about the shoplifting and riding in a stolen car. Why would she leave all that in, then tear something out? And that’s where the diary ends. All of a sudden, she stops writing in it. She was still home until three weeks ago but stopped her diary months ago after she tears out the last entry.”

  McQueen thought for a moment. “She’s sick, Joe. Who knows why she does something? Maybe she just lost interest.”

  Rizzo shrugged. “Maybe,” Joe said.

  “Maybe when she ran off,” McQueen continued, “she figured someone might look in the diary for clues to help find her. Just like we’re doing. So she tore that page out.”

  Rizzo pondered it, then shook his head. “So why not just ditch the whole book? Or take it with you, don’t leave it at all.”

  McQueen sat on the bed next to Joe and took the diary from him. As he began to leaf through it, he found that even now, with the contents already known to him, it chilled him and upset him. He closed the book, putting it down. After a moment, he spoke.

  “Do you think Daily has seen this?” he asked.

  Rizzo stood slowly and took the book from his partner. He shook his head.

  “Doubtful. If he knew it was here and he’s all worried about his family image, he’d’ve tossed it or hid it away somewhere. No, I’d say he doesn’t know it exists.”

  Rizzo slipped the diary into his inside jacket pocket. Smiling, he said, “We’ll just forget to include this on the receipt we give them. I don’t want a tug-of-war with the old man over this. And I wanna read it through carefully. Okay?”

  Mike shrugged. “What ever you say, Joe.”

  A knock sounded on the closed bedroom door. They turned in unison to look at it.

  “Come on in, Councilman,” Rizzo said, just loudly enough to be heard on the far side of the door. “We were just talkin’ about you.”

  ONCE BACK in the sanctuary of the Impala, they resumed their speculations in secure privacy.

  “So,” Mike said, “what do you figure, Joe? I’m thinking some kind of sexual abuse thing. Daily himself, or maybe one of his big-shot po liti cal pals that he’s obligated to cover up for. She writes it in her diary, then thinks twice about it and tears it out. Then she drops the diary completely and a few months later, she runs off.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, it’s possible. A guy like Daily would have to cover up for just about anybody, he couldn’t risk the negative press. Yeah, it’s possible, I guess. It sure would explain a lot. The hush-hush on this, the mother all tight-lipped and intimidated, the missing page. I don’t know, though …”

  McQueen glanced over as he drove, speaking to Rizzo’s profile.

  “Something bothering you about it?” he asked.

  Joe nodded and faced Mike. “Yeah, it’s too simple. Plus, we got nothing but a hunch, and let’s face it, that’s based mostly on neither of us having much use for Daily. Don’t get me wrong, it could fly. But it’s a real long shot, at best. Let’s not get so focused on it. We’ll try to develop it and see where it goes. And even if it’s true, it doesn’t give us any help finding the girl.”

  Mike nodded and turned his eyes back to the traffic as he wove the Chevrolet through the cool, shaded streets of this upscale section of Bay Ridge.

  “Okay, Joe. But I hope you’re right about Daily not knowing about the diary. We don’t need him accusing us of stealing it.”

  Rizzo laughed. “That’s nothing to worry about. We forgot, that’s all. We didn’t steal nothing.”

  “So what’s next?”

  Joe sighed and dug a Chesterfield from his sport coat. “I’ve got a friend, a personal friend, not through the job. He’s a lawyer who does mostly civil stuff, medical malpractice and products liability, things like that. He and his partner have a firm over on Vesey Street in Manhattan. I’m gonna call him to night. I figure we’ll do our DD-fives on this, just like we would to document any investigation we worked. But since D’Antonio doesn’t want us to file any, I’ll fax them over to the office on Vesey, to my friend Lenny. The fax will show date and time, and he can hold on to them in the capacity of our attorney. That way, if this ever gets weird on us, and the po liti cal hacks come after our heads, we’ve got a file to show what we did, why we did it, when we did it, and how we did it. It’ll be better than nothing if push comes to shove.”

  McQueen frowned. “Will this guy Lenny go for it? I mean, if he’s a lawyer, he may not want to piss off some connected politician like Daily who could maybe make some calls and hurt him.”

  Rizzo laughed. “Well, I’ll find out to night when I call him. But Lenny usually has more balls than brains, and he’s got a lot of brains, so that means a lot of balls. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

  They drove in silence for a while, entering the area of Bay Ridge where Rizzo lived. The houses, though much smaller and less stately than Daily’s, were no less well kept or attractive. Rizzo noted it with silent pride as he watched the blocks flow past the Impala’s windows.

  “We got a lot to do today, Mike,” he said. “All in-house stuff, no fieldwork. When we get back to the squad, we’ll look through this box of stuff we took, the notebooks and yearbook and the rest of it. I’ll read the whole diary. Then we’ll get on the phone. I have to tell the medical examiner’s office to put us on the ‘Jane Doe’ notification list. Any white teenage girls wash up on the beach somewhere, we need to know about it. I’ll get us a regional notification, too, through the state police. Then we gotta call every drugstore chain in Brooklyn and all the in de pen dents the Dailys have used in the past. If the girl fills a prescription for her Depakote, they’ll call us. And we have to set up appointments for tomorrow, first with her shrink, then her sister, then the local kids she hung with, especially that Morgan kid. The one that took her to the prom. It sounded like their relationship was pretty serious at one point. He might know something.”

  “Alright, Joe,” McQueen said as he negotiated a stop sign. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Joe nodded. “Also, there’s a priest runs a shelter down on Smith Street in Red Hook. Takes in runaway kids, druggies, head cases, abused, what ever. Last I heard, the guy was still in business. We’ll stop by and talk to him, see if he’s seen her, give him a heads-up to call us if she should show.”

  “We’re meeting the sister near NYU, right?” McQueen asked.

  Rizzo nodded and blew smoke out the window. “Yeah, your alma mater. You can bond with each other while you sing the school song, maybe she’ll give up her kid sister for you.”

  McQueen laughed. “Spit in my face more likely. The faculty at NYU makes sure the student body has a proper disdain for the fascist cops sent by the industrialists to stifle their pursuit of latte.”

  Rizzo chucked. “A little bitter, I see. Well, you know what? Fuck ’em. When some cretin is shovin’ a switchblade up Prof
essor Dickweed’s ass, you watch how fast he starts looking for a cop.”

  When they arrived at the precinct, Rizzo slid the cardboard box containing Ms. Rosanne Daily’s belongings from the rear seat, and they climbed the cracked stone steps into the building. For the next four hours they worked together, mostly without conversation, carefully picking their way through the sad fragmented facts of the young girl’s life, then methodically working the telephones.

  When at last they were done, McQueen went into the grimy toilet and splashed cold water onto his face, meeting his own eyes in the discolored mirror above the sink.

  “Michael, my friend,” he said softly to his reflection, “this is no way for you to be spending your childhood.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  July

  MIDMORNING THE FOLLOWING DAY, the detectives sped north on the East River Drive toward the Lenox Hill office of Dr. Raymond Rogers. Earlier, Rizzo had stopped at the Daily house hold and taken possession of the newly issued mental hygiene warrant for Rosanne Daily. The house keeper had silently handed it to him at the front door.

  “Is Mr. Daily in?” Joe had asked.

  “No, sir,” she had replied.

  “May I speak to Mrs. Daily, then?”

  The woman stared at him with blank eyes. “Mrs. Daily is indisposed and cannot be disturbed. Mr. Daily was quite clear: I was to give you this envelope and wish you a pleasant day.”

  Now, as Rizzo exited the highway and pushed the Impala through Manhattan’s crosstown traffic, he smiled grimly.

  “You remember that old TV show, The Addams Family?” he asked.

  Mike said, “I’ve seen the reruns once or twice on late-night cable. Why?”

  “Why? Are you kiddin’? These Daily characters should do a remake; they’d be naturals.”

  They parked in a No Standing zone on East Seventy-first Street and entered the commercial-residential building where Dr. Rogers had his practice. Once inside, the detectives did a quick, informal appraisal of their surroundings and came to the same conclusion, expressed by Rizzo.

  “This guy doesn’t come cheap,” he said.

  Rogers was fifty years old, tall and slim with finely etched facial features and small, pale hands. His thinning hair was combed straight back, accentuating the narrowness of his face. He ushered them into a semidark, elegantly simple room where the scent of leather and maple wafted in the cool air. They sat in individual chairs in a loosely formed semicircle.

  “How may I assist you, Officers?” the doctor asked, his voice level and deeper-sounding than one would expect from his appearance.

  “Well,” Rizzo said, taking out a pad and searching for his pen, “as I told you on the phone, Rosanne Daily has been missing for a while. Her parents, of course, are very worried. Especially after that phone call last Saturday. Mrs. Daily says the girl sounded suicidal.”

  The doctor smiled tightly. “Laypeople, particularly parents, are very quick to suggest suicidal impulses. In fact, such impulses are quite rare.”

  Both Rizzo and McQueen had fleeting visions of Vincente dance past them.

  “How about in this case? With Rosanne?” Mike asked.

  “Unlikely. Rosanne, as I assume you have learned already, is more inclined toward self-abasement when she goes untreated. How long has it been since she medicated?”

  “Nobody knows,” Rizzo said.

  The man shook his head sadly. “That’s unfortunate. But, again, I must ask, how may I assist you?”

  “Tell us something we can use to find her. Where do you think she would go? Who does she trust? Is there some problem, some specific problem she’s running from?”

  The man smiled sadly. “I am bound by confidentiality, gentlemen. I’m certain you are both aware of that.”

  Joe leaned forward in his seat and spoke slowly.

  “Yeah. We know that. I’m not asking you to violate her privacy, just tell me where you think she might go under the circumstances. You know what we’re trying to do here. We can get her into Gracie Square for all the treatment she needs. But first we’ve got to find her.”

  The doctor looked from one detective to the other. He was subtly impressed with the uniformity of their expressions and assumed that, despite the youth of the taller one, they had worked together for a good many years.

  “I can only confirm information if you already know it. Ask your questions accordingly.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Okay, Doc, it’s a deal. We know her father pays your fee. No insurance is utilized.”

  “Correct.”

  “We know you were treating her for about three years, with varying degrees of success. We know she’s bipolar and supposed to be on fifteen hundred milligrams of Depakote a day.”

  “Also correct.”

  “We know she stopped coming to see you about a month ago. We don’t know why.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “But that’s accurate? A month ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “We know she didn’t get along with her father, and we know she didn’t like him much.”

  The doctor’s brow furled as he answered. “We’re getting into a gray area here, Sergeant.”

  Rizzo pressed the point.

  “You said you could confirm what I already knew. I know she and her father did not get along. I have that on good information. Is that information correct?”

  With some reluctance, Rogers nodded his answer.

  “Yes.”

  “And she didn’t like him much.”

  “Correct.”

  Rizzo leaned forward, his voice lowering as he spoke.

  “Why?” he asked.

  The doctor smiled. “Don’t insult my integrity, Sergeant Rizzo, and I won’t show you the door.”

  Rizzo sat back heavily in his seat. The fingers of his right hand drummed lightly on his thigh. He took a few breaths before proceeding.

  “There are a few entries in her diary about someone she refers to as ‘FC.’ Do you know who that is?”

  Dr. Rogers seemed to hesitate. His brow furrowed as he answered.

  “What sort of references?” he asked.

  “Oh,” Rizzo said casually, “just stuff like, ‘saw FC today,’ or ‘stopped in to see FC,’ stuff like that.”

  Rogers shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t know the reference.”

  “Are you sure?” Rizzo pressed. “You seemed to hesitate there, Doc.”

  Rogers frowned. “I am quite positive. I was thinking, that’s all.”

  “Besides the disease, besides the bipolar, was something going on in her life, something new and different and bad, or old and familiar and bad? Something she may have decided she needed to run away from?”

  The doctor frowned. “How would that be of help to you in locating her? It seems irrelevant why she ran, but rather, to where she ran. Irrelevant for your purposes, I mean.”

  Rizzo responded civilly but forcefully. “Let me decide what’s relevant to what I need to do here, Doctor, okay?”

  “Certainly, Sergeant Rizzo. And I will decide what is appropriate for us to discuss about my patient.”

  Rizzo’s head cocked as he looked sternly at the man. The doctor returned his look without emotion.

  McQueen cleared his throat and spoke. “Look, Doctor, why don’t we keep this very simple, very open? We’re not the least bit interested in getting into this young lady’s psyche. We just need to find her. Is there anything, any fact at all that you can think of, that might help us do that? Surely you want her found. She needs help, you more than anyone know that.”

  The doctor looked at the earnest young policeman and sighed.

  “Detective McQueen, if there was anything I felt could be of use to you, I would surely provide it. I’ve been going over this since your call yesterday afternoon. I’ve replayed the tapes of our most recent sessions; I’ve gone through all my notes. I even asked my appointment secretary if perhaps Rosanne had mentioned something to her, someplace where she felt she
could be happy. You see, that’s all Rosanne ever wanted, was to be happy. She has no idea what true happiness is; all she knows is a progressively more crippling depression and the exhausting, false high of a chemical rush that torments her no less brutally than the depression itself.”

  The doctor paused here and dropped his eyes to the floor. When he raised them again, they were rimmed with pain.

  “It was my responsibility, gentlemen, to ease that torment.” He paused again and looked from one to the other of the policemen.

  “To date, I have failed miserably. If you find her, I’ll get one more chance, one last chance to help her. I want her found, gentlemen, perhaps more than anyone— with the exception of her mother. Find her, Detectives. Unfortunately, you must do it without my assistance, because I have nothing more to offer you.”

  “WELL,” MIKE said bitterly as he took the NYPD-Official Business placard from the dash of the Impala and tossed it into the glove box, “that went great.”

  Rizzo smiled and fired the engine. “Relax, Mike. We knew it was a long shot and probably a waste of time. The guy was holding back, but I believe him when he says he’d give us something if he thought it would help. At least we found out the guy’s legit. If we do find her, we’ll be putting her in good hands.”

  “I guess,” Mike said. “Did you notice the doctor said the only one who wants her found more than he does is her mother? Not her parents, her mother. Did that strike you as being odd?”

  Joe nodded. “You bet it did. I mean, it could have just been an expression, something you say automatically, but I didn’t get that impression. The old man is payin’ the tab, but it’s the mother the doctor figures is concerned. Dr. Rogers must know just how much this guy resents Rosanne and how much the kid really hates him.”

  “Well, let’s go see what the sister has to say,” Mike said.

  Rizzo glanced at the digital on the dash. “We’ve got plenty of time before we have to meet her. NYU is in the Village, let’s go down there and grab something to eat. You can take me to one of the old haunts from your radio car days. If we don’t see DeMayo hiding behind a lamppost, we can eat for free.”