Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  ‘We’re looking at the kidnap and assault of young women. Possibly even young girls.’

  Maretsky looked down the list. ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Quinn tried to hide his relief.

  ‘I’m sure there were plenty of young girls murdered, Detective, all over Manhattan, but that doesn’t mean the cases ended up here.’

  ‘What about the Mecklenburg girl?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘How come her case is here?’

  ‘There’s an election on.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘It’s Johnny’s call. He and McCredie take whichever cases they want – or whichever the commissioner and Schneider tell them they want. It’s all politics, Detective. You should know that by now.’

  ‘What’s the story with the uncle?’

  ‘There’s no file on him. They came and asked, but we don’t have anything.’

  ‘Where does he work?’

  ‘Garage mechanic in the Bronx.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  AT DUNCAN’S MANSION, IT WAS LIKE NOTHING HAD HAPPENED. THEY encountered the same maid and the same fuss over dirty shoes and fancy carpets. As they stood in the hallway, they could hear children playing at the end of the corridor. ‘You figure the mayor’ll give me Duncan’s job?’ Caprisi asked.

  ‘Jimmy doesn’t employ Italians. Only decent, loyal, hardworking Irish Americans.’

  ‘The masters of honest toil,’ Caprisi said.

  ‘Where do you figure the Bull and his friends’ll go with this?’

  Caprisi shrugged. ‘Push around some dough, come up with a cock-and-bull shit story that’ll play with the papers.’

  As Quinn moved closer to the portrait of Mrs Duncan, she rounded the corner. She seemed weary but dry-eyed and drew on a cigarette in a long, ivory holder. She was wearing a tailored trouser suit and a hat, and didn’t cut much of a figure as a grieving widow. ‘You again,’ she said to Quinn. This time there was no mistaking the way she sized him up.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but—’

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry, Detective.’

  ‘We’ve got to make sure that—’

  ‘You’re here to babysit me. How nice. Jimmy said they’d send somebody down. You want to wait here in the hall or …’

  Quinn got the idea that this was, in fact, the only option.

  ‘I’ll get Elsie to make you a cup of coffee.’ She turned to go.

  ‘Actually, ma’am, would you mind if we take a look around?’

  ‘A look around where?’

  ‘Maybe your husband’s study.’

  ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’

  ‘Ma’am, this is a police investigation.’

  ‘Are you going to rummage through my closets?’ Her eyes flashed a challenge.

  ‘If we could just look at your husband’s study …’

  ‘What do I have to fear?’ She glared defiantly at Quinn. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  Most of the doors off the hall were closed. The first they tried led to a darkened drawing room. Quinn flicked a light switch. Like the hall, the room was a monument to fine taste and great wealth. Luxuriant velvet curtains were pulled across tall windows. The carpet pile felt three inches deep. There were two long sofas, covered with a rich, red fabric, and a mahogany writing-desk. Another portrait of Mrs Duncan dominated the wall above the hearth. This time, she lounged seductively on an empty stage, the shoulder straps of her dress draped over bare arms.

  Quinn turned off the light and closed the door. Caprisi had already gone into Duncan’s study, which was sumptuously appointed in the style of a gentlemen’s club. A brass ashtray stood at either end of a polished wooden desk. Bookshelves laden with weighty, leatherbound tomes filled one wall. Photographs hung on another. Quinn examined a picture of Duncan standing between Jimmy Walker and Grover Whalen at the tickertape reception for Charles Lindbergh after he’d flown non-stop across the Atlantic, then Duncan and the mayor at either side of Gene Tunney on the night he’d beaten Jack Dempsey to the world heavyweight title.

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ Caprisi muttered.

  ‘Not so lucky now.’

  Duncan’s desk bore photographs of Mayor Walker in Havana, Paris and Berlin. The final picture was of Walker and Duncan with Al Smith and a fourth man Quinn didn’t recognize. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Al Blumenthal.’

  The name was familiar. ‘What’s the connection?’

  ‘He’s one of the mayor’s friendly millionaires.’

  ‘How friendly is friendly?’

  Caprisi sat down in the leather chair. ‘How do you think he got to live like this, Detective? You figure it comes on a public official’s salary?’

  Quinn pulled open the central drawer of the desk. He found a selection of letters demanding payment for bills that were long overdue. One was from an automobile showroom for a brandnew Lincoln town car, which had been bought the previous spring but never paid for. Another was for a Plymouth coupé, a third for a Pierce-Arrow Roadster. There was a letter from Cartier, for the purchase of a diamond ring, and a second from Tiffany’s for a ruby necklace. All the firms professed themselves certain the delay in payment had been due to an ‘administrative oversight’.

  Tucked beneath the pile was another photograph, a copy of the one of Martha he had found in Matsell’s office.

  Quinn tried to remove it, but Caprisi slammed his hand on it. ‘Not this time.’

  ‘It’s my business.’

  ‘Not any more it isn’t.’

  Quinn bent back his partner’s fingers and slipped the photograph into his pocket.

  ‘Now you’re going to tell me what’s going on,’ Caprisi said, ‘because it seems to me, Detective, that you know a hell of a lot more than you’re letting on.’

  ‘You’ve said you don’t want trouble, so why don’t you leave it?’

  ‘Because you’re my partner and I owe you.’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

  ‘In my neighbourhood, nobody stepped up to the plate for a guinea.’

  ‘I’m real sorry to hear it, but you can consider your debt discharged.’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way. Also, I listened to your speech. Maybe you’re right. I wear the badge, I should try to believe in it.’

  Quinn watched a group of girls giggling on the sidewalk, and was reminded of Martha and the Santini daughters. He remembered how his father had watched her from the front room with his face pressed to the window.

  His mind was playing tricks.

  ‘I’ll help you if you tell me how,’ Caprisi muttered.

  ‘What if the guys who are supposed to be protecting us are the ones we need to be protected from?’

  ‘That’s my line.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘No shit.’ Caprisi’s smile lit up his face.

  ‘Luciano has top-level cover and he’s looking after it.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘I dropped by the Cotton Club. Owney Madden told me Lucky will do what it takes to keep his man safe. The golden goose, he called him. What do you do, he said, if the goose turns bad?’

  ‘Who was he talking about?’

  Quinn raised his hands. ‘You told me Valentine figured Schneider was calling the shots. Or maybe it’s the Bull.’

  ‘Unless you go higher,’ Caprisi said. ‘Look who Duncan was working for.’

  ‘But do you figure the guys in the mayor’s office are really in charge?’

  ‘They can fire the commissioner, can’t they?’

  ‘But is the commissioner in control of men like the Bull?’

  ‘I don’t know, Joe.’ Caprisi shook his head.

  Quinn was pacing the floor. ‘Moe Diamond was laid out flat in a room upstairs at the club. He was real shaken.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say.’

  ‘But you can make a guess – and I reckon you already have.’

&
nbsp; ‘I don’t know what he’s frightened of. Maybe it’s like the story you told me. Some guy got his wife dumped in the East River and didn’t like it.’

  ‘So the guy fights back,’ Caprisi said. ‘Is that what you’re saying? He wants to mete out a little justice to men who are above the law. First prize goes to Charlie, second to our friend Spencer Duncan. Meantime, Moe figures out his name is on the same ticket.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And Owney Madden’s golden goose is on there with him?’

  Quinn didn’t answer.

  ‘Which explains why Charlie Luciano and his boys are like cats on a hot tin roof. They lose the golden goose and their rackets fall apart. One weak link, and La Guardia cleans up. But why should we care, Joe? Even Duncan’s wife doesn’t mourn him.’

  ‘We care because it’s a crime.’

  ‘A thousand crimes go unsolved in this city every day.’

  ‘If we’re right, there’ll be other victims.’

  ‘So you want me to bring out my handkerchief because a bunch of Wall Street crooks are shitting their pants? If they’ve been chasing broads and roughing them over, what the hell do we care if they get their just deserts? And if this goose gets fried, we’ll have done the city a favour.’

  ‘We care because it’s the law, Caprisi.’

  ‘Do we now? You believe everyone in this city is even close to being subject to the same law?’

  Quinn turned away.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Caprisi said. ‘I’m not finished. Some days, I figure you’re an idealist and I like that. But sometimes you seem real naïve and that’s not so good, because it means there’s every chance you’ll earn us both a ride out to Staten Island. And I’ll tell you something else. There’s no way on God’s earth I’m going to leave my boy without a father.’

  ‘You either believe in the law, Caprisi, or you don’t. Maybe not everyone is guilty.’

  ‘Maybe they’re not and maybe the good Lord will forgive them.’

  Quinn moved next door into a dressing room. It was furnished in similar style, with huge floor-to-ceiling closets and a couch along the opposite wall that doubled as a bed. Quinn opened one of the closet doors.

  Caprisi stood beside him. ‘So, why do we care, Detective?’

  ‘Jesus …’ The wardrobe stretched the length of the room and was full of suits. There must have been fifty, perhaps even a hundred. Beyond them, there were rows of matching sport jackets and striped pants, piqué vests, morning coats and top hats, then line upon line of ties. Rows of shoes stretched beneath the clothing. Quinn took out a couple of pairs. They looked as if they’d never been worn.

  ‘Are you going to level with me?’ Caprisi asked.

  Quinn took out a suit. ‘Hmm …’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Caprisi said. ‘Let me guess.’

  Quinn checked the label. ‘Jacob Zwirz.’

  Caprisi wasn’t about to be diverted. ‘Joe, I’d like to help you. And, seeing the way you operate, I’d say you need a friend.’

  ‘I’ve told you what I know.’

  ‘Is that so? Then tell me again why we should give a damn if Moe and his friends are killed before sunset.’

  ‘Because that’s our job.’

  ‘So you want us to get mixed up with these boys – with Moe and his golden-goose buddy, Luciano and his guys who’re worried their rackets are about to go under – because it’s our job?’

  ‘Let’s drop it.’

  ‘Let’s not. Where are you going to fly with those fists next, Joe? What are you trying to achieve?’

  ‘We don’t know anything,’ Quinn hissed. ‘You can’t write Moe Diamond off because you don’t like the cut of his suits. What happens if some of the guys on this ticket are innocent? That’s what the law is supposed to determine. Are we going to let a killer dance around Manhattan carving up whoever the hell he wants?’

  ‘Why not? It seems like he’s doing the world one hell of a favour.’

  ‘I can’t be straight with you,’ Quinn said. ‘I’d like to be. I know I should be. I appreciate what you’re saying. I know the risks. I owe you an explanation. But I can’t give it you. I don’t know which direction the killer is coming from, or what his motive is, but I do know that some of the people in the frame could be innocent.’

  ‘Could be?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re talking about that photograph, right?’

  Quinn tried to avoid Caprisi’s eye. ‘Look, sometimes you can get caught up in something that really isn’t your fault. Maybe it doesn’t look good, but it can happen. So we can’t just walk away. We … shouldn’t.’

  ‘Spell it out, Joe.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Joe Quinn, I don’t give two screws about this case, but I’d like to help you.’

  ‘It’s nothing. You’re almost out of here. You have your world, I have mine. We should leave it at that.’

  Caprisi took a deep breath. ‘You say I’m a hard nut to crack. Well, let me tell you a true story. Maybe it’ll help. My eldest brother was called Joe and you sure as hell remind me of him. He was smart, too, and headstrong. He joined the new Prohibition squad at Headquarters up in Chicago, but he wouldn’t sign into the syndicate. One day, they decided he was more trouble than he was worth and they sent one of their guys around to my parents’ house and gunned Joe down on the doorstep. He died in my father’s arms.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not done. Here’s the point. We know who killed my brother because he was a cop who lived only three streets away. He was Joe’s friend. They used to be in the same gang when we were kids. But now he’s a powerful detective and my father doesn’t dare cross him. He passes him in the street every morning and raises his cap. He serves him coffee in the store and calls him “sir”.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, Caprisi?’

  ‘You know exactly what I’m telling you. I’m ashamed of him. He’s a coward. But he’s still my father. He’s my blood. More than that, he’s old and frail and he needs me. After we got the news from Shanghai three years ago, I knew it was only a matter of time. There’s no one else.’

  Quinn felt the pain in his head again, deep behind his eyes.

  ‘This is going to be a whole lot easier if you spell it out, Joe.’

  Quinn took out the photograph of Martha. ‘If you look hard,’ he said, ‘you can see two men in the picture, which means three in the room. But there were probably others.’

  Caprisi examined it dispassionately. ‘Who do you figure they are?’

  ‘Charlie Matsell, Spencer Duncan and Moe Diamond are top of my list. I guess Luciano’s goose may have been there as well.’

  ‘What did Moe Diamond tell you?’

  ‘He asked me why we took Martha in.’

  ‘And what answer did you give?’

  ‘I didn’t have one.’

  ‘You figure this has something to do with your father? You think he’s one of this group of men?’

  ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘But that’s what Moe said?’

  ‘It must be a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Maybe Moe’s lying,’ Caprisi said quietly. ‘From the look of him, I’d say it wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They sat in silence.

  ‘It’s okay, Joe.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel okay. I remember a time when everything was better, when it was good. I want to get back to that.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’

  Quinn looked down at Spencer Duncan’s shoes. He picked out a couple more pairs, loafers this time. As he crouched, he noticed a line of drawers along the bottom of the wardrobe.

  The first was full of spats, the second bow-ties, the third suspenders and the fourth cufflinks. Quinn kept going along the row. The fifth had underpants, the sixth handkerchiefs (all neatly laundered and laid out), the seventh sock suspenders. Another had stud buttons for a dress shirt – hundreds of them.

&nb
sp; The last drawer was locked. It was twice the width of the others.

  ‘How are you with locks?’

  Caprisi rolled his eyes, then took a small knife from his pocket and got down on his hands and knees. ‘You sure you want to do this? If she tells the mayor, we’re screwed.’

  Quinn made sure both doors into the room were closed. Caprisi tried to pick the lock, without success.

  ‘We’ll have to force it,’ Quinn said. ‘The way she talks about him, I doubt she’ll ever come in here again. Give me the knife.’

  Caprisi held onto it. He used the short blade to try to force the drawer. It snapped. ‘Now look what you’ve done. My brother gave me this.’ He tried with the longer blade. It still wouldn’t budge.

  Quinn rifled the desk and found a letter opener. Together, they managed to splinter and force up the shelf above. ‘Subtle,’ Caprisi said as they surveyed the damage.

  Quinn pulled out the drawer and placed it on the floor between them. He found a pair of gold cufflinks, beautifully engraved with Duncan’s initials on each side. A silver heart-shaped pendant contained a lock of jet-black hair, and a pile of documents lay beneath it. They were mostly investment certificates. Nearly all the stocks had been bought through the same broker. There was no mention of Unique Investment Management, or of Luciano and Lansky’s Olive Oil Company, but he did find a share certificate for Idaho Copper.

  ‘What is it?’ Caprisi asked.

  ‘They’ve been in this business a long time. This was one of Rothstein’s fixes eight or nine years ago. I read about it in Yan’s files.’

  Quinn unearthed a note from the Bank of America on Fifth Avenue acknowledging the deposit of a diamond necklace and five thousand dollars in cash. The final pages were covered with neat, handwritten figures. The first was headed ‘Disbursements’, but there was no sign of what the sums referred to. He showed them to Caprisi, then folded them and slipped them into his pocket. ‘What triggered it?’ he said. ‘Why now? Why Matsell first? Why this Monday?’

  ‘When was the photograph of Martha taken?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Quinn said. ‘What about the Mecklenburg girl?’

  They heard footsteps in the study and scrambled to replace the contents of the drawer. A moment later the maid was in the doorway. ‘You’re wanted on the telephone.’