by Tom Bradby
Caprisi got up and went to the window. An argument had broken out in the apartment below and a piece of crockery shattered against a wall. A woman began to cry. ‘I’m sorry about your dad, Joe.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. Part of me is terrified to discover he isn’t the man I thought he was. But mostly I just don’t want him to be next on this guy’s list. I don’t want him to die.’
‘Maybe it’s not as bad as you think.’
Quinn touched his forehead. ‘You know, sometimes I have this pain behind my eyes. It hurts so bad I think I’m going crazy.’
‘How did you get mixed up with the girl?’
‘Which one?’
‘The one you’re in love with.’
‘Jesus.’ Quinn stared at his feet. ‘One day, you come home and you suddenly realize you’re disappointed she’s not there. You miss the way she lights up a room. Hell, you even miss the way she scowls at you sometimes. But it’s complicated. She’s complicated.’ He glanced at the empty glass in his hand. ‘The booze is loosening my tongue.’
‘Are you going to walk away?’
‘Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know.’
Quinn felt tired and drunk. Caprisi slipped the glass from his hand and took it to the kitchen. ‘I understand, my friend. Maybe more than you can imagine. But you need to sleep.’
Quinn lay down. Fatigue tugged at his eyelids. ‘I’m glad they teamed me with you,’ he said. ‘I’m real glad they did that.’
After a few minutes, he felt Caprisi put a blanket over him, and he sank slowly into a deep sleep.
‘C’mon, Detective!’ He was being shaken violently. ‘Wake up!’
It took him a moment to work out that Caprisi was standing above him in the semi-darkness. He tried to sit up. His neck and shoulder ached.
‘We have to get our backsides over to the abattoir on First and Forty-second. They say it’s a goddamn mess.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CAPRISI HADN’T BEEN KIDDING. THE AUTOMOBILE, A SHINY NEW bright-red Chrysler seventy-seven, stood in a rancid alley amid the crates and stench of rotting carcasses. In the glare of the Gardner’s headlights, its interior looked like an abattoir too.
Dick Kelly was twisted against the side window, his nose pressed to the leather trim. Moe Diamond was sprawled on the seat beside him. Both men had a gash to the throat, similar to Spencer Duncan’s. And their tongues lay in a pool of blood at their feet.
Quinn stepped away from the Chrysler, head pounding like a tractor’s engine, and moved towards the entrance to the alley. ‘Tell the uniform boys to set up a cordon,’ he said. ‘If the press get near this…’
‘Sure.’
‘Where’s Brandon?’
‘They couldn’t find him. That’s why they called us. McCredie’s on his way. He was out on Long Island.’
Quinn watched his partner issuing instructions to the uniforms. He grabbed a torch from the Gardner and clambered into the back of Moe’s automobile. He moved his nose as close as he could to the men’s swollen mouths. Shit, it was early. And his head hurt.
He couldn’t detect a hint of chloroform.
He crouched down and flicked the torchbeam from one face to the other. He gazed at Moe’s fleshy cheeks and wide eyes.
‘Easy,’ Caprisi said from the doorway. ‘The print boys’ll go nuts if we screw anything up.’
Quinn ignored his advice. ‘There won’t be any prints,’ he said.
He took Kelly’s wallet from an inside pocket and handed it to his partner. He checked the rest of the suit and waistcoat, but found only a watch. ‘Look at this.’ He held the jacket open and pointed at the label. ‘It’s this guy again.’
‘If I ever need a new suit, I’ll know which tailor to avoid.’
Quinn checked Moe’s clothes, but there was no label on the overcoat and he couldn’t get a look at the suit without slipping on blood.
‘Leave it, Joe,’ Caprisi said.
Quinn stepped out and switched off the torch. There was a chill in the air and they stamped their feet.
‘Should we talk to your father, Joe? Offer him protection?’
‘No.’
‘But you said last night you didn’t want to see him—’
‘I know what I said.’
There was a commotion by the entrance to the alley as McCredie’s chauffeur-driven automobile nosed through the cordon. The boss stepped out and strode towards them. He grabbed the torch from Quinn’s hand, then thrust his head into the back of the Chrysler. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he whispered. He surveyed the scene for a minute or more before he handed back the torch. ‘He’s cut their goddamn tongues out! Who the hell is this guy? Quinn?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Who is he?’
‘We don’t have a suspect yet, sir.’
‘Well, that’s helpful. Let’s start at the beginning. Are these two dead men from the Wall Street fix?’
‘They’re Matsell’s partners.’
‘Somebody lost a pile of dough and figured he’d make these guys pay for it?’
‘We don’t believe that’s the motive, sir, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Nobody cuts men up like that over a stock fix. However …’ Quinn trailed off. He glanced at his partner. ‘However much pain it might cause.’
‘So what is it about?’
‘What they did after Wall Street.’
‘Which was?’
‘They liked to play cards, maybe gamble a little. We’re looking at how some of those evenings ended up.’
‘And how did they end up?’
‘They liked to “use” broads. That’s what Norton told us. Not all of the girls were bought and paid for.’
‘They were white-slavers?’
‘I don’t know how to put it, sir.’
‘Try.’
Quinn peered into the rear of the automobile. ‘They used drugs to kidnap the girls and assault them.’
‘You got a witness?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Well, sir, she hasn’t said she’ll go on the record yet, so—’
‘Who is she?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir.’
McCredie sighed. ‘Why does that not surprise me? I wouldn’t put her on the stand, son, if I were you. You want to tell me why he ripped out their goddamn tongues?’
‘It’s a message,’ Caprisi said. ‘Just like the others. Joe was right about that. The chloroform, the cut to their throats …’
Quinn’s eyes rested on Moe’s leg, which protruded from the door. ‘This is different.’
‘It looks pretty much the damned same to me, son,’ McCredie said.
‘It’s been made to look the same.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Quinn looked from Caprisi to McCredie and back again. ‘The first two murders carried a warning they all understood – chloroform for the drugs they used on the girls and the mark of Sicilian vengeance upon their throats for what they had done.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘My father told me.’
‘Since when did this become a family affair?’
‘It hasn’t, sir.’
‘These men have had their necks slashed too. What’s the difference?’
‘The cuts here are deeper than the one on Duncan. And I don’t think the way the tongues have been cut out fits the pattern.’
McCredie scuffed his boots impatiently on the ground. ‘Why in hell not?’
‘The first two murders were about revenge. This feels like a warning.’
‘What kind of warning?’
‘Against talking. To us, maybe, or anyone else.’
‘Was Moe Diamond singing to you?’
‘No. But he was rattled. Maybe somebody thought he would. Maybe he was going to.’
‘You’re reading a lot into this, son.’
McCredie wrinkled his nose. ‘It stinks.’
‘It’s an abattoir.’
‘I can see that! Okay, first up, we keep the press back this time. Don’t let anyone through and make sure Johnny doesn’t either, when he bothers to show up. Tell him that’s a direct order. I’m sure you’ll enjoy passing it on. Then check out the abattoir.’ McCredie kicked the side of the automobile. ‘What in the hell were they doing here?’
‘How did he get them into the back of the Chrysler?’ Quinn asked, more quietly.
‘What kind of question is that?’
‘It’s the same question. Diamond and Kelly knew what was coming to them, so how did their killer get them into an automobile? How did Duncan’s killer get close to him? Why did Matsell go up to the roof to meet his murderer?’
‘Maybe the guy’s a ghost.’
‘Or the next best thing.’
‘Which is?’
Quinn paused. ‘I was just thinking aloud.’
‘Go on, son.’
‘Well … I was just … How about a cop? Or maybe cops.’
McCredie gawped at him. ‘Say that again.’
‘The only thing we know for certain is that one of the guys seen bending over Matsell’s body was an officer in uniform.’
‘Have you got any evidence for this theory, or is it idle speculation from your cop-hating friend here?’
‘It’s just an idea. But once someone’s got used to the fact that cops are around, all they see is a uniform. They don’t register a face. And who is the one person a guy about to get whacked doesn’t suspect? A cop.’
‘Sir,’ Caprisi said, ‘do you want us to—’
‘Just get on with it. That’s what I want. And there’s no public connection to be made between any of these killings.’
‘We can’t hold that line,’ Quinn said. ‘We’ve got four men from one poker—’
‘I know that, Detective. Don’t tell me my job. I’m just instructing you to keep your mouths shut until I tell you otherwise. You work directly to me. I want everything kept as tight as a duck’s ass. Don’t talk to Schneider. Don’t talk to Johnny.’
McCredie stalked off towards his automobile. A few seconds later it screeched away.
Caprisi slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘Imagine what the jackals in the press are going to make of this. Why do you think the killer changed his method?’
‘Maybe he didn’t.’
Caprisi’s brow furrowed. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Maybe it’s not the same killer.’
‘Joe, c’mon.’
Quinn stared at Moe’s automobile, deep in thought.
‘I don’t want to push it,’ Caprisi said, ‘but should I go talk to your old man?’
‘No.’
‘It’s just maybe now he’ll—’
‘I said I would. Let’s clean up here and get the hell out.’
*
Inside the abattoir gates, men in thick winter coats and dark woollen hats had gathered by the water’s edge. They watched a barge swoop down the East River and glide into a berth. A wooden ramp was lowered against the concrete pier and a couple of hundred lambs were driven down it into a dilapidated shack. A damp wind blew in off the river, but it was not enough to banish the putrid odour of the shack. As a wooden gate swung shut, two lambs made a break for it, but the only avenue of escape was across the concrete courtyard and into the slaughterhouse. A couple of men chased them back and wheeled the gate shut.
Quinn strolled over to the nearest, who did not acknowledge him. ‘Where’s the boss?’
He gestured at a balding man who stood at the end of the pier.
The boss didn’t seem surprised to see them. ‘You got here, did you?’ he asked.
‘It was your men who found them?’
‘Hey! Easy there!’ Another ramp was lowered onto the pier and a herd of calves driven into the shed. The supervisor ticked the board in his hand and waved at the skipper of the barge. ‘You’re early!’ he yelled. The guy waved back. ‘Makes a goddamn change.’ The supervisor turned to his men. ‘Are they in yet?’ He pointed at the gaping doors of the slaughterhouse.
‘No, boss.’
The guy examined his clipboard. ‘I didn’t expect to see you until at least lunchtime,’ he told Quinn.
‘Murder is still a crime, even in Manhattan.’
‘Murder?’ The guy frowned. ‘Who said anything about a goddamn murder? They stole our truck. I called it in – one green model-A Ford pick-up. I know that if some big city swell ain’t involved none of you boys is interested, but I pay my taxes.’
‘When was it stolen?’
‘I told them already. I came in an hour ago and saw it wasn’t there. So it was—’
‘Have you got the plate numbers?’
‘Of course I goddamn have! I told you, it was my truck!’
‘Give them to me.’ Quinn turned. ‘You hear that, Caprisi? We’ve got something.’
‘I’ll check it out. Why steal a pick-up? After Duncan, he just melted into the night.’
‘It’s not the same guy.’ Quinn nudged his partner towards the Gardner. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
QUINN DROPPED CAPRISI AT THE OFFICE, THEN CARRIED ON DOWN TO the First Precinct. He couldn’t find his father in the station house but tracked him down twenty minutes later on the steps of the Subtreasury Building.
Gerry was surrounded by a crowd of expectant faces, hushed and anxious in the dawn sunlight. Hundreds of people were already jostling for sight of the Exchange, but the street was almost silent. It reminded Quinn of the moment before a ball game, when the batsman strides out from the dugout, swinging his arms one final time before attempting to snatch victory from the gaping jaws of defeat. ‘Not much longer to wait,’ his father said, then waved at one of his men. ‘McGrady! Over the other side. Down by William Street.’
Quinn could smell the fear in those around him. ‘When does it begin?’
‘Soon.’
‘Which way will it go?’
‘Who in hell knows?’
‘Dad, I need to talk to you.’
‘It’s not a good time, Joe.’
‘Please.’ Quinn took his arm and led him down Nassau Street. He searched for a café, but Gerry shook him off. ‘What is it, Joe? What do you want?’
‘Moe’s dead. They found him this morning, up by the abattoir. He’d been stabbed and … Dad, they cut his tongue out.’
The light went out of Gerry’s eyes. ‘Some would call that a fitting end.’
‘He was in Owney Madden’s place last night. Dad, he was terrified. He asked if I’d passed on his warning to you.’
‘What do you want me to say, Joe? What are you looking for?’
‘I want you to talk to me.’
‘About what?’
‘I need to know the truth, Dad. I know it’s not good.’
Gerry flushed. ‘I hope you can back that up, son.’
‘You mean you want evidence? You’re my father, for God’s sake.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘We’re talking about a crime, a terrible crime. What is there to understand?’
Gerry’s shoulders sagged. He seemed older suddenly. ‘Please, Joe, I beg you, let this go.’
Quinn saw the guilt in his father’s washed-out eyes and vomit rushed to the back of his throat.
‘Please, Joe. You’re my son.’
Quinn stumbled through the crowd to the Gardner and slumped into the driving seat. His vision blurred. ‘Damn you, Dad,’ he whispered. ‘Damn you to hell.’
He made the journey slowly to Centre Street and parked in an official bay by the front entrance. He remained at the wheel of the Gardner as the early-morning commuter crowd flooded towards City Hall.
Mrs Mecklenburg walked haltingly down the front steps and shuffled off towards Broadway, a broken woman.
He watched a few drops of rain roll down the windscreen and smoked a cigarette to the
stub. His hands shook. He got out of the Gardner and glanced again at Mrs Mecklenburg’s receding figure as he headed back into Headquarters.
Upstairs, he found wooden boxes stacked two deep beneath his desk. There was a note. ‘You wanted cases,’ it read, ‘so here they are. Yan.’
Quinn sat down. He tried to drag himself back from the abyss, but every nerve end was on fire. He flipped through one or two files. Some were as thick as his thumb, and packed with closely typed reports. The faces of long-lost daughters stared up at him. Amy Venning, aged seventeen. Missing. Sadie MacLeish. Twenty. Homicide. Body found in a trash bin in the Bronx. Unsolved.
Mae appeared at his side, a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. ‘What happened this morning?’ she asked.
‘About what?’ He gripped the edge of the table to stop his hand shaking.
‘The call-out. Diamond and Kelly …’
‘It was a mess.’
She gave a low whistle. ‘The boss went straight upstairs and hasn’t been back.’ She dropped the newspaper on Quinn’s desk. ‘Be warned, some of the guys don’t like this. They’re saying it’s down to you.’
Quinn took in the headline. ‘Slain Walker Aide: Link to Wall Street Fix. Conspiracy to Ramp Stocks Cheats Millions.’
‘Jesus,’ Quinn said. ‘How’d they get that?’ He read the article and checked the byline. ‘Where does Goldberg get this stuff? Did the boss mention it?’
‘No.’
‘Does he know about it?’
‘It’s front-page news, Joe, hardly a secret. It may explain his temper.’
‘Is there any news on the Mecklenburg girl?’
‘I don’t think so. I was looking for the case file, but it seems our friend Mr Byrnes took it away with him.’
‘I thought that was a capital offence.’
‘It is.’
Caprisi returned to his desk. Quinn flipped over the newspaper and tapped it against the table top. ‘Is Doc Carter in?’
‘Already hard at work,’ Caprisi said.
Quinn got to his feet and picked up his jacket. Caprisi followed him to the rear stairs. ‘What did your father say?’
‘He didn’t say anything. He asked me to leave the case alone.’ Quinn quickened his pace to bring the discussion to a close.
