Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  ‘So he used something else as well,’ Quinn said.

  ‘If I were a betting man, I’d say he’d put an iron rod down the centre of the pipe and welded it in place, to be sure he would achieve his desired objective.’

  ‘For which he’d have needed a workshop.’

  ‘Probably.’

  Quinn got to his feet again and walked around the bodies. ‘If you’re right, he must have broken the chauffeur’s neck with one swift, clean, unexpected blow. But what happened next? He asked Duncan to pull down his pants?’

  Carter shrugged.

  ‘He still had the lead pipe in his hand. Why did he pull a knife?’ Quinn turned to Caprisi.

  ‘He’s lost the element of surprise,’ Caprisi said. ‘Duncan’s a big guy. Maybe he feels he needs something more.’

  ‘But he strikes the chauffeur in a flash. With the reverse blow, he can crush Duncan’s skull, so we have to think he wants Duncan to know he’s going to die and he wishes to put that mark on his throat.’

  ‘For what purpose?’ Carter asked.

  Quinn gripped Carter’s shoulder. ‘Thanks, Doc.’

  The canteen was only half full, but the air was thick with the smell of damp leather and cigarette smoke. A large group of uniforms had laid out their winter jackets on one table while they ate at the next. Their laughter echoed in the cavernous room.

  Roast pork and beef stew were on the menu, and something that might have been chicken.

  Caprisi ordered a peanut-butter sandwich, cut from thick slices of white bread, and took a Fig Newton from the self-service counter. Quinn poured himself a cup of coffee and paid the man at the till, whose moon face was as expressionless as Elmo Lincoln’s, Hollywood’s ‘Tarzan of the Apes’.

  Caprisi took his tray to a bench in the corner furthest from the entrance. Hegarty sat nearby with a reporter from the press conference, his knees wide apart and his great stomach pressed against the table. He spoke in hushed tones, making his points with short, agitated thrusts of a pudgy index finger. The reporter listened intently and made notes on a small pad.

  ‘What do you think he’s selling?’ Quinn asked, but Caprisi was too busy shoving the peanut-butter sandwich down his throat to answer. ‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you to chew your food?’

  Caprisi finished the sandwich, licked his lips, then picked up the Fig Newton. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  Caprisi pulled off his boots. His feet stank.

  There was a roar of laughter from the uniform crowd. One threw a boot at another. Quinn watched Hegarty get up and head for the doorway. He shot a glance in their direction. ‘Was Hegarty ever a cop?’

  ‘You must be kidding,’ Caprisi said. ‘He was a lousy hack from the gutter end of the yellow press until they decided to make him a lousy press officer with a yard of attitude and ideas way above his station.’

  ‘Whose idea was that?’

  ‘Some Tammany genius. Who else? Now he fancies he’s a big player in your Irish gang.’

  ‘Not my gang. Not any more.’

  Caprisi grunted in agreement. The uniform party broke up and spent a couple of noisy minutes putting on their uniform jackets and wet leather boots, then stamped away down the corridor. A pair of cleaners appeared with mops and brooms.

  ‘I asked Yan to canvass his friends in the precincts, see if anyone can spot a pattern of assaults. Maybe guys who’ve used chloroform to drug girls and take them into a poker game …’ Quinn sat back. ‘Where do you get chloroform?’

  ‘A drugstore, I guess. Or a hospital – a surgery.’

  ‘We should go back to our friend Chile Acuna and see if there was a doctor in the poker game.’

  ‘You mean you’d like me to?’

  ‘One of us should. Otherwise we’ll have to work our way through every drugstore in Manhattan.’

  ‘I’ll go. I reckon you should leave Chile to cool off until the morning. You’re not going to break him tonight.’

  Quinn took out Duncan’s wallet. He pushed across the ticket to the MacDonald–Brown fight. ‘Who goes to a prize-fight alone?’

  ‘You asked me that already. Maybe he was meeting a friend.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Quinn pocketed the ticket.

  The cleaners had reached their table. They wiped the floor in sweeping, useless arcs.

  ‘What you going to do, Joe?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Your father.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions. Maybe it’s a misunderstanding, like you said. Have you spoken to anyone about it?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Anyone who knew him in here.’

  ‘I talked to McCredie.’

  ‘I meant guys who worked alongside him. Who were his partners?’

  ‘I don’t know. They never came to the house. There was a guy called Marinelli from Vice, but he died a few years back.’

  ‘There must be a record.’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘But they can tell you what kind of guy he was. Maybe that’s what you need to hear.’ Caprisi pulled his boots on. ‘Where are you going to sleep tonight? Under the desk again?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘No, I’m serious.’ He handed over a scrap of paper with an address scrawled across it. ‘You’ll have to sleep on the couch and put up with my wife’s cooking, but if you need somewhere to rest your head, you’d be welcome.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Caprisi. Thank you.’

  ‘If you’re going to accept my hospitality, you’d better call me Tony.’

  ‘Sure … Tony.’ Quinn folded the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Thanks.’ He headed for the door.

  ‘Joe, there’s one other thing. Do you know what happened to the dough in Matsell’s suitcase?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just Schneider keeps going on about it. He wants to know exactly who’s had sight of the case since we took it away from Matsell’s suite in the Plaza.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He won’t say. He’s just real insistent about it.’

  ‘What have you told him?’

  ‘I reckon I had sight of it pretty much the whole time, bar a few seconds here and there until I went home that night. And then you handed it over to McCredie, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He wants a goddamned report, so that’s what I’ll put in it.’

  ‘Sure. Thanks … Er, good.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  QUINN RODE THE ELEVATOR TO THE TOP FLOOR AND WALKED ALONG the highly polished corridor beneath the dome to the section next to the commissioner’s office. He knocked once and put his head around the door. He had come here on his first day to sign in and hand over the photograph for his file. A younger, prettier woman now sat behind the reception table.

  ‘Hi. I’m Joe Quinn from the main squad.’

  She smiled. ‘I know all about you.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’

  ‘It depends which way you look at it. Can I help you, Detective? We’re about to close here.’

  ‘I need to look at a file.’

  ‘Then you’ll require written permission from your boss.’

  ‘Okay.’ He shot her an apologetic grin. ‘It’s kind of urgent.’

  ‘It always is, but the answer is the same. Not without the written permission of a manager. Those are the rules. You’ll have to get Schneider or Ed McCredie to sign it off for you.’

  ‘This is … private.’

  She went to get her coat. ‘It may be, but there’s nothing I can do about that, however much of a hero you’ve made yourself.’

  ‘It’s a favour for my dad. It’s only his file I want. He needs to send something to one of his ex-partners and he’s forgotten the guy’s address.’

  Her resolve weakened. ‘All right … but I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Stay here.�
�

  She walked into the vault and disappeared. ‘Quinn, G., right? Gerry?’ she shouted.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Which partner?’

  ‘He gave me the impression he only had one.’

  ‘There are three listed here. Tony Pigniatelli, Sean Murray and Stefan Yanowsky.’

  ‘Yanowsky?’

  ‘You know Yan. From down in the CIB.’ She came out, file in hand. ‘Are you all right, Detective?’

  ‘I’m fine. Yan … Dad must mean Yan’s address.’

  She took a piece of paper from the tray beside her and scrawled on it.

  ‘Mind if I take a look at the file?’

  ‘I do, yes.’ She snapped it shut and handed him the address. ‘He may be your father, but rules are rules.’ She smiled at him again. ‘There’s nothing in it anyway, apart from the front sheet. Someone must have cleaned it out.’

  ‘Is that standard procedure?’

  ‘He did leave more than a decade ago, and quite a few of the old files are like that,’ she told him. ‘But no, it wouldn’t happen today. That’s all I’ll say.’

  By the time Quinn reached the basement, Yan had his coat on. ‘Joe, hold your horses. I said it would take me some time.’

  Quinn watched him tidy his space and switch off the lights. Yan appeared not to notice as he went to pick up his briefcase from the counter.

  ‘I’ll get back onto it first thing in the morning. You’re not even assigned, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Is there something you forgot to tell me, Yan?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About my father.’

  Yan opened his case and slipped in a few loose sheets of paper. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘He was your partner. You were a detective on the main squad.’

  ‘He tell you that?’

  ‘No. I’ve just taken a look at his file upstairs.’

  ‘Who gave you clearance?’

  ‘No one.’

  Yan flicked the last of the switches in the front lobby. He led Quinn into the corridor, closed the door and turned the key in the lock. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’ He strode down to the double doors and out into the alley at the back of the building. The wind whipped their ears and blew the trash in tight eddies.

  Yan strode ahead, his overcoat billowing. They didn’t talk until they’d slipped into a booth in a basement speakeasy off Broadway. The table was sticky, the décor a gaudy red. A kid sprinkled fresh sawdust on the floor. ‘Joe, your old man doesn’t like to talk about it, and he doesn’t care to have others do so on his behalf. That’s just the way it is and I have to respect his wishes.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he want to talk about it?’

  ‘He’s a hell of a modest guy.’

  Quinn searched Yan’s beaming face. With every fibre of his being, he wanted this to be true. ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Straight. Tough. He knew how to take care of himself.’ Yan’s smile widened. ‘Like father, like son.’

  ‘I’m nothing like him.’

  ‘That’s what you think. Others see it different. Sure, he had a temper. I’d say you have your mother’s temperament.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Yeah. She was a spirited and beautiful woman. I was real sad to hear what happened, Joe. That’s … I guess it was … I mean, hell, it’s a private affair. But your old man was the best cop we ever had. I’m not saying he played everything by the book. There were a few guys who took a trip to the morgue rather than the Tombs, but the city was none the worse for it.’

  A waiter brought over a bottle of whisky and two glasses. Yan poured as a jazz band struck up in the next-door room.

  ‘Why did he leave?’

  Yan raised his eyebrows. ‘Why does anyone leave? He got tired.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘You can see how it is, Joe.’

  ‘How what is?’

  ‘You know how these things play out. This case you can do. That file comes out all right. A jerk takes a walk to the Chair. Then you hit a wall, and if you can’t work around it, you have to retreat.’

  ‘That’s what my dad said.’

  ‘He was a man of honour so he was never going to last for ever. The brightest lights in here often burn out.’

  ‘What burnt him out?’

  ‘There was no single thing. It wears you down. If you get some nice little armed robbery by a bunch of guys with no connections, it’s great. You’re everyone’s hero. But if the men turn out to have political cover, it’s complicated. Your dad was a huge figure, so no one was going to tell him to his face he couldn’t do something, but evidence would go missing, witnesses would clam up or disappear. It’s hard when you have to fight your battles in here as well as out there on the streets, especially when you’re not sure who you’re really fighting against.’

  ‘Who did he think he was fighting against?’

  ‘I don’t know, Joe. Maybe he didn’t either. In a lot of ways he kept himself to himself. If he had suspicions, he sure didn’t share them with me.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me? I left the force and went straight for a while.’ Yan grinned. ‘Then I needed a proper job. The big fellow upstairs was good enough to have me back.’

  ‘Do you still see my father?’

  ‘It’s been a while. Tell him I was asking after him.’

  ‘Did you get along?’

  Yan didn’t reply immediately. Eventually he said, ‘He wasn’t an easy guy and there’s no point in saying he was. He was always damn sure he was right and he saw the world in black and white. But I admired him more than any other man alive.’

  Quinn lit a cigarette and drank some whisky. It was potent and burnt the lining of his stomach. ‘Did you know Moe Diamond?’

  ‘I heard the name.’

  ‘Was he a friend of my father’s?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘You never saw them together?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They pretend to hate each other, but I’m guessing the true story may be something different.’

  Yan frowned.

  ‘Do you think my father could have been … ’ Quinn gazed into his glass. The whisky was making his head spin. Suddenly he wanted the oblivion it offered. He took another gulp.

  ‘Do I think your father could have been what?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘C’mon, Joe, it’s obviously troubling you.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Well, you might as well spell it out.’

  ‘Compromised.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Do you think he could have been using his position to hide something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A crime.’

  ‘What kind of crime?’

  ‘Look, forget it. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’ve got to say I’m surprised at you, Joe.’

  ‘Yeah, well, honourable men aren’t always what they seem.’

  ‘This one is.’ Yan leant forward, elbows on the table. ‘Sure we made mistakes, but he put himself on the line for me more than once, and if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be sitting here. You’re a good kid and I’ll help you out any way I can, but I’m not going to sit here and listen to you badmouth him.’

  ‘Maybe he fell in with people after you left.’

  ‘He dominated any crowd he was ever in. He’d never let himself be pushed around by anyone. Somebody’s been poisoning

  your mind, Joe, making up some—’

  ‘My mother got sick. Nobody made that up.’

  Yan was stony-faced. ‘Okay, so she was your mother. Families have arguments and I don’t want to get involved, but I’ll tell you something that’s beyond doubt. Your old man was a damn straight, honourable guy, so you need to take a long hard look at whoever is feeding you this horseshit.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  IT WAS PAST CLOCKING-OFF TIME. A COUPLE OF STENOGRAPH
ERS were still huddled around the wireless outside the safe and loft division, but otherwise the office was deserted. Rain hammered on the windows. Ceiling fans pummelled the damp air. The wail of a siren rose from the street. Quinn watched a couple of traffic cops weave down Broome, their rear lamps dancing like fireflies in the half-darkness. Office lights still burnt bright all down Centre Street, but the sidewalks were packed with people heading for the subway and the trolley-buses groaned under the weight of passengers. A pair of dark automobiles nosed out of bays marked ‘Official Cars Only’.

  Quinn moved along to McCredie’s office. The blinds were down. He knocked once and, when there was no reply, nudged the door open.

  The place smelt of whisky and cigars. The ashtray overflowed and the desk was heaped with files. The Amy Mecklenburg posters lay undisturbed in the corner. Quinn picked one up. A bright, happy girl grinned at him.

  He glanced at the photographs nailed to the wall. One was marked ‘Headquarters Squad, 1918’. Gerry Quinn and Ed McCredie stood in the centre of the frame with their arms around each other. He could just about make out Yan in the same gathering, close to the back, next to Johnny Brandon. Another showed the chief of detectives in China, with his arm around a man who looked extraordinarily like Caprisi. They stood next to a rickshaw, in front of a wide river. Above the photographs were police shields from Shanghai, Hong Kong and Formosa.

  ‘He was a good cop.’

  Quinn swung around to find McCredie beside him. ‘Yes, sir. I was just thinking he looked a lot like Caprisi.’

  ‘I meant your father.’

  ‘Oh … yes.’ Quinn realized he still had the poster of Amy Mecklenburg in his hand and tossed it back on the pile. ‘I thought you were going to put these up today, sir. I mean, a week on.’

  ‘They’ve found the uncle.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  ‘Danny’s working on him.’

  ‘So they haven’t got her?’

  ‘Not yet. But Danny will break him tonight. And I wouldn’t hold your breath for good news, son. Hell, this is the New York Police Department. Like I told you, we don’t believe in fairy tales.’ McCredie put on his coat and picked up his briefcase. ‘Have you got a minute, Detective? I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee.’