Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  ‘We’re checking out every lead we have. Danny’s in Syracuse. I’m working this end with the rest of the boys.’

  ‘Her mother is down there in Reception, waiting. I saw her again this morning. They seem like a nice family. Why would the girl have run off with the uncle?’

  ‘There’s nothing more we can do, Kitty,’ McCredie said.

  ‘We can go public. I’m sure Mr O’Reilly will have no trouble speaking to his friends at the newspapers.’

  O’Reilly glared at her.

  ‘Kitty,’ McCredie said, ‘you know what’s happening here.’

  ‘Sure. We’re going soft on it because there’s an election.’

  ‘We’re not going soft on it.’

  ‘Then let’s put out a call for help.’

  ‘If we don’t find her by Wednesday, we will.’

  ‘She could be dead by Wednesday.’

  ‘We can’t go public with every goddamned girl who goes missing for five minutes.’

  ‘She’s been missing five days.’

  McCredie glanced over his shoulder at the commissioner. ‘We figure it’s a domestic case and we’ll proceed on that basis until something shows us otherwise. We’ve got a lot of guys on it, so it should all happen pretty quick.’

  ‘So, City Hall doesn’t want a pretty white girl missing in the middle of an election. Shall we tell her mother that?’

  ‘That’s enough, Kitty.’

  She threw up her hands in disgust.

  ‘Right.’ McCredie cleared his throat. ‘Those are the two bigticket items for this morning. Anything else?’

  No hands went up.

  ‘Okay, anyone who’s got time, pitch in to help find this guy from Murray Street.’ He slammed his book shut. ‘That’s it. Don’t forget line-up, which will begin in five minutes.’

  The men pushed themselves to their feet. O’Reilly made his way over to Quinn. ‘You’ve got their pulses racing, son.’ His breath stank of whisky.

  ‘About what?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘The mayor was in here this morning to talk to McCredie and the commissioner. Johnny figures it was about your suicide.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You tell me. Maybe the dead guy was a big shot. Oh, and by the way, I should stay away from the dyke.’

  Kitty grimaced in his direction. ‘Get lost, O’Reilly, you great fat baboon.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A SHORT MAN IN A SLOUCH HAT STOOD CENTRE STAGE.

  ‘Vita Morello,’ Chief Inspector James Pyke called from the lectern. ‘Arresting officer, Michael Sullivan. Mr Morello says he’s from Bridgeport, Connecticut, but they’ve got no record of him there and neither do we.’

  ‘He’s just off the boat,’ someone shouted at the front. ‘New muscle.’

  Morello glowered at the roomful of detectives and uniforms.

  ‘Mr Morello,’ Pyke went on, ‘was arrested at eleven p.m. last night while in the act of holding up a hole-in-the-wall grocery store on Twelfth Street.’ He flipped the chart. ‘Anyone got anything on him?’ He glanced around the room. ‘Moss, quit gossiping. Take a good look, gentlemen. I’ve got a feeling this may not be the last we’ll see of Mr Morello. Next …’

  Caprisi was propped against the wall in the far corner of the gymnasium, a cigarette stuck to his lips and his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Quinn pushed through a group of uniforms to get to him. ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Four more.’

  ‘Have we had the guys from Murray Street?’

  ‘They were first up.’ Caprisi let the cigarette fall from his lips and ground it into the floor.

  ‘Right,’ Pyke continued. ‘Shut up, all of you. This sorry piece of humanity here is Pierre Devlin, a gentleman of Belgian extraction. Lives at two twenty-three, Twenty-third Street. Arresting officer, Swire. Offence, attempted abduction of young female and involvement in the white-slave trade.’

  One of the officers at the front shouted something, but Pyke ignored him. ‘Take a close look, gentlemen. Mr Devlin has not been very enthusiastic about assisting us with our enquiries. We believe he’s linked to the dance-hall ring we busted two weeks ago. Mr Devlin was running the girls down to Philadelphia and St Louis in a sheep truck and bringing others back to brothels in Red Rock. He operated out of the same dance hall on Coney Island as Mick Cleaver who, you may recall, is currently a guest in the Tombs for selling his own sister. There’s also a possible link with the case in Brooklyn – the missing girl went for an interview out on Coney Island the day she disappeared. Maybe her uncle was plugged into the ring.’ He surveyed the room. ‘I suppose it’s too much to ask for Byrnes and O’Reilly to show up—’

  ‘I’m here,’ O’Reilly shouted. He was with Brandon and the other big guns in the squad. ‘And I’m sober.’

  Pyke gave a sigh of disgust. ‘Any of you seen this man before or know anything about him, go straight to McCredie, because O’Reilly’s too damned stupid to make sense of it. Next …’

  ‘If there’s a link with Coney Island, how come they’re so confident it’s the uncle?’ Quinn whispered.

  ‘I don’t know, Joe,’ Caprisi said. ‘It’s not our case.’

  ‘Why is it such a big deal for City Hall?’

  ‘La Guardia told the Sun last week that underworld figures were behind these abductions. First Rothstein, now your friend Luciano.’

  ‘Yeah, but Kitty has a point if—’

  ‘C’mon, Joe. O’Reilly’s a buffoon, but Danny Byrnes is a good cop when he wants to be. And, like I said, it’s not our case.’

  Quinn swung back to face the room. There was a good turnout this morning, maybe two hundred detectives in all, plus the uniformed officers who’d made the arrests. The purpose of this gathering was to check if anyone recalled questioning a culprit in another context. McCredie and the big shots thought it was a waste of time, but no commissioner had had the balls to abolish it.

  The detectives always gathered in groups. The safe and loft boys stuck together; so did the men from the pickpocket division. Kitty usually stood on her own, though she was sometimes courted by the more junior guys in the main Headquarters squad. Fogelman and the men from Vice were on the left, close to Schneider. McCredie, Brandon, O’Reilly and the other old-time Irish cops were gathered to the right, just visible through a thick fog of cigarette smoke. Hegarty stood with them in shirt-sleeves and vivid red suspenders, a cigar pressed to his lips. As Centre Street’s powerful press spokesman, he’d helped turn his old pal Johnny Brandon into a star. He’d already offered to do the same for Quinn. You’ve got potential, kid, I’m telling you. Quinn found it hard not to be flattered by that.

  Brandon glowered in their direction.

  ‘What’s eating the Bull?’ Quinn said.

  Caprisi grunted.

  Quinn slipped through the crowd to intercept the chief of detectives as soon as the line-up was finished. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘Quinn … yes?’ McCredie’s expression made it clear this was not a wholly welcome encounter.

  ‘I wondered if I could have a word.’

  ‘Sure.’ McCredie didn’t move as Brandon and the others came up alongside him.

  ‘I mean in private.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay, but maybe later. Is it urgent?’

  ‘No … no.’

  ‘Come see me at clocking-off time.’ McCredie strode away and took the stairs three at a time.

  Caprisi and Quinn were a few paces behind Brandon, O’Reilly and Hegarty. As they approached the lower landing, all three slowed. O’Reilly turned first and, with two great fists, took hold of Caprisi’s collar and swung him around. As soon as his feet hit the floor, Hegarty punched him square in the face and Brandon spun him through a door into the equipment room.

  Caprisi recovered, landed a punch and retreated. O’Reilly stood in the doorway and barred Quinn’s path. ‘This isn’t your fight, kid.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘We just heard O’Dwyer’s
going to the Chair for killing that nigger, so the guinea here is going to pay for it.’

  ‘He didn’t have anything to do with O’Dwyer.’

  ‘He worked for Valentine.’

  ‘Then go after Valentine.’ Quinn heard a groan. He saw Caprisi double up. Brandon towered over him with a nightstick. Hegarty spat out his cigar and rolled up his sleeves. ‘Get out of the way,’ Quinn said.

  O’Reilly grinned. ‘Scram, kid.’

  Quinn lowered his voice an octave. ‘Get out of the way. And that’s your last warning.’

  O’Reilly laughed. ‘My last warning? Did you hear that, boys? Take it from me, kid, you need to get the hell out of here.’

  Quinn punched deep into O’Reilly’s belly. The big man crumpled forward, eyes popping with surprise and pain, so Quinn set him up with a left and finished him off with a powerhouse right. O’Reilly flew backwards, bounced off the door and skidded along the floor.

  Quinn stepped into the room. Brandon and Hegarty towered over Caprisi, nightsticks raised. ‘Get out of here, kid,’ Hegarty said. ‘We’ve marked you out for the top. We’re going to make you a star. You don’t have to soil yourself with this rat.’

  Caprisi struggled to his feet, bloodied but not beaten. ‘Listen to what Mr Hegarty says, rookie,’ Brandon told Quinn. ‘Back off or we’ll break your neck.’

  The room was full of metal cabinets. Nightsticks and bulletproof vests were stacked three deep. Discarded shirts and jackets hung from pegs or were strewn across wooden benches. The room stank of sweat and boot polish. ‘Leave him alone,’ Quinn said.

  Not a single hair on Brandon’s handsome head was out of place. Vivid blue eyes fixed Quinn with a steady gaze. The Bull darted forward, but Quinn easily sidestepped the blow. Caprisi struggled to his feet and landed a punch on Hegarty, who stumbled back into a cabinet. Brandon swung the nightstick again and this time Quinn felt it whistle past his ear.

  ‘Aren’t you going to even things up?’ Brandon asked. He pointed to a nightstick, which had clattered to the floor.

  Quinn made to reach for it, then danced forwards instead and jabbed viciously with a left and a right. Brandon staggered back, dazed. Hegarty landed another blow on Caprisi, who fell to his knees in the corner.

  Brandon leant against a shelf. He had a cut to his right eye and a tuft of hair flopped over his forehead. He feinted one way, then swung again. Quinn ducked. He jabbed twice to the stomach and followed with an uppercut to the chin. The Bull’s head snapped back and he flew over a bench.

  Caprisi was on the floor now and Quinn saw Hegarty bring his stick down across his back. He moved quickly. Brandon was barely on his feet, but he kicked him in the shins and gave him three swift blows to his solar plexus and jaw. The Bull went down hard, banged his head against the edge of a bench and lay still. O’Reilly watched from the doorway, but didn’t intervene.

  Caprisi pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, and somehow ducked another blow from Hegarty’s nightstick. Quinn kicked the back of Hegarty’s right knee, pulled his shoulder around and struck him square on the nose. The press chief squealed like a stuck pig and tripped over his friend, so that they lay across each other like a pair of circus clowns.

  Caprisi dusted himself down. Quinn picked up his partner’s wallet, which had spilled onto the floor, and slipped a photograph of an attractive dark-haired woman and a small boy back inside it.

  ‘You’ll pay for this,’ O’Reilly said, but he made no move to block their path.

  ‘No,’ Quinn said, jabbing him hard in the chest. ‘You’ll pay for it. Don’t ever come near either of us again.’

  The Irishman didn’t respond.

  ‘Have you got that, O’Reilly?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And you can give your buddies the same message when they wake up.’

  ‘Sure, Joe.’

  Caprisi was out in the corridor, walking with difficulty. They reached the men’s room and examined themselves in the mirror. Caprisi had a cut lip and a bruised cheek.

  ‘Is your back okay?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘No.’ Caprisi ran a tap and began to clean himself up.

  Quinn offered him a handkerchief. ‘It’s been washed.’

  Caprisi dabbed his lip, which was swelling rapidly. He arched his back and grimaced with pain.

  ‘You want me to take a look?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘What are you – a goddamned nurse as well as Jack Dempsey?’

  ‘Maybe they broke something.’

  ‘It’s bruised is all.’

  ‘You should tell the doc.’

  ‘Where in the hell did you learn to fight like that?’

  Quinn examined his fists. He didn’t have a scratch on him. ‘You think we should tell McCredie?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what just happened.’

  ‘No.’

  Quinn hesitated, but the question had to be asked. ‘You reckon he knew about it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Caprisi washed and dried his hands. ‘You want to go take a look at Charlie Matsell’s bank accounts, right?’

  ‘Sure I do.’

  ‘What is it you figure you’re going to find?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t believe that, but seeing the way you fight, I’ll take it on trust you know what you’re doing. So, let’s go. And welcome to the wilderness, by the way. You just fought your way out of the Irish in-club.’

  They walked downstairs to the central hall. The woman Quinn had seen the previous day was still sitting there. She watched them pass.

  ‘Is that the mother?’ Quinn asked, as they came out onto Centre Street.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Goddamn.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  When they reached the Gardner, Quinn didn’t get in. ‘She looked sick. Did you see her eyes? We should check she’s all right.’ He retraced his steps.

  ‘I thought you wanted to go back to Wall Street.’

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘C’mon, Joe, she’s O’Reilly’s problem.’

  ‘We both know how reassuring that must be.’

  The woman turned slowly towards him as he approached.

  ‘Ma’am, are you okay?’ She made no response. Quinn crouched down beside her. ‘Ma’am … Mrs …’

  ‘Mecklenburg,’ Caprisi said softly.

  ‘Mrs Mecklenburg, are you okay?’

  ‘Has there been some news?’

  ‘No, ma’am. We’re not working on your daughter’s case. I just wanted to check you were all right. I saw you sitting here last night and again early this morning.’

  ‘Isn’t everyone working on it? I thought nearly all of your officers would be.’

  ‘A whole lot of them are. You’ve seen Detectives O’Reilly and Byrnes and their team.’

  She was shaking now. The tremor had begun in her hands and spread quickly.

  ‘Ma’am? Mrs Mecklenburg?’

  People waiting in the lobby were staring. Quinn and Caprisi helped her to a bench at the back of the hall by the telephone booths, out of sight.

  She was oblivious to them. ‘Get Mae,’ Quinn whispered.

  It seemed, for a moment, as if grief would consume her, but she fought to regain control. She wiped her eyes. Her forehead was damp with sweat. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘I’m a foolish woman. Detective O’Reilly said he’d find her.’

  Quinn crouched down again. ‘Ma’am, has anyone been looking after you?’

  ‘Detective O’Reilly says they don’t believe that … There’s nothing to suppose that … It’ll be a misunderstanding, won’t it? Girls can be so … silly sometimes.’ She tried to laugh. ‘Do you have children, Detective? You look too young.’

  ‘I sure hope she’s with her uncle, ma’am.’

  ‘With Peter?’ She frowned. ‘No. I’ve told Mr O’Reilly that he would never do such a thing. I mean … I cannot …’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Why would anyone say such a thing?
Peter’s a good man. He’s kind and gentle. I don’t understand. He was always due to be away this weekend. I told Mr O’Reilly that.’

  ‘Ma’am, did Detective O’Reilly ask someone to come down here and take care of you?’

  ‘He said I should go home but …’

  ‘When we’re done here, I’ll go upstairs and see if I can find anything out.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s been an automobile accident. Maybe they’re in hospital and unable to place a call.’

  ‘Could be.’

  She pulled a photograph from her pocket. Her hand shook so much that it fluttered to the floor. Quinn picked it up. ‘She’s a beautiful girl, ma’am.’

  ‘That’s the little dog I bought her for her thirteenth birthday. I’ve asked the neighbours to look after him. He’ll be so happy to see her back.’

  Mae appeared with Caprisi. She touched the woman’s shoulder. ‘Mrs Mecklenburg, I’m sorry to see you like this. Please, come with me.’

  ‘Where will you be?’ Quinn asked, as Mae led her gently away.

  ‘Downstairs.’

  Quinn watched them go, then went to the central staircase.

  He found his quarry in the corner office. O’Reilly was alone. He stood up and backed away. ‘Jesus, Joe … the Bull’s with the doc.’

  ‘I’m after some extra dope on this Brooklyn case.’

  ‘What – what do you want to know?’

  ‘The girl’s mother’s downstairs. She’s not well.’

  ‘I told her to go home.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, she didn’t take your advice. She says it can’t be the uncle. Have you got anything else? Any other leads? Anything at all we can give her?’

  ‘They always say that, Joe. The guy was supposed to be in work Wednesday and Thursday but never showed up. Johnny’s about to talk to her. He’ll be down as soon as he’s finished with the doc.’

  ‘I thought Danny Byrnes was handling it.’

  ‘He is, but McCredie’s getting nervous and wants it cleared up real quick.’

  ‘Mae’s with her,’ Quinn told him. ‘Do me a favour and go give her an update. I’ll check if she’s all right later on.’

  ‘Sure, Joe.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN