Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  THEY WALKED DOWN TO THE GARDNER WITHOUT SPEAKING, climbed in and Quinn headed south past the Tombs and City Hall. There had been an accident in front of Jacob Leisler’s oak, so he took a side road and worked his way back towards Broadway. Leisler had been hanged by the British for opposing colonial rule, and Quinn had never been able to ride past the tree as a kid without being told his story. Sometimes he’d thought it was the only thing that made his father, an Irish rebel to his core, feel at home.

  ‘Why’d they do that?’ Quinn asked. ‘Just leave her there …’

  Caprisi sighed. ‘It’s O’Reilly. What more can you say?’

  It had started raining again and great fat drops bounced off the hood.

  ‘Kitty’s on the money. Imagine how bad it’ll look if it comes out we didn’t find the girl in time because of a bunch of politics.’

  ‘Like I said, Danny Byrnes is a reasonable cop. McCredie’s bound to go with his judgement.’

  ‘Hmm. I still say it’s a mistake.’ The traffic was slow. ‘Tell me something,’ Quinn said. ‘How come you joined Valentine? I figure you’re smart enough to do anything you want.’

  ‘It was a chance to get to Headquarters.’

  ‘That was it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you regret it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Honest.’

  ‘It must be kind of hard nailing other cops, though. Look how our friends back there took the news on O’Dwyer.’

  ‘It’s not so hard when you see how it all ends up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Caprisi arched his back and grimaced again. ‘You know our friend Charlie Luciano? Valentine estimated he made upwards of ten million dollars last year from liquor alone. How do you think he got away with that?’

  ‘So, there are a few precinct captains who—’

  ‘A few precinct captains? C’mon, Joe, you’re smarter than that. You think all those Headquarters boys are going to pass up the chance to take a cut of some of that action?’

  ‘Who’s on the payroll?’

  Caprisi dabbed his lip with the handkerchief.

  ‘O’Reilly?’

  ‘Maybe they all are.’

  Quinn snorted. ‘Even McCredie and the commissioner? Give me a break.’

  ‘The commissioner got rid of Valentine.’

  ‘Only because everyone hated the snooping. You can’t run a force if every single cop is looking over his shoulder the whole time.’

  Caprisi shoved the handkerchief into his pocket.

  ‘I’m not condoning it,’ Quinn said, ‘but are you going to tell me it’s the end of the world if O’Reilly or even the Bull turns a blind eye to the liquor business? Don’t you take a drink?’

  ‘You can be a naïve bastard, do you know that?’

  ‘Hell, just because I—’

  ‘You want to know what it means? I’ll tell you. Imagine you’re just an average guy. Not a cop, or one of those corrupt sachems who run Tammany Hall, just an ordinary, average swell. You go out to a bar one night and you find that one of these hoods is sitting at the next-door table. He likes your wife, thinks she’s real pretty, and he has to have everything he wants. On the way home, he tells his boys he’d like to borrow her. She puts up a bit of a fight, so when they’re finished, she’s all messed up. They decide it’s easier if she takes a ride to the bottom of the Hudson.’

  ‘Okay—’

  ‘No, it’s not okay. That was a real case. I had to look into it. The precinct cops, whose job it was to bust the guy, were so bent they could have pulled a cork. Now we’ve got rid of Valentine there’s nothing to stop them.’

  They pulled up outside the Bank of America branch on Broadway, just south of Exchange Alley, but Caprisi wasn’t finished. ‘That’s why I joined Valentine and that’s why I’ll defend him.’

  ‘I get the point.’

  ‘Maybe up in the Bronx or over in Long Island, it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s a while since you had any dealings with the likes of Charlie Luciano but, trust me, down here it’s different.’

  ‘You’re telling me that even Commissioner Whalen is—’

  ‘I’m telling you I don’t know anything for sure any more. If you want the dope, Valentine thought Schneider and the Bull were probably taking the liquor dough. But that’s not the point. If it turns out we’re on Luciano’s tail and we piss him off, you’ll take a bath in the Hudson for good and there’ll be nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘Maybe things will change.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

  ‘La Guardia’s making a hell of a play for City Hall. People say he’s straight.’

  ‘He hasn’t a goddamned chance. Not unless you believe in miracles.’

  Quinn looked out at the entrance to the bank. ‘So, do you think we should drop this?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Caprisi pushed open the door and ducked out into the rain. ‘Don’t put words into my mouth.’

  ‘Relax. I’m not trying to get you into trouble here.’

  ‘You may not be but, believe me, trouble is where we’re headed.’

  *

  The Bank of America, Lower Broadway, teemed with people, mostly women. As Quinn waited in the hall, young girls in tightfitting skirts hurried around them, attending to the crowd by the counters. He looked up at the vaulted ceiling. Everything about the bank smacked of power and wealth, from the gleaming brass ashtrays to the spotless carpets and finely polished mahogany desks.

  Caprisi returned with an attractive blonde. Quinn grinned at him, but he didn’t respond. The woman led them up to the first floor and along a narrow corridor to an office overlooking Broadway.

  The manager of the branch was an Ivy League type, big and heavy-set. His tailor-made suit was a little too snug, and his thin moustache and wavy hair, thick with brilliantine and combed back off his forehead, failed to hold back the years. Quinn put him at a shade over fifty. His conspicuous, shallow charm reminded Quinn of Commissioner Whalen. ‘Benjamin Francis,’ he said, reaching out a hand. ‘Violet said you require some assistance.’ His smile faded as he caught sight of Caprisi’s face. ‘Are you all right, Detective? I can get Violet to—’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘You want a drink – a cup of coffee, some water?’

  ‘No.’

  Caprisi placed the statements they’d taken from Matsell’s office on the desk and Francis sat down. Quinn noted the thick carpet and the fancy paintings on the wall. This wasn’t your average Bank of America branch. ‘Nice place you have here, Mr Francis.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He waited for Quinn to say something. ‘Are you folks from Headquarters?’

  ‘Homicide.’

  Francis picked up a silver box and offered them both a cigarette. They declined.

  ‘I guess you have a lot of Wall Street clients,’ Quinn said.

  He flashed them a salesman’s smile. ‘That’s why we’re here.’ He tapped a cigarette against the box and lit it. ‘How can we help?’

  ‘Well,’ Quinn began, ‘the problem we have, sir, is that someone pushed one of your clients off a roof.’

  ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘His name was Charlie Matsell.’

  ‘Matsell? I’m not sure I know him.’

  ‘He was a partner in Unique Investment Management, based at eighty Wall Street.’ Quinn pushed a sheaf of bank statements across the desk. ‘They received some real big sums from this account here, which looks like it’s also held with your bank. We need to know whose name is on the ticket.’

  Francis’s cheeks coloured. ‘Well, I—’

  ‘You could be of great assistance to us, Mr Francis. You understand that, where such serious sums of money are involved, we’re bound to examine anyone connected extremely closely.’

  Francis looked from one to the other and back again. Quinn suspected he knew perfectly well who held the account, but allowed him to go through the charade of leaving the
room and reappearing five minutes later with a name written upon a piece of headed paper: the Olive Oil Company.

  ‘The Olive Oil Company?’ Quinn said. It had to be a joke.

  Francis wasn’t laughing. ‘According to our records.’

  ‘And who owns it?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I—’

  ‘Does the name Luciano mean anything to you, Mr Francis?’

  ‘No … I mean, yes, I’m aware of who he is.’

  ‘Does he have an account here?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Does he own the Olive Oil Company?’

  ‘I don’t believe so … I don’t know.’

  ‘Mr Francis, do you figure someone like Luciano would have wanted to invest in Unique Investment Management?’

  ‘I …I have no idea.’ Sweat glistened along his hairline.

  ‘Sir, we’ve a lead here that we need to follow,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Of course. Whatever we can do.’

  ‘We’d appreciate it if you’d let us have a look at all Unique’s statements for the last two years.’

  ‘Detective, I cannot do that.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘Ben – please call me Ben.’

  ‘Okay, Ben.’ Quinn moved to the window: indistinct figures traipsed down the rain-sodden sidewalk. ‘This is a homicide investigation.’

  ‘I know that, but all our accounts are confidential. You must understand—’

  ‘Sure, Ben. But the problem is, we can’t take no for an answer here.’

  His forehead creased. ‘Then you must get legal authority. I cannot simply—’

  ‘We don’t have time for that.’

  Francis tried to get up, but Quinn put a foot behind his chair, then sat on the edge of his desk. ‘Ben, you know as well as I do that there’s something wrong with these accounts.’

  ‘I know no such thing.’

  ‘Sure you do. I can see it in your eyes. Unique isn’t your regular kind of company, is it?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I think you do, Ben. I figure you knew something was wrong the moment we walked in here. And, seeing the look in your eyes, I’m betting you also know all about the Olive Oil Company.’

  ‘Detective, I really must insist—’

  ‘Don’t make us loosen your memory in the Tombs, Ben.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I shall call my lawyer.’

  Quinn clamped his hand on the telephone. ‘Ben, you don’t want us to march you out of here in front of all those clients, do you?’

  Francis swallowed hard.

  ‘Now, the Olive Oil Company is a Luciano concern. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I …’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I cannot say.’ His face had flushed bright red. They heard the honk of a departing ferry. ‘I have never met Mr Luciano. I have only ever dealt with Mr Lansky.’

  ‘Mr Meyer Lansky?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Quinn removed a pen from his pocket. He pointed at the statements. ‘Take a look at these. You’ll see a pattern. The money – here it’s two million dollars – comes across from the Olive Oil Company. Unique trades it. I’m betting these transfers are to a broker’s account. A few weeks later it comes back. But now – abracadabra – it’s more than three million.’

  Francis stared at the figures.

  ‘Here’s what we need, Ben. All the statements that relate to Unique’s accounts since the day they were opened. We’ll have to find out if these transfers are to a broker and, if so, which one. And we’ll want all the statements you produced last year for the Olive Oil Company.’

  ‘I can’t do that!’ Francis took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘You must understand, these people enjoy client privilege. You don’t have a warrant. I cannot simply let you—’

  ‘And these transfers here, the regular ones, relatively small sums, but they’re always going to the same accounts. I need to know who the accounts belong to.’

  ‘Gentlemen, please, be reasonable. I cannot provide you with clients’ private details.’

  ‘Ben, we’ve been over this.’

  ‘Even so, it’s just not possible to—’

  Quinn smiled. ‘You know what they do to men like you in the Tombs?’

  ‘I’m calling my attorney. You came marching in here—’

  ‘By the time you get hold of him, you’ll be wishing you’d never been born.’ Quinn grabbed his wrist. ‘Ben, you’re withholding important information in a homicide investigation. Don’t make us spell it out for you.’

  Francis pulled his arm free. He rubbed his hands together. A muscle twitched in his cheek. With clients like his, Quinn didn’t blame him for being nervous. ‘No one will know, you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘No one? That’s a promise?’

  ‘Not a soul.’

  They all knew the consequences of crossing a man like Luciano, and it said something about Ben Francis that the distant threat of discovery and punishment by the Mob was less frightening than the shame and discomfort of a more immediate trip to the Tombs. ‘You’d better make sure I don’t regret this,’ he said. He opened the door. ‘Violet, could you come in here a moment, please?’

  The willowy blonde hurried in. It was clear from the way Francis talked to her that she was used to ministering to his needs.

  Once she’d gone, the banker stood brooding by the window. Once or twice, he made a desultory attempt at conversation, but they fell quickly back into silence. When Francis went out to the bathroom, Caprisi put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. ‘You’re a cruel bastard,’ he said approvingly.

  Violet placed the first box on the desk and smiled at Quinn.

  ‘Please,’ Francis said. ‘Help yourselves.’

  ‘You weren’t interested in how they made so much money, Mr Francis?’ Caprisi asked.

  ‘I don’t …’ He looked from one to the other. ‘If you need anything else, I’m sure my secretary will be able to assist you.’

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ Caprisi muttered.

  Quinn leafed through the Unique statements. Periods of inactivity, when only the regular monthly outgoings persisted, were followed by a series of transactions of the kind they’d already witnessed. Over the eighteen months since the account had been opened, the sums being paid in by the Olive Oil Company had grown every quarter, starting at a couple of hundred thousand dollars and rising to the final investment of three million.

  Violet came in with another box containing the Olive Oil accounts. She put it on the floor beside Quinn’s chair. ‘There are three more. Do you want them all?’

  ‘Sure. Oh, Violet?’

  She turned back.

  ‘Did Mr Francis tell you about these other accounts?’

  She shook her head.

  Quinn picked up one of the sheets. ‘On the Unique statements, there are monthly payments to a series of accounts. Here – you see? We need to know where these were held and in whose name.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll – I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘You can do that, right?’

  Violet made sure she wasn’t being observed from outside the room. ‘He said everything but those accounts,’ she said.

  ‘Why do you think he said that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then you’d better go and—’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ she said. She took the sheet and smiled at him again.

  Quinn flipped open the top of the new box. ‘Jesus …’ He scanned the figures on the first page. ‘How much do you guess the Olive Oil Company has in its account, to the nearest hundred thousand?’

  ‘Five million.’

  ‘Twenty-seven million.’ Quinn paused, astounded. ‘Twenty-seven million dollars. There are almost no debits, just credits.’

  ‘Except to the guys at Unique?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No wonder our friend Ben didn’t wa
nt us in here.’

  Quinn whistled. He looked up at the portrait that dominated the wall above the desk. ‘Twenty-seven million,’ he said.

  ‘I told you they were rich.’

  ‘You saying they got all this from liquor?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just figured …’

  Quinn turned his attention back to the pile of statements and worked through them. Once in a while there was a debit on the account, but mostly it was a long record of cash sums paid in. ‘Why do you think they were in bed with Matsell?’

  ‘Unique had a good proposition. They saw a chance to bring some of their dough above board and make it clean.’

  ‘You think the Olive Oil Company has ever even seen a bottle of olive oil?’

  ‘No.’

  Violet shimmered in. She had a pad of paper in her hand. ‘I have the information for you.’ She pushed her glasses to the top of her nose. ‘I’m afraid the first two numbers are for accounts at different banks, but these two are held here.’

  ‘Go on,’ Quinn said.

  ‘One of the gentlemen is a Jeremy Norton; the other, Simon Rosenthal.’

  ‘Rosenthal is a columnist,’ Caprisi said. ‘Daily News.’

  ‘What does he write about?’

  ‘He picks stocks, right?’

  They looked at Violet, who nodded.

  ‘Who’s Norton?’ Quinn said.

  ‘I believe he works for the Tribune, but you’d have to ask—’

  ‘He also picks stocks?’

  ‘I believe so,’ she said.

  ‘Sounds something like the old Wall Street fixes Rothstein used to run,’ Quinn remarked to his partner. ‘You buy up stocks, then pay columnists to write them up.’

  ‘What? A guy from the Tribune?’

  ‘Why not? Maybe Yan’s wrong.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Luciano is muscling in on Wall Street.’ Quinn stood. ‘We need to ask him how he was making so much dough.’

  ‘No, we do not,’ Caprisi said, but Quinn was already halfway out of the door.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE ENTRANCE TO LUCIANO’S HEADQUARTERS WAS SANDWICHED between a chop-house and a drugstore. Only the tiny peephole in the door hinted at something more interesting within. Quinn knocked, and they waited in the drizzling rain. A couple of kids eyed them from further down the sidewalk.