by Tom Bradby
New York, 1929, a city of speakeasies, swells and hoodlums at the fag end of the roaring twenties. It’s a hell of a time and place for a young cop to be trying to make his way in the world.
Joe Quinn has been given a shot at the NYPD’s main headquarters squad and his first case is one that could put his name up in lights; a banker takes a dive from a tall building onto Wall Street. All the signs point to murder. Pretty soon, the dead man has company; a group of old buddies is being eliminated, in a particularly gruesome manner. The men have connections to Lucky Luciano and other major players in organised crime. Their leader, whose true identity remains a closely guarded secret, is known simply as ‘The Bag Man,’ once the name given to a top cop on the take.
The days of such naked corruption are supposed to be over, but nothing in prohibition-era Manhattan is that simple. For the young detective a case that starts as an opportunity swiftly becomes a nightmare from which he cannot escape. The path seems to lead inexorably towards his own father, once New York’s foremost celebrity cop. And at the heart of the investigation lies a woman whose love he has fought to deny for many year.
Joe Quinn is about to discover just how tough being an honest cop in a dishonest world can be...
Tom Bradby is Political Editor of ITV News. He began his reporting career with the company as Ireland Correspondent more than fifteen years ago, during which time he covered the unfolding peace process and wrote his first novel, Shadow Dancer. As Asia Correspondent, based in Hong Kong, he was shot and seriously wounded whilst covering a riot in Jakarta. After a spell as Royal Correspondent, he went on to become UK Editor before taking up his current post in the summer of 2005.
Tom Bradby is the acclaimed author of five novels. The Master of Rain was shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Steel Dagger for Best Thriller of the Year 2002. The White Russian was shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Ellis Peters Award for the Best Historical Crime Novel of 2003. The God of Chaos was shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Ellis Peters Award for the Best Historical Crime Novel of 2005.
BLOOD MONEY
Also by Tom Bradby:
Shadow Dancer
The Sleep of the Dead
The Master of Rain
The White Russian
The God of Chaos
BLOOD MONEY
TOM BRADBY
CONTENTS
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Tom Bradby
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Acknowledgements
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub 9781446422533
www.randomhouse.co.uk
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
A Random House Group Company
www.rbooks.co.uk
First published in Great Britain
in 2009 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Tom Bradby 2009
Tom Bradby has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBNs 9780593054635 (hb)
9780593054642 (tpb)
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk
The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
To Claudia, Jack, Louisa and Sam.
Wall Street, 21 October 1929
Rock-a-bye, trader, on the tip top.
When the board meets, the market will rock.
When the rate rises, quotations will fall.
And down will come trader, margins and all.
Wall Street Journal
CHAPTER ONE
THE MAN’S ARMS WERE STRETCHED WIDE, FINGERS POINTING TO THE heavens, as if in prayer. But wherever God was shining his light that Monday morning, it sure as hell wasn’t here. His blank eyes stared at a dull grey sky. His cheeks were fleshy and lips full. A derby sat close by his left hand, as though he’d clutched it as he fell. It had landed rim up and filled with water.
A flashgun exploded in the morning gloom.
‘Hey, get lost!’ Quinn straightened and pushed back the photographer. ‘Officer! Get this sap out of here.’ He snapped up his collar against the rain, which fell in heavy drops that rolled down the back of his neck. His trenchcoat was too thick for such unseasonable weather; his palms were clammy and his chest prickled with sweat. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
A Buick tore down from Old Slip and took the turn fast into Wall Street. The crowd scattered, but too late. A group of First Precinct station-house officers brushed rainwater from their uniforms and yelled at the departing d
river.
Normal activity on the street had ceased. Newspaper vendors and shoeshine boys, who’d long since abandoned their stalls, jostled to glimpse the flattened corpse. A man clambered onto a chair outside a barbershop, his chin covered with thick white foam.
Caprisi stood a little apart. He was recording witness statements in a rain-sodden notebook. The guy was thorough, Quinn had to give him that. He crouched again and ran his hands through the dead man’s pockets, pulled out a wallet containing a thick wad of notes and some loose change. In the trouser pocket he found a single ticket for the latest Gloria Swanson picture, showing at the Rialto uptown.
‘The shoeshine kid on the corner says he landed just like that. Thwack …’ The rain ran in rivulets down Caprisi’s slicked-back hair.
‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know yet, but the uniform boys say he’s from this building. Number eighty, top floor.’
‘Did the kid see anything else?’
Caprisi shook his head. ‘He didn’t look like he wanted to hang around.’
‘Any sign of an argument?’
‘No. But it was raining real hard. The kids had taken shelter.’
Quinn thrust his hands deep into his pockets. It was damp there, too. ‘What do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘Kind of odd he landed face up.’
Caprisi’s brow furrowed.
‘How many people have you seen jump off a roof backwards?’
‘Maybe he was scared of heights.’ Caprisi’s face remained impassive.
‘Very funny, Detective. How come he’s got his hat and coat on?’
‘It’s raining.’
‘Who puts a coat on to kill himself?’
‘Maybe he didn’t like to get wet.’ Caprisi lowered his voice. ‘Watch out, Schneider’s here.’
Tall and slightly stooped, the deputy commissioner made his way through the crowd. His glasses had steamed up. ‘I told McCredie to send Brandon.’
‘The Bull was stuck over in Brooklyn,’ Quinn replied, ‘so—’
‘Mr Brandon to you, rookie.’
Quinn removed his hands from his pockets. ‘Sir, I’ve been a precinct detective for more than—’
‘If you’re new to us, kid, you’re a rookie. Headquarters is different, and the sooner you learn that the better.’ Schneider glanced at the body. ‘Clear this up. Put the corpse in the back of a van and get it out of here. And make sure you scrub the street.’
‘Sir—’
‘That’s an order.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the doc?’
‘No.’
Quinn glanced at Caprisi for encouragement, but received none. ‘It just seems curious he landed face up, sir. I mean, suicides usually land face down. Maybe we should hang on.’
Schneider took a pace closer. ‘I’ll tell you what’s curious, Detective. We have an election in ten days’ time and our balls are going to be busted from here to Ellis Island and back again if the mayor doesn’t win. Are you invested in this market?’
‘Er … no, sir.’
‘Then you’re the only man who isn’t. Have you seen the crowd outside the Exchange?’
‘Yes, sir. We saw it on the way up.’
‘Have you taken a look in a brokerage window this morning?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then tell me how much we need a corpse lying in the middle of the street here.’ Schneider pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Clean it up, and do it quick, or you can take the caning from the mayor yourself.’
‘What should I put in my report?’
‘I don’t give a damn. Take a hike up to the guy’s office. Find someone who’ll tell you he couldn’t take the pressure and sign it off.’ Schneider turned away, then checked himself. ‘You’re Quinn, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I was sorry to hear about your mother. She was a good woman.’
The sudden change in tone caught Quinn by surprise. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Schneider strode away.
‘I’ll get the uniform boys to sort it out,’ Caprisi whispered.
Quinn stared again at the body, then looked up and spotted a familiar figure in the crowd. He hurried over. ‘Dad …’
‘Did Martha tell you she’d changed jobs?’ Gerry Quinn removed his cap and brushed the rainwater from its peak. ‘She was working for the guy who jumped. It’s Moe Diamond’s outfit.’
‘Well, Moe’s family, so I figured—’
‘Moe hasn’t been family for more than a decade!’ Gerry glared at him. ‘I knew there’d be trouble when he turned up at your mother’s funeral. Who in hell invited him? I didn’t pick Martha out of the Bowery so she could fall in with a man like that.’
Quinn didn’t answer. A decade’s unasked questions crowded in.
‘I thought she was working for La Guardia,’ Gerry said.
‘She was, but Moe offered a hell of a salary.’
Gerry Quinn put his uniform cap back on and bashed it down. ‘I want you to take her home.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Aidan’s over in Jersey at the main dealership.’ Quinn’s elder brother was a salesman for Ford motor-cars.
‘I’ll get her a ride.’
‘I want someone to keep an eye on her.’ Gerry had lowered his voice an octave, which accentuated his Belfast accent.
‘Dad, the deputy commissioner was here. He wants the street cleaned up real fast.’
‘I saw Schneider. I heard what he said. You want my advice, you should do yourself a favour and get the hell out of here.’
Quinn frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Take it from a guy who’s been around the block a couple of times.’
‘But I have to—’
‘Do as I say, son.’
Quinn sighed. ‘Where is she?’
‘The roof.’
‘What’s she doing up there?’
‘Needed some air, I guess.’
CHAPTER TWO
QUINN’S ADOPTED SISTER STOOD CLOSE TO THE LIP OF THE ROOF, silhouetted against a brooding sky. She looked cool and imperious in a cloche hat and the fashionable patterned Chanel coat he’d bought her from Wannamaker’s the previous Christmas. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Martha’s skin was luminous and a smouldering anger radiated from her fiery blue-green eyes.
‘I have to take you home.’
‘Moe needs me.’
‘He’ll get along without you today. Dad’s upset. We need to go.’
Quinn offered her a cigarette, cupped his hands and lit a match. They listened to the steady drumbeat of the rain. ‘Is that your new partner?’ She pointed at Caprisi, who had followed Quinn onto the roof.
He nodded.
‘He’s nice-looking, for a guinea.’
‘He’s from the Rat Squad.’
‘So Italians are only good for busting other cops? Is that it? Well, he looks okay to me.’
Quinn waited. ‘We should go in.’
‘The air’s cleaner up here.’
‘You’ll catch a chill.’
‘I’ll live.’
The rain slowed to a fine drizzle, swept across the rooftops by intermittent gusts of wind. A seaplane buzzed overhead and looped around the East River. The clouds broke and thin slivers of sunshine danced across the water.
Quinn flicked away his cigarette and went to join Caprisi at the other end of the roof. From there, the body down in the street looked like it was floating on a sea of umbrellas. He turned around. Martha was watching him intently.
A Salvation Army collector broke into song outside the Cocoa Exchange on Pearl Street, with all the cheer of the last waltz on the Titanic.
Quinn walked along the parapet. The gravel underfoot was soft and had turned to mud where the water collected in small pools. He bent down. ‘Hey, Caprisi, take a look at this …’ He pointed towards a semicircular imprint.
‘Detective! What in hell are yo
u doing?’
Quinn snapped around. Schneider stood by the entrance to the roof. ‘Sir, I—’
‘I just got back from the Exchange. The body’s still there.’
‘The uniform boys are bringing a van around from the station house,’ Caprisi said smoothly.
‘When?’
‘I told them it was urgent.’
Schneider didn’t look convinced. ‘If they’re not here inside five minutes, you’ll have to move the body yourselves. And make sure they take it to Centre Street. Have Doc Carter call me.’ He moved towards Quinn. ‘His name was Charles Matsell. Go down to his office, have someone confirm his state of mind, then head straight back to Centre Street. I want the report on my desk by lunchtime.’ He looked at Martha. ‘Who’s the broad?’
‘She worked for him.’
‘Then talk to her.’ For a moment his gaze lingered on her. ‘On second thoughts, she’s probably the reason he jumped. Get one of his partners on the record.’
The Unique Investment office wasn’t your average Wall Street joint. A gloomy corridor with an iron hat-stand and a noticeboard with the latest stock prices gave way to four doors. Quinn sat Martha down and told her he would be no more than ten minutes. She didn’t seem to hear him.
An officer from the First Precinct stood guard outside the dead man’s room, which was closest to the entrance. It was spacious and airy. The walls were covered with baseball souvenirs. A silver-plated bat in a glass frame hung directly above the desk, alongside a photograph of Waite Hoyte and Babe Ruth. A copy of the New York Times lay open on the desk. Matsell had circled a series of stock prices. There was nothing else of interest, unless you counted a few market reports cut out of the financial pages of previous editions.
Quinn opened the drawer. It was full of stationery and neat piles of typed stock summaries. He flicked through them. There was a lot of stuff about companies he’d never heard of. A photograph slipped out and landed face down on the floor. He reached for it, touched its edge and flipped it over.