Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  ‘Detective Quinn, Homicide.’

  ‘Ah, Detective Quinn, already a legend.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Zac Kroner. We haven’t met, but if we do I’ll bring my gloves. About time someone taught the Bull some goddamn manners.’

  ‘You find any prints inside the Buick last night?’

  ‘Not a single one. Hundreds from the dead guy and his driver, but no one else.’

  ‘So, he had gloves on.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s a pro.’

  ‘Well, he’s no fool.’

  Quinn replaced the earpiece.

  Mae was still standing next to him. ‘Trouble?’

  He stood up and stretched his arms. ‘This is one strange place.’

  ‘Have you only just worked that out? McCredie’s all right, but some of the others …’

  ‘He must know what goes on.’

  ‘I guess he doesn’t miss much.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘But someone like Johnny Brandon gets results and that’s worth a lot. If a few unsavoury elements come with it, perhaps that’s a price worth paying.’

  ‘You think McCredie’d let a case go the wrong way even if he knew Johnny’s story didn’t add up?’

  ‘Not in the end. But he’s got Schneider on his back, so in the short term it’ll get ugly.’

  Caprisi rounded the corner. ‘It’s already ugly.’

  Quinn nodded. ‘There were no prints in the Buick.’

  Caprisi slumped into his seat. ‘So, the guy’s a ghost. He can get onto the roof of a building and off again without being seen. He can get in and out of Duncan’s car without a trace.’

  ‘And Duncan was waiting for him.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Mae said.

  ‘He was carrying a piece. His wife said he’d never packed one before. And why else would anyone be waiting in Central Park?’

  A group of stenographers clattered past. ‘I know it’s a hell of a coincidence,’ Mae said, ‘but are you sure these two murders are connected? The way I hear it, Duncan had a whole bunch of enemies.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like pretty much everyone he ever crossed.’

  ‘What about Matsell?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe that was suicide.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ Caprisi said.

  ‘They’re messages,’ Quinn said. ‘First the chloroform in the mouth. Then the cut to the throat.’

  ‘Who for?’ Mae asked.

  ‘The men who have their names on the ticket.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Someone out there knows exactly what they mean.’

  ‘But none of those details have been in the papers.’

  ‘They don’t need to be,’ Caprisi said, ‘if the people they’re intended to reach are right inside this building.’

  Quinn watched Mae’s face pale. ‘We should go and listen to the Bull.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE BULL STOOD AT THE EDGE OF THE PODIUM FLANKED BY MCCREDIE and the commissioner. Mayor Jimmy Walker, hands slipped into his pockets and hair slicked neatly back, stood behind a bank of broadcast microphones. Most of the reporters sat in serried rows and the walls were lined with photographers. Quinn had to shove past a couple of latecomers to get a decent view. O’Reilly and Byrnes stood by the exit, watching him intently.

  ‘I thought Byrnes was in Syracuse,’ Quinn whispered to Caprisi.

  ‘I think you’re right, Jack,’ Mayor Walker told one of the reporters. ‘We’ve moved on since Rothstein and this proves it. I said at the time it hadn’t been handled well. When the occasion arises, there’s no one prepared to be a stronger critic of this department than I – and these men know it. When a crime attracts the attention of our friends in the press, it’s real important we nail it fast or people lose faith in their police force. I’m open about that. But under Commissioner Whalen and Ed McCredie, with top-rank detectives like Johnny, the force has never been in better hands and this case shows it.’

  Hegarty, the press chief, fiddled with his red suspenders and nodded gravely. He still had a bruised cheek from the fight with Quinn the morning before.

  ‘You figure he’ll go to the Chair?’

  ‘That’s not a matter for me,’ the mayor said.

  ‘You going to hand Johnny a medal?’

  Mayor Walker gave a wide grin. ‘I believe he already has a chestful.’

  The Bull didn’t smile.

  ‘You think Chile Acuna acted alone, Johnny?’

  ‘As I’ve already said,’ Brandon replied testily, ‘we’ve known Acuna a long time. We’ve watched him. He has a record of this kind of argument. We know that, like the Rothstein case, it was high-stakes play. Duncan wasn’t making good his debts, so Acuna lost patience.’

  ‘He didn’t need an accomplice?’

  ‘In our opinion, he did not.’

  ‘He overpowered two guys, one in the front and one in the back?’

  ‘He was armed and he’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘More ammunition for La Guardia, Mr Mayor?’

  ‘If Major La Guardia and his friends would like a less efficient police force, then sure it is.’

  There was a sycophantic laugh.

  ‘I heard there was a connection to another case.’ All eyes turned to the new voice, which came from a small, dark-haired reporter close to the back. He wore tiny round glasses and a crumpled coat, the collar half turned up and shoulders white with dandruff. ‘There was a guy who jumped off a building in Wall Street on Monday, right?’ The reporter consulted his notebook. ‘Name of Charlie Matsell. He was another part of this poker game?’

  ‘We don’t believe there’s a connection,’ the Bull said.

  ‘That wasn’t my question. I asked if they were part of the same poker game.’

  The Bull glowered at him. ‘I’m not aware that they were.’

  ‘I heard you thought this guy Matsell was murdered.’

  ‘You heard wrong.’

  ‘One of your rookies figured there could be a connection.’

  ‘I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to, Mr Goldberg, but your information is not correct. We have had a number of detectives working on the case, as you’d expect with an incident of this kind. One was sent to check out whether there was a link. There wasn’t.’

  ‘Why did you think there might be?’

  ‘We didn’t.’

  ‘If you didn’t think there could be,’ Goldberg continued, ‘then why did someone need to go and check it out?’

  There was a moment’s silence as the Bull fought to control his anger. ‘I can see you’ve never run an investigation, Mr Goldberg. We follow many leads that prove ultimately to have no bearing on a case.’

  ‘Yeah, but my point is, why did you ever think there might be a connection?’

  The Bull stared at him. ‘I believe I’ve answered your question, Mr Goldberg.’

  ‘You haven’t.’

  ‘Mr Goldberg,’ Mayor Walker interjected smoothly, ‘you’ve had your say. Now, if you gentlemen have your story, we have a city to run.’

  ‘What about the photograph?’

  Heads turned.

  ‘Which photograph?’ McCredie said.

  ‘I heard Duncan had a picture of the mayor with Rothstein and Lucky Luciano out on the realty development in Queens.’

  ‘Mr Goldberg—’

  ‘You know what Major La Guardia says: Rothstein got that sewer dug in and managed to put up forty-eight houses, block after block, without being troubled by building inspectors.’

  ‘Mr Goldberg,’ McCredie said, ‘this is a press conference about the murder of the second most important man in the city. If you’d like to make political accusations—’

  ‘I heard that’s what you thought it was about.’

  McCredie took a step forward. ‘We’re here to talk about a crime.’ He had lowered his voice an octave. ‘If you’d like to make politically motivated accusations, Mr Goldberg, f
or your friends in the Republican camp—’

  ‘They’re not my friends.’

  ‘And neither will we be if you continue in this manner. Right, that’s it, gentlemen. Thank you for coming.’

  As the press conference broke up, cameras flashed and reporters broke off into small huddles. Quinn shoved his way through the throng, past the payroll department, en route to the back stairs.

  ‘Detective Quinn?’ Goldberg wiped his glasses. ‘Mind if I ask a few questions?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes, I do.’

  Caprisi slipped away. Quinn tried to follow him.

  ‘It’ll just take a few minutes—’

  ‘Mr Goldberg—’

  ‘Call me Joshua. I just wanted to ask—’

  ‘Mr Goldberg, you’ve had your press conference. I don’t have anything else to say.’

  ‘But you believe there’s a connection with the Matsell case.’

  ‘I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but I have nothing to add.’

  ‘That’s right, though?’

  ‘I’m just a small cog. You need to talk to the Bull.’

  Goldberg pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Don’t take me for one of those other schmucks, Detective. I’ve got a real good bullshit detector and Johnny Brandon sends it right off the scale every time he opens his mouth. So, you want to tell me what’s really going on?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘We could help each other.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  The reporter took a card from his wallet and shoved it into Quinn’s top pocket. ‘Think about it. You can call me, day or night.’

  Quinn had barely got through the door upstairs when Johnny Brandon thrust him back out into the stairwell. Through the open doorway, he could see the mayor and Commissioner Whalen inside McCredie’s office.

  ‘You and your little guinea friend been talking to that snivelling shit Goldberg? You’ve got a nerve, kid.’

  Quinn shook his head.

  ‘You’d better wise up. Keep going like this and I’ll have you busted out of here so fast your little dancing feet won’t touch the ground.’

  ‘Sure, Johnny.’

  ‘Don’t you “sure, Johnny” me. I was busting cases in here when you were sucking your mother’s tit.’

  O’Reilly stepped into the stairwell. ‘Come on, Johnny. The boss wants you, and this kid ain’t worth your breath.’

  The Bull adjusted his tie and followed him back into Homicide. Quinn joined Caprisi at his desk. They glanced across at the group huddled in McCredie’s office. ‘You figure someone’s trying to set us up?’ Caprisi said.

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘You tell me. How in hell did Goldberg know so much? Did you speak to him?’

  ‘Never saw him before.’

  Caprisi passed a softball from one hand to the other and back again. ‘If a newspaper got a hold of that picture …’ He whistled quietly. ‘The mayor, Rothstein and Luciano … City Hall goes bang! Someone in here is singing to the press. The Bull’s got nothing to gain, nor big Ed McCredie or any of the other guys on the top floor. They’ve got to figure it’s us.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do about it?’

  ‘I’m just saying it doesn’t look good.’

  ‘That’s helpful.’

  ‘Always glad to be of service.’

  ‘I’ll talk to McCredie.’

  ‘That’s not such a smart idea. Not now. It’s too soon to resign. Besides, things are going so well, with all the new friends you’ve made …’ Caprisi pulled open a drawer and lobbed the softball inside. ‘You sure know how to complicate a guy’s life.’

  ‘You could always go back to the Rat Squad.’

  ‘Cheap shot.’ Caprisi was no longer smiling. ‘I’ll tell you something. When I was with Valentine, people in here used to spit in my face. Now some even call out good morning when they pass.’

  ‘We don’t get paid to make friends.’

  ‘But we sure as hell don’t have to make enemies.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘I thought you joined Valentine because you believed in him,’ Quinn said.

  ‘I did, but I joined to get to Headquarters.’ Caprisi pulled over his chair. ‘Listen, Joe. You stepped up to the plate for me with the Bull and I appreciate that. I’m your guy now. But we don’t have to make enemies of everyone in the building.’

  ‘I’m not trying to offend anyone.’

  ‘You don’t have to try.’ Caprisi laughed. ‘Hey, that’s life. You take two steps forward and one back. I told Sandra last night there were at least a dozen people in here who didn’t want to spit in my face now, but maybe I should reconsider.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. Well, it is, but I won’t hold it against you.’

  They watched Schneider join the crowd in McCredie’s office. The Bull had his back to them, leaning against the glass.

  Caprisi lit a cigarette, sucked in the smoke and blew it towards a ceiling fan. He watched it spiral slowly upwards.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  DR CARTER SAT WITH HIS FEET ON THE WINDOWSILL, READING A COPY of the News, a glass of bootlegged whisky in his hand. He wore a thick woollen sweater against the cold.

  ‘Afternoon, Doc,’ Quinn said.

  Carter didn’t return his smile. He folded the newspaper, took a slug from his glass and went to replenish it. He picked out a couple of ice cubes from a red box. ‘The case is closed.’

  Quinn walked over, removed the glass from Carter’s hand and poured the contents down the sink. ‘It’s okay, Doc. Just give us a couple minutes.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’d like to talk about the new friends you’ve got in your refrigerator.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say.’

  Quinn shoved past him.

  Duncan and his driver lay side by side on the slab. Duncan’s skull had been sliced open and his brain exposed. The metal slide and the floor beneath it were spattered with tiny specks of flesh, bone and blood.

  ‘You want to fill us in, Doc?’ Caprisi said.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Did you find any chloroform in Duncan?’ Quinn said. ‘That’s why you cut his brain open, right?’

  Carter glowered at them. ‘Whose side are you gentlemen on?’

  ‘We’re all on the same side here.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Quinn sighed. ‘Doc, if you want to call McCredie, go right ahead. But it’s every shoulder to the wheel right now.’

  ‘What’s your angle?’

  ‘We want to see if there’s any similarity in the method. We have to write up a final report on Matsell and confirm there are no connections with Mr Duncan’s murder.’

  ‘There aren’t.’

  ‘Then just talk us through what you’ve got and we can close the file.’

  ‘There’s nothing to say.’

  ‘So, no chloroform in Duncan?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Certain.’

  Quinn peered at the two bodies. Duncan was close on a foot taller. His cheeks sagged even more markedly in death than they had in life. Quinn circled the slab. He studied the cut to Duncan’s throat and the purple bruising around the stab wound in his chest. The driver did not appear to have a mark on his body.

  ‘How did the chauffeur die?’ Caprisi asked.

  ‘Asphyxia.’

  ‘He was strangled?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was hit?’

  ‘With a lead pipe.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because it’s my job and, despite appearances to the contrary, I’m good at it.’

  ‘Sure you are, Doc. We’ve seen that.’

  Carter poured himself another drink and slumped against the windowsill. He sighed heavily. ‘Have a seat.’ Neither man budged. ‘Come on, I’m sorry. This job gets to me,
some days. Dead men make lousy company.’

  Quinn reached for the whisky glass. ‘Doc—’

  ‘I’m all right. Take a seat.’ He held up the glass. ‘Will you gentlemen join me?’

  They shook their heads as they sat down.

  ‘Shame. You know, I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I have a fatal weakness for anyone who actually shows an interest in my work. You ought to go far. You won’t, of course, because—’

  ‘Doc …’

  ‘All right! Was it cold last night?’

  Quinn looked at his partner. ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘Was it warm?’

  ‘Not at night.’

  ‘Exactly. Mr Evans here was hit with a lead pipe, which crushed several of his vertebrae and caused swift asphyxia. The surface coating of the pipe has rubbed off on the back of his neck and on his shirt and jacket. Lead only does this when it’s warm and, as you say, it wasn’t a hot night.’

  ‘Doc, forgive us, but—’

  ‘There’s only one conclusion that can be drawn.’

  He had laid down a challenge. Quinn tried not to let his irritation show.

  ‘He had it in his pocket,’ Caprisi said.

  ‘He may have done, but that, in itself, wouldn’t have been enough.’

  Quinn listened to the clock on the wall. It had just gone three. He watched the second hand move slowly around the dial. ‘The automobile was warm,’ he said. ‘He’d been sitting there a while.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Carter looked gleeful. ‘Very good, Detective! I’d say he must have been there fifteen minutes or more.’

  ‘So, it was a rendezvous. Duncan sat chatting to the guy and had no idea what was coming.’

  ‘One assumes so.’

  ‘What were they talking about?’ Caprisi asked.

  ‘I’m a pathologist, Detective, not a clairvoyant. But here’s another thing. What else does one have to conclude about the lead pipe, if it’s warm enough to shed a surface coating?’

  ‘It’s soft,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Well done, Detective. No wonder the Bull’s looking to his laurels. It’s too soft to achieve the result he wished for.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Caprisi asked.

  ‘It means that you’re dealing with a guy who knows a thing or two. An amateur would assume that a lead pipe is the perfect instrument for the job. But he has it in his pocket for fifteen minutes or more in a warm car and it softens up. He pulls it out to strike his target only to find that it merely injures, not kills.’