by Tom Bradby
‘I’ve read Aunt Margaret’s letters to Mom.’
‘Where did you find them?’
‘In the attic. You didn’t destroy everything.’
‘I haven’t destroyed anything.’
‘You burnt the suits.’ Quinn watched his father’s face. ‘That was the summer Mom got sick. Why did we take her in, Dad?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Why Martha? There must have been thousands of girls like her all over the city.’
‘We passed her every day on the stairs. She was sinking. You could see it in her eyes.’
‘What did you do that summer that Mom was so ashamed of?’
‘Joe, I’ve asked you already – I’ve begged you to—’
‘Why was it you took Martha down to Washington and up to New Haven?’
‘You’ll destroy us.’
‘What is there left to destroy?’
‘There is life. Yours. Mine. Aidan and Martha’s.’ Gerry shook his head. ‘I’d like to talk to you. I’d like to tell you everything. I always have. But if I do so now, I’ll be signing your death warrant as sure as if I pulled the switch on the Chair.’
‘Don’t hide behind that.’
‘Then you’ve learnt nothing! Leave this! Leave Headquarters! Join Aidan in his showroom before it’s too late. For God’s sake, leave it all behind.’ Gerry turned on his heel and the door slammed behind him.
Quinn leant his head against the wooden panel. He could hear himself breathing.
Quinn tried to light a cigarette on the stoop, but it was impossible in the damp wind blowing off the river.
The Gardner pulled up and the passenger door swung open. ‘Get in,’ Caprisi said.
Quinn did as he was instructed.
‘You okay?’ Caprisi asked. ‘Because you sure don’t look it.’
He didn’t answer.
‘The commissioner’s just called a press conference and you’re the star turn.’
‘Not now.’
‘Joe, if we don’t go to this press conference, we’ll be off the force this afternoon and probably wrapped up in the Tombs. The press have got hold of what happened to Diamond and Kelly and the mayor has issued express instructions that you’re to be found and brought to him immediately. And the really swell news is that the man sitting in the front of the Buick over there is Ben Siegel.’
Quinn turned. There were three men in the automobile. ‘How long have they been there?’
‘About ten minutes.’
‘Are they waiting for us?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘How did they know we were here?’
‘You tell me.’ Caprisi pulled out a revolver and checked the chamber. He gave it to Quinn. ‘Let’s hope they don’t start shooting, because if they do I don’t rate our chances.’
Siegel got out and stood on the far running board. He gazed at them over the roof of the Buick.
Caprisi pressed the starter button, shifted the Gardner into gear and gunned it away. He kept going straight, to minimize their exposure to the side of the Buick, but Siegel turned his vehicle around and sat on their tail.
Caprisi handed Quinn a folder. ‘I checked with Maretsky. There are no unsolved cases between the twenty-first and twenty-third of June 1919. But take a look at this. It’s the file on our friend Dr Liam O’Brien.’
Quinn gazed at his father’s handwriting on the sheet of paper in front of him.
1/9/1919
Liam O’Brien’s recruitment agency in Brooklyn, the Stenographers’ Association, has been closed down with immediate effect. O’Brien has been struck off the medical register and is no longer allowed to practise as a doctor anywhere in the continental United States. He should remain a prime suspect in all cases involving the sexual assault of young women or their procurement for prostitution rackets.
‘Mae has already looked. There’s no one under that name still registered to practise in the city. I’ve asked her to put it out on the wire, but I’m not going to hold my breath.’
‘Amy Mecklenburg was on her way to a new job when she went missing,’ Quinn said. ‘Her mother said she’d got it through an agency.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
THE MAYOR WAS CAMPAIGNING OUT IN QUEENS. LONG ISLAND CITY snaked along the East River and Newtown Creek and was packed from end to end with factories, whose harsh and grimy outlines cut through a soot-laden sky, labyrinthine streets criss-crossed by elevated lines, railroad yards and bridge approaches. The air shook with the thump and clatter of trains and trucks.
Caprisi pulled up the Gardner on a stretch of deserted land by the canal. Barges ploughed through the oily waters, almost nose to tail, laden with coal and raw materials in one direction and crates of freshly manufactured goods in the other.
Ben Siegel’s Buick slid to a halt across the street. He got out and leant against the hood.
There were plenty of sleek automobiles in the narrow parking strip, including the mayor’s Duesenburg. Newsmen lolled on the steps of a large red-brick building, Homburgs tilted as they scanned first editions of the Evening News. The sign on the door hung askew from a single nail. It read: ‘Long Island City Community Centre’.
One of the reporters scrabbled to his feet as Quinn approached. ‘Here’s the guy.’
Hegarty, the commissioner’s press spokesman, was smoking a cigar in the hallway. ‘What in hell kept you?’
Quinn was shuffled into a side room strewn with empty coffee cups and tumblers. It stank of furniture polish, cigars and whisky. Hegarty slammed the door. The mayor was flanked by Commissioner Whalen and a man called Kenton from the district attorney’s office. ‘Ah, the man we’ve all been waiting for,’ Walker said. ‘Ready for this?’
‘Well, sir—’
‘Talk to the guys here while I freshen up.’ He flashed Quinn a dazzling smile. ‘Joe, this case will be the making of you. You’ll be as famous as your father!’
He slipped out, followed by the commissioner. Hegarty and Kenton crowded in. ‘You know what you’ve got to do?’ Hegarty asked.
‘Well …’
Hegarty picked up a copy of the News and held up the sensational front-page account of the monumental Wall Street plunge. He folded it over to reveal the banner headline on page two: ‘Rothstein/Luciano Photograph Could Sink Mayor’s Bid, Claims La Guardia; Campaign Wide Open.’
‘Do you get the picture?’ Hegarty asked, his puffy cheeks flushed with colour.
‘No.’
‘Your job here, Detective,’ Kenton explained patiently, ‘is to tell the hoodlums out there that this photograph does not exist, that you have seen no evidence of it and you believe the entire story was invented to throw us off the killer’s scent. Otherwise La Guardia is going to win this election and we’ll all be screwed.’
‘Have you got that?’ Hegarty said.
‘It’s a press conference. I’ll answer the questions they put to me in as truthful a manner as I can.’
‘What in hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s okay,’ Kenton said. ‘You haven’t seen this picture, have you, Joe?’
‘No,’ Quinn said.
‘Is there any evidence it exists?’
Quinn hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Do you have a witness who has seen it and is prepared to go on the record?’
‘No.’
‘In other words, all we’ve got is hearsay. Nothing that would stand up in court. So just pretend you’re on the stand.’
‘Hold on a minute …’ Hegarty said.
‘Sean, we’ve no choice. If we don’t kill this story, we might as well kiss the election goodbye.’ Kenton took hold of Quinn’s shoulder. ‘You do understand that, don’t you, Joe?’
Hegarty glanced at Caprisi. ‘What about the guinea?’ he asked.
‘Better Joe goes up there alone,’ Kenton said.
Hegarty nodded. ‘Okay, let’s roll.’ He pushed open the swing doors and strode into the packed hall. He took his seat behind a long wooden ta
ble on the podium.
Caprisi was at Quinn’s shoulder. ‘Smells like a set-up.’
‘I know.’
Hegarty beckoned Quinn to the chair next to his. A moment later, the mayor and the commissioner made their own entrance. Walker gave the crowd a generous wave and the flashguns popped. He sat down and took the microphone. ‘Now, I won’t keep you folks long because I know why you’re here today, but I’d like you to stop a moment to take in your surroundings. Five years ago, this community centre did not exist. Like many other services all over the city, it was brought to you by an administration committed to improving the lives of each and every citizen it represents.’ He wagged his finger. ‘Whatever our opponents would have you believe, the people who live in these boroughs, men and women who expect a decent return on their hard-earned tax dollar, know a socially responsible and honest administration when they see one.’
Walker almost caressed the microphone. ‘Now, I’ll bet there isn’t a single man or woman in this room who isn’t affected by the unfolding market correction taking place today. So I’d also like to take this chance to affirm my own personal faith in the future. This is the greatest stock market, for the greatest city, for the greatest country on earth – and, as a consequence, I have advised my own stock broker to utilize this momentary madness as a giant buying opportunity.’ Walker smiled again. ‘I know what some of you are thinking: I’m not taking advice from a man who knows how to spend a dollar better than he knows how to save and invest one, but mark my words, you will not regret following in my footsteps …’
Walker’s gaze swept the room. ‘Now, we’ve all heard it said that there’s been some cynical fuelling of the atmosphere of uncertainty in order to buy stocks at bargain-basement rates. I cannot comment on that, but I’ll say this to my opponents. Let’s deal in truth. Let’s deal in facts. Smears serve no one, not the bankers on Wall Street, or the politicians in Washington, or the good, honest, hard-working man whose interests we have striven night and day to represent.’
Few of the reporters were bothering to take notes. Some continued to read their newspapers or glanced idly around the room. ‘Okay,’ Hegarty said, as he took the microphone. ‘Questions. Put your hand up and state which organization you represent.’ He pointed. ‘Damian Connor.’
The man stood. ‘Where’s this photograph?’
‘Which photograph?’
‘C’mon, Sean. Don’t play us for fools. La Guardia says the photograph exists and it proves the mayor’s in the pocket of organized crime. He claims it’s what these murders are all about. The kid there has been looking into it, right?’
Hegarty turned to Quinn. He pushed the microphone across the tabletop. ‘We’ve no hard evidence there ever was a photograph,’ Quinn said.
There was a brief silence. ‘So, where’d the rumour come from?’
‘I have no idea.’
The reporter looked at him. ‘That’s it, Detective? That’s all you’ve got to say?’
‘Mr Connor, we’ve got five dead bodies and a killer with a penchant for carving up his victims. Isn’t that enough of a story for you?’
‘Do you figure they’re political murders? These guys were all friends of Mr Duncan, right?’
‘There’s no evidence that was the motivation and plenty to suggest it wasn’t.’
‘You figure there’ll be more victims?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘What’s the connection?’
‘We’re still working to establish that.’
A man at the back got to his feet. ‘So, you’ve never seen this photograph?’
‘No.’
‘Where did the rumour come from?’
‘Mr …?’
‘Donaldson, from the News.’
‘Mr Donaldson, we’ve chased up every lead we can find. None of them has ever led to this mythical picture. The only people I hear talking about it are you good gentlemen.’
A man coughed. Feet scuffed the wooden floor. Jimmy Walker leant towards Quinn. ‘Nice work, kid, you’re slaying them.’
Another newsman stood up, a slick, good-looking guy, with a well-oiled moustache and a gut that suggested he’d shared a few too many lunches with Sean Hegarty. ‘Billy Burke, from the Mirror. Say, Detective, you’re new to this, right?’
‘I’ve not been at Headquarters long, that’s correct.’
‘And you’re old man Quinn’s boy?’
‘I am.’
Burke tapped his notebook against his leg and moistened his lips. ‘What I hear is that your broad was playing hot lips with Matsell and Spencer Duncan and she had the photograph.’
Quinn glanced at Caprisi, who stood by the door, then along the line of men beside him, but they all avoided his eye. ‘I don’t know where you’re getting your information from, Mr Burke, but you’re plain wrong on every count.’
‘Matsell’s stenographer is your broad, though, right?’
‘No. She’s not.’
‘So that wasn’t the two of you together last night at the Harlem Sporting Club?’
Quinn felt his face redden. ‘Mr Burke, do you have a point to make here?’
‘And she’s the girl who’s alleged to have had the photograph of the mayor getting cosy with Rothstein and Lucky Luciano.’
Sean Hegarty moved towards the microphone. ‘Make your point, Billy.’
‘I was just trying to figure out if young Prince Charming here was really the guy to be staking this out. I mean, if his broad used to work with La Guardia, we’ve got to ask ourselves whether—’
‘Detective Quinn is running a murder inquiry, Billy. If you’ve any questions on the politics, save them for the mayor. That’s what he’s here for.’
Jimmy Walker smiled again.
‘We’ve said all we’re going to on the photograph,’ Hegarty said. ‘Detective Quinn here has been on the case from the first morning and he’s never seen or heard of this damned picture. He’s the guy who knows, so we’ve just got to accept what he says. Let’s move on. Yes …’
Goldberg got to his feet. ‘Did you know they were going to set you up here, Detective?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Goldberg,’ Hegarty said. ‘You’re banned from these press conferences until you can ask a straight question.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Quinn said. ‘It’s not a question of being set up. But people are understandably nervous, so I wouldn’t be surprised if some had taken the opportunity to try to compromise me with Mr Burke here.’
There was another silence. Someone coughed. Billy Burke looked furious.
‘Why are folk nervous?’ a voice called from the back.
‘This investigation is leading to some uncomfortable places.’
‘What kind of places?’
Quinn let them wait. ‘We believe that what lies at the heart of this murder case is corruption at the very highest level of the city’s administration. In the course of the investigation we have uncovered pay-offs from organized crime that have lined the pockets of some of our most powerful and influential men. So, yes, of course they’re nervous.’
‘Who?’
‘At this stage, I’m afraid I cannot say. The investigation is ongoing.’
‘Are you talking about City Hall?’
‘I must ask you to be patient.’
‘Do you have evidence?’
Quinn stood. ‘Gentlemen, that is all I have to say.’ In the quiet that followed, he noted Jimmy Walker’s grey face. And then the crowd was around him, shoving and pushing and yelling questions all the way to the door. Hegarty held them back. ‘That’s enough!’
Quinn and Caprisi slipped through the back exit to the Gardner. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here before they lynch us,’ Caprisi said. As they turned onto the road, besieged again by photographers, Siegel got back into his saloon and pulled out behind them.
‘Congratulations,’ Caprisi said. ‘That went real well.’
‘Thank you. I think so.’
‘I hope to God you
know what you’re doing, Joe, because the way I see it you just declared World War Two.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
THE CROWD GATHERED OUTSIDE CENTRE STREET WAS SULLEN AND silent. A mounted squad was saddled up on the sidewalk and ready to go. An emergency squad, kitted out with shields and batons, loaded themselves into the back of a truck. As Caprisi nudged the Gardner into a parking bay, three motorcycle cops roared off downtown, sirens blaring. One bumped the Gardner’s hood. Caprisi shouted after him and heads swivelled.
Inside Headquarters the central hallway was teeming with cops. Some spoke in hushed whispers, but most gazed motionless at newswires posted on the board. A wireless had been wound to full volume in the corner.
Caprisi joined the throng and wouldn’t move. Quinn walked on without him. He headed for the back stairs, but before he put his foot on the first step he heard a scream echo through the corridor below, then a second, still louder, like the cry of a wounded animal. He ran down to find Mae with her arms around Amy Mecklenburg’s mother. The woman convulsed uncontrollably. She screamed again. This time, the echo seemed to last for ever.
Quinn edged forwards. The smell hit him first: a cloying, toxic combination of ash and decay. He looked through the laboratory door to see a pile of bones laid out on the metal table. He made out a half-burnt shoe. Carter stood beside it with hollow eyes.
Quinn turned to approach Mrs Mecklenburg, but Mae held her in a close embrace and warned him off with a shake of her head.
A group of men, including several uniformed officers, stood outside McCredie’s door. Schneider watched from behind the glass wall in his office, like a spectator at a ball game.
Quinn tried to approach McCredie, but the chief of detectives indicated, with a curt wave, that this was not a good time. He turned towards Byrnes’s desk in the corner, but could see no sign of the Mecklenburg file. He approached Schneider. The deputy commissioner ushered him in. ‘What is it?’
Quinn closed the door behind him. His eyes rested on the photograph of Schneider’s wife on the shelf above the desk.
‘Have you been feeding Goldberg again?’
