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“Madonna! Joe, whaddya doin?” Sgt. Vincent Del Arrazio whined, half a cigarette between his teeth and gesturing emphatically, “You trying to kill me with that draft?”
“Go to hell, I’m catching fucking cancer over here,” Bartlett spat back at her partner, leaving the window ajar and mockingly waving a hand with her fingers pinched together as she’d so often seen him do.
“I’ll have you know,” Del Arrazio smirked, gingerly lighting his cigarette with one hand while shaking a pointed finger with the other, “That’s Italian-American racism,” and he exhaled an ashy cloud in the direction of the pigpen that marked Bartlett’s half of their desk.
“You’re full shit,” Bartlett said sharply, gazing back down at her clutter of papers.
“Love you too,” came the wry reply as Del Arrazio burrowed into the woolly warmth of his aging overcoat. He only had 90 minutes left on the clock and was sure he would find a way to get Bartlett back anyhow.
From the other side of the printer, Montoya suppressed smile. There wasn’t another soul in Major Crimes that dared to take such a tone with the sarcastic sergeant. However mild-mannered he seemed, the sergeant was a proud man and whether hands were thrown or not, egos were never spared, especially by way of practical jokes.
“Montoya! Allen!” thundered the Delaware drawl and booming footsteps of Capt. Sawyer, “What’s the status on the Rizzi case?”
“Dead in the water at the moment, Captain,” Montoya frowned, twirling her pen, “Fraud and Bunco came up with nothing on both construction firms. Leaves us with no motive, no murder weapon and, believe it or not, no witnesses.”
“None willing to talk that is,” muttered Del Arrazio, flipping through his own open case file.
“Sarge?” Montoya looked to Sawyer's No. 2, who had instead turned his gaze to the departing Kasinsky. She was retiring early today, as requested, to pick up her kids from school in light of a school bus driver strike.
School… He thought tentatively, releasing a quick puff of smoke. Been a while since...
“Tell you what, Captain,” hummed Del Arrazio, ashing the last of his cigarette, “I get to go home early, and Bartlett and I pick up on the Rizzi case first thing tomorrow.”
“The fuck kind of deal is that?” Bartlett chimed in, hardly loud enough to reach the captain's ears.
“Case is cold as they come, Sarge,” offered Montoya, earnestly, “Allen and I are already up to speed, took at least a week just to—”
“We’ll take care of it, Renee,” Del Arrazio grinned, wondering if he was ever as willingly overworked a detective as this plucky young woman, “Bartlett goes through cold cases like candy. Whaddya say Capt'n?”
“Fine with me,” Sawyer replied, “S’long as you drag this slogger out with you,” she said pointing at Montoya without making eye contact, “Swear she’d live here if she could.”
“Done!” Del Arrazio exclaimed, beaming across at his now teeth-grinding partner.
“Better make lieutenant quick, I’m actually killing you,” Bartlett threatened, her voice far too flat to be serious, as Montoya and Del Arrazio exchanged files, “Just you wait, Vin.”
As he packed up his desk, Del Arrazio retrieved from behind a stack of files in his bottom drawer a practically decaying old book— Leonardo Sciascia’s Il Giorno della Civetta; The Day of the Owl. He stowed the book safely in the inner pocket of his overcoat and gestured to Montoya that he was ready to leave.
“So, what exactly do you have up your sleeve, Vincent?” Montoya half-whispered and Del Arrazio had to admit to himself that she might not have needed his help at all; always asking the questions she did.
“Just forget about it,” Del Arrazio smiled gently, before winking at Bartlett, “See you tomorrow, partner. Early start.”
The trek was longer and steeper and maybe even colder than Del Arrazio’s trusty old Dalmation would have liked, especially since it had been so long since they had walked this route. He hoped it would at least make up for the lack of exercise he had been able to afford her recently, considering the overtime expected of a Gotham cop around Halloween. Seeing the time on the 1950 Panerai on his wrist, he was hoping that, today, someone else was held back at work instead.
“Grazzi a Diu. Thank God,” Turning onto the corner of Moldoff Street, Del Arrazio grinned at the sight of a yet-to-be-lit top floor apartment, resisting, with some difficulty, the urge to take a celebratory smoke. “Good girl, Louisa,” he pet his loyal Dalmatian apologetically, knowing fully well he had been hurrying her along. No longer rushing, muscle memory took over as he navigated the awkward crossing, found the entrance to the brownstone, and stuffed the old Italian book packed into his overcoat through the mail slot.
“I’ll walk you somewhere nice next time, Louisa. Promise.”
"Attagirl, Louisa," Del Arrazio said through gritted teeth as they strolled into his sleepy, East Town driveway. It was more than chilly enough to warrant another smoke, he thought, but he didn't need another earful about cancer from yet another woman who wasn't his mother.
“Bona sira, Signuri Invistigaturi. <Good evening, Signore Detective>,” a disembodied voice, as cool as the autumn breeze, pierced the air, and it took Del Arrazio a few seconds to puzzle out the direction it came from. He saw his book in her hand before he spotted her— that streak of violet against the inky shadows, that giant bat-shaped silhouette she casted, that playful grin on her bow-shaped lips, that unmistakable cross on her chest— and he was reminded of how unabashedly she wore that big heart of her's on her sleeve, “I have read this, by the way. Twice.”
“Avaia! <You don’t say!>” Del Arrazio replied, quickly scanning over his shoulder and wondering how long it was since he last had a proper conversation in Sicilianu, “Well, I guess I should let you in to pick something else off my bookshelf.”
“Bedda Matri! How kind,” Huntress graciously thanked the detective-turned-librarian for his so obviously unconditional offer. "Talia chi c’è! <Look who it is!>" she called, gently sticking out an ungloved hand in Louisa’s direction. Del Arrazio felt the tug of the lead immediately and looked down to see Louisa, tongue lolling out eagerly, intently edging her way towards the purple and black shadow as if she were famigghia, long lost.
“Amunì. <Come on>,“ Del Arrazio groaned, still weary of any nosy, keen eyed, lip-reading, bilingual neighbours, “You two can catch up inside.”
“After you, Vin,” Huntress gestured dramatically to the door. As Del Arrazio marched by her, Huntress waved the Sciascia novel right in front of his face like an annoying younger sister, stopping him in his tracks, and he snatched the novel back as if it weren't being shown proper respect, “For your investigation’s sake, there better be at least one book on your shelf written by nu siciliana; a Sicilian woman.”
“Madonna! In that case, I might need you to come back tomorrow.”