by Tom Bradby
He stepped towards the shelf in the corner and picked up a painted box he had made for her at school, now chipped with age and use. He took down a cream-cheese tin of baseball cards, and a crude ferris wheel he’d bought on a Sunday outing to Luna Park with Sergeant Marinelli, one of his father’s junior officers. Quinn spun the wheel. It didn’t turn freely because Aidan had squashed it on the ride home.
He bent down to wipe the dust from the top of his father’s accordion. The memory of happier years tugged at him, of the Irish rebel songs his father had loved to play and of his mother’s laughter, which had once rung to the rafters.
He caught sight of Martha in the doorway. ‘He never comes in here,’ she said. ‘It’s usually locked.’
Quinn heard a footfall in the corridor. ‘Dad?’ He joined Martha in the doorway as a man in a trenchcoat and Homburg hurried past.
CHAPTER FOUR
BY THE TIME QUINN REACHED THE LANDING, THE MAN WAS IN FULL flight. Quinn clattered after him. He passed Mr Roth in the hallway and careered out onto the slippery stone stoop. The man leapt onto the running board of a waiting Chevy, which roared off.
Quinn reached the Gardner and slid into the driver’s seat. He fired the engine, stamped on the pedal, swung the wheel around hard and put his palm flat on the horn.
‘Anything I should know about?’ Caprisi asked.
‘The guy was in my father’s apartment.’
Caprisi whistled quietly. ‘They only just pulled up. I saw them outside the place on Wall Street.’
Quinn swerved to avoid skinny Sarah, now playing jump-rope with two friends on the corner. He put his hand flat on the horn again to clear the teeming streets. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’
Quinn tore after the Chevrolet all the way to the fish market on the corner of South and Fulton where it tried to swing right in front of the stubby trawlers and draggers berthed along the pier but crashed into the stalls. Boxes of fish and ice flew across the bonnet and windscreen. Men in rubber boots who had been stacking crates into lines of refrigerated trucks darted for cover, forcing Quinn to swerve violently, then reverse out, by which time the Chevy had made its break westwards. The man on its running board kicked away stray fish and climbed in through the window.
‘Drop back,’ Caprisi said. ‘They’ll never outrun us.’
Quinn eased his foot off the gas. It was true. The eight-cylinder Gardner had been bought as a pursuit vehicle and could touch a hundred.
Quinn kept his distance. As they reached the far side of Manhattan, the Chevy turned into West Street and headed north again, along the Hudson. The river was hidden behind an unending line of bulkhead sheds, cranes and warehouses, and a surging mass of back-firing, horn-blowing, gear-grinding trucks.
The Chevy tried to lose them, but it never stood a chance. It hit a taxi and nearly mowed down a slow-moving group of seamen pouring in and out of the cheap lunch rooms and tawdry saloons along the front. It overtook a truck, almost smashed into one coming the other way, then disappeared.
‘Close up,’ Caprisi said.
Quinn put his foot back on the gas. They tore down Hubert, took a right and headed back along Beach. They turned south. The driver in front must have had his foot flat down. They swung onto the lane by the piers and sped past a row of warehouses. The narrow strip was packed with freighters, trucks and dock workers. A truck nosed out and the Chevy had nowhere to go. The driver swerved, hit a stone bollard and went straight into the Hudson.
Quinn stopped the Gardner. For a moment, the Chevy wallowed, the great lamps on its hood pointing towards the Jersey shore. Then it began to sink.
The men inside were trying frantically to open its doors. Quinn slipped off his suit jacket and holster and climbed down a ladder at the side of the pier.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Caprisi shouted.
The Chevy was almost completely submerged. Quinn balanced himself and dived into the ice-cold water. He kicked out and reached the car just as it disappeared beneath the surface. He took a deep breath and held on. A white face appeared and fingers scrabbled behind the glass.
Quinn gripped the door handle with all his strength until his lungs gave out. Pain seared his chest and his thick worsted pants dragged him downwards. He kicked hard, somehow broke the surface and threw himself back, gasping for air. He breathed in a lungful of oily, effluent-laden salt water and coughed and spluttered as he swam to the pier.
When he reached the top of the ladder, Caprisi pulled him onto the road and stood over him. ‘What in hell did you do that for?’
Quinn struggled for breath. They were surrounded by a crowd of curious onlookers. ‘Thanks for your support. I appreciate it.’
‘You must be out of your mind!’ Caprisi’s face was puce with rage. ‘Schneider will kill us. We’ll have to send divers down. Do you know how much they cost?’
‘Caprisi—’
‘We’re supposed to go right back to the office and file a suicide rap. Instead, we’ve chased a bunch of guys halfway around the city and now they’re at the bottom of the Hudson.’
‘Calm down.’
‘Calm down? I’ve got less than two months to go before I’m out of this viper’s nest and back home to an honest living with a pension to tide me over. I can’t afford a disciplinary.’
Quinn had recovered his breath. ‘You saw the footprints. The guy was pushed. That makes it a homicide.’
‘No, it does not. It’s a suicide. That’s it. You heard what Schneider said.’
Quinn looked at the pierhead warehouse. The mayor grinned down at them from a billboard; he wore a morning coat, spats and his top hat. Quinn coughed up a mouthful of river water and watched the pools spread around his feet.
CHAPTER FIVE
QUINN HAD DRIED HIMSELF OUT AS BEST HE COULD, BUT HIS SHOES still squelched and left a soggy trail. McCredie bellowed with laughter. ‘Been swimming, Detective? On police time?’
‘The suspects went into the water.’
‘Did they?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And how in the hell did they do that?’
‘They were trying to outrun us and took a wrong turn down a lane by the piers on West Street. They swerved to avoid a truck, lost control and went over the edge.’
‘So, why didn’t you let them drown?’
‘They did.’
‘Good!’
‘I wanted to question them.’
‘Well, that was very noble of you.’
Assistant Chief Inspector Ed McCredie was a big man with an expressive, cheerful, lived-in face and eyes that sparkled with humour. He wore a thick winter suit, fashionably cut with wide lapels, and a garish tie loose at the collar. He went everywhere with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, jingling a bunch of coins. He’d held sway over the main detective squad at Headquarters for nearly two decades and, to most of the men and women who worked here, he was more or less equivalent to God.
McCredie stood in front of the glass door to his corner office. He was smoking a cigar. ‘Listen, I need to talk to you without that guinea bastard getting in the way. Who was the guy down on Wall Street?’
‘His name was Charlie Matsell,’ Quinn said quickly. The brevity of his superior’s attention span was legendary. He handed over the business card he’d taken from Matsell’s office. ‘He worked in Moe Diamond’s outfit and we figure he was—’
‘Hey, Mae,’ McCredie shouted. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Still falling, sir. The ticker’s running way behind, sixty minutes or more.’ Mae Miller shot Quinn a grin.
‘You hear that, boys?’ McCredie said, to no one in particular. ‘It’s a goddamn disaster. You in the market, son?’
Caprisi joined them. ‘No, sir.’
‘You should be. You want to live on a detective’s pay all your life?’
‘Er—’
‘Have you talked to Brandon?’
‘Not yet.’ There was no light on in the glass office behind
him. Sightings of Johnny Brandon, the head of the homicide bureau, were rare. ‘The way I see it,’ Quinn said, ‘Matsell—’
‘Mae, what’s happening on Murray Street?’
‘No news. They’re still not moving.’
McCredie ushered Quinn into his office. As Caprisi made to follow, he blocked his path. ‘You got a report to finish, Detective. Schneider wants it.’
Caprisi glanced at Schneider’s office. He flushed.
‘Sir,’ Quinn said, ‘Detective Caprisi has a lot of the detail that we need to—’
‘Tell that to Schneider.’ McCredie closed the door and watched Caprisi retreat. ‘We’ve surrounded a bunch of armed robbers down on Murray,’ he said absentmindedly. He stubbed out the cigar on a dented ashtray and leant against a glass cabinet, filled with boxing trophies from his youth.
There was a poster on the bench. ‘MISSING!’ it read. ‘Since 16 October, AMY MECKLENBURG.’ The photograph showed a girl clutching a small white dog.
‘Cute kid,’ McCredie said. ‘If we’re not careful, La Guardia’s going to have a field day.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Decent family. Went missing in Brooklyn.’
‘Are we putting out an alert?’
‘Not yet. Byrnes is on her trail. He figures it’s someone in the family, but if he doesn’t get to her soon, we’ll have to start pasting these things up and that’ll be hellish painful.’ McCredie lit another cigar. ‘So, what happened? Schneider will hit the roof when he hears we’ve had to send divers into the Hudson. I need to work out how to stop you getting your ass whipped.’
‘Some guy broke into my father’s apartment so I—’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘My sister – well, she’s my brother’s fiancée – worked for the dead man. I gave her a ride home.’
‘So what’s the big deal?’
‘Caprisi saw the guys in the Chevy parked up on Wall Street, so they must have followed us.’
‘And why do you figure they wanted to do that?’
‘We’re trying to work it out.’
‘Your old man runs the First Precinct station house?’
‘That’s correct, sir, yes. You might remember—’
‘Sure, I remember Gerry Quinn. Who could forget him? So, you chased the guy?’
‘Sir, there was something else. Back at Wall Street, I sneaked a few minutes on the roof and it was real clear Matsell was pushed.’
‘Says who?’
‘There were two sets of footprints in the gravel, and if he jumped, he went off backwards. I mean, suicides … Well, people who jump land face down.’
‘I’m sorry about your mother, son. I haven’t said that before. I should have. She was a good woman.’
‘Thank you, sir. I didn’t realize anyone here knew her.’
McCredie coughed. ‘Yeah, well, I understand where you’re coming from, but guys getting ready to kill themselves do all kinds of dumb things. I wouldn’t read too much into it.’
‘He had a visitor just before he … jumped.’
‘Who?’
‘We didn’t have time to find out.’
McCredie sighed. ‘Moe Diamond always was a crook, but much as it pains me to admit it, Schneider is right.’
‘But—’
‘Listen, son, I’ve got the shit going down on Murray, and if Byrnes can’t trace this girl’s uncle, I’m going to have to watch the gentlemen of the press wade in with another white-slave scare. So if Schneider says it’s a suicide, right now it is a suicide.’
‘But it isn’t.’
‘You know what’s going on here, son?’
‘No, sir.’
‘A goddamned election, that’s what. And since you’re new to us, I’m going to give you a real simple guide to what’s at stake. It may not have escaped your attention that we failed to bust the Rothstein case.’
‘Of course, I read about—’
‘So now Major La Guardia and all his little Republican buddies are alleging that the reason we haven’t solved the murder of the city’s most notorious hoodlum is because Mayor Walker, the entire Democratic machine and every single cop in this place are so bent they’re in the pocket of one organized crime faction or another. Do you understand, son?’
‘Yes, sir, I know, but—’
‘Hold on a minute,’ McCredie interrupted. ‘So, if Major La Guardia can whip up any kind of controversy with ten days to go until polling day, we’re all finished – you, me, Tammany, the commissioner, the mayor. Because, believe me, if Major La Guardia does win this election, he ain’t going to hang around to sort the good from the bad in here or anywhere else.’
‘Sir, a man was murdered. What does that have to do with organized crime?’
‘Nobody was murdered, Detective. But I’ll lay out ten bucks that the guys you chased into the Hudson this morning turn out to have had connections we’d rather not read about in our morning newspapers.’ He shook his head. ‘The folks over at City Hall are nervous. So is the commissioner. If we give them controversy, they’ll come looking for scapegoats.’
‘I do appreciate that, sir, but—’
‘You know what Schneider wants, son?’
‘No, sir.’
‘He wants me dead in the water. That’s why he moved his office down here next to mine. Once upon a time, he was just a smalltime pen-pusher from New Jersey installed on the top floor to count paper-clips. But then he decided he wanted a cut of the action so he spun the commissioner a line about busted budgets and gave himself an office in Vice. Now he’s got that wrapped up with Fogelman in the chair, he’s moved down here to get on my nerves. Homicide, the safe and loft division, burglary, street crime, the central pool – he wants to control the lot. I wouldn’t put it past the little shit to have tied up a sweetheart deal with our friend Major La Guardia already, because he wouldn’t understand the meaning of “loyalty” if it was branded on his goddamned backside.’
‘But, sir—’
McCredie smiled. ‘Relax, son. I like you. I figure you’re going to be one of the good guys. I know you’re keen and you’ll get your chance, but this is just some dumb Joe who killed himself over a broad. That’s it.’ McCredie laid a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. ‘Once we’ve got you through probation, you can ditch that guinea bastard.’
‘Caprisi seems like a good guy.’
‘He’s from the Rat Squad. He’s spent his life snitching on fellow cops. And if O’Dwyer fries, I’ll make sure he does too.’
‘Sir,’ Mae had put her head around the door, ‘they just called in from Murray. They’re about to go in.’
‘Tell them I don’t want a screw-up. Any mistakes and I’ll kick Sullivan’s ass all the way back to Jersey.’
When it was clear his audience was over, Quinn headed back to his desk.
Caprisi handed him a cup of coffee and cut him dead when he started to apologize. ‘I’m doing a preliminary report for Schneider. He wants us to run him through it.’
Quinn glanced at the deputy commissioner’s office. Its glass door was always shut. ‘The boss thinks the guys we chased into the Hudson were strong-arm hoods for one of the crime set-ups.’
‘You don’t say? I had them all figured as altar-boys.’ Caprisi peered at him. ‘Did you know them?’
‘No.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wall Street’s your father’s precinct, though, right?’
‘Sure.’
‘And it was his apartment that guy was in?’
‘What’s your point, Caprisi?’
‘Nothing. Just getting the facts straight in my head.’
Quinn watched his partner. ‘Did you work on O’Dwyer?’
‘No.’
‘But it was a Confidential Squad bust?’
‘I thought you guys liked to call it the Rat Squad? It was Valentine’s bust. Maybe that’s why they had it in for him.’
‘When’s O’Dwyer up for clemen
cy?’
‘Soon, and he won’t get it.’
Quinn sat on the edge of the desk. ‘You figure he should fry?’
‘O’Dwyer beat a man to death, Detective, and thought it a damned good joke because that man was a Negro.’ Caprisi sipped his coffee. ‘What did McCredie say?’
‘Nothing … I mean, not much.’
‘O’Dwyer was one of his Irish gang. He took it hard when Valentine reeled him in.’
‘You figure loyalty is such a bad thing, Caprisi?’
‘It depends what kind.’
‘Hmm …’ Quinn noticed a pile of posters of the missing girl on a desk behind him. ‘What’s the score with this girl?’
‘Which one?’
‘The one who went missing in Brooklyn. Byrnes has the case. How come, if she disappeared in the middle of last week, we didn’t get assigned to help him?’
‘It’s someone in the family. The uncle disappeared at the same time.’
‘Then why is it a Headquarters case?’
‘Because if it isn’t her uncle, the newspapers will say it’s white-slave traffic and the commissioner will feel the heat from City Hall. Look, I’ve got to organize the divers.’ Caprisi disappeared down the corridor.
Quinn took a couple of sips of strong, dark coffee. As the most junior – or least consequential – members of the main squad, they had been placed in the corner by the hat-stand. The walls around them were plastered with official orders. Quinn adjusted the books on the shelf. From his last job as the senior detective in the Bronx, he’d brought with him Phelps on wounds, Bundage on toxicology and Tanner on poisons.
He watched Schneider come out of his office and disappear into McCredie’s. It looked from this distance as though they might be arguing. Once or twice, McCredie glanced in his direction.
Quinn picked up the telephone and gave the operator his home number. He waited. ‘Martha?’
‘Joe? Is that you? Everything’s fine.’ Her voice was strained. ‘He’s here and he wants to speak to you.’
‘Joe?’ Now his father was on the line. ‘What happened? Did you get him?’
‘The driver lost control and went into the Hudson. None of them got out, so we’ve sent down divers. We won’t have any leads before tonight at the earliest.’
