Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  He killed the light, lay down and stared at the patterns on the ceiling. As teenagers, he and Martha had spent hours imagining what creatures might emerge from them in the darkness. He closed his eyes.

  Suddenly the wireless was turned off and the apartment was silent. Quinn opened his eyes, but did not stir. He heard her soft footfall and saw a shadow beneath the door. He swung his legs off the bed.

  He could see her bare feet on the uneven wooden floorboards beneath the ill-fitting door.

  He heard her touch the door handle and release it swiftly. She paused a moment longer and then moved away.

  Disappointment crowded in on him.

  He heard a pot being boiled, the bathtub filled and, in time, water being scooped over her shoulders.

  He reached for his jacket and took the photograph from the inside pocket. He looked at the half-tone shoes in the corner.

  Water drained from the bath.

  There was a long silence, and then he heard her outside his door again.

  He waited.

  Martha crept on down the corridor to her room.

  Quinn drank two more huge slugs of whisky and waited for sleep. In a last conscious moment, he imagined her searching for those patterns upon the ceiling.

  In their adult world, there was no pattern. Only darkness.

  It was summer and the night was still. A faint breeze whispered up the stairwell.

  Quinn joined his brother by the window. Their father was hunched over a bonfire in the courtyard. They watched him pick a dark suit and feed it to the flames. Aidan gripped his hand. ‘What’s happening, Joe?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Tonight, once again, there had been no cheese or crackers on the table, no finely cut apples or homemade lemonade. Their mother did not sit, smiling, in the chair by the stove.

  They heard only soft cries from behind locked doors.

  There had been no music practice, laughter or gentle chastisement, just another day of tears, screams, anger, silence.

  A door opened. They heard her in the corridor.

  ‘Ade.’

  They jumped onto their beds.

  She crept in. She came to Joe first and wrapped soft arms around his neck. Her hair brushed his cheeks. ‘Joe,’ she whispered. Her face was still damp with tears. ‘We shall just have to learn to forgive him. Isn’t that what the good Lord teaches us?’

  ‘What must we forgive him for?’ Aidan asked.

  ‘It’s all right, Ade,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to know. We must just believe in the power of forgiveness. That’s all.’ She shook him. ‘Joe, are you all right?’

  He turned to the wall.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘Go away. It’s your fault.’

  ‘Joe, what have I done? You don’t understand. Sometimes everything is not as it seems. I know you worship him, but—’

  He covered his ears. ‘La, la, la, la, la …’

  ‘Joseph, stop it.’

  But he did not wish to hear of fallibility and forgiveness.‘Dad,’ he wanted to scream, ‘Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad!’

  ‘Joe!’

  Gerry crouched over him, his face creased with anxiety in the half-darkness. ‘Joe, what is it?’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘You called me – you must have woken the whole building. Are you all right? You’re soaked in sweat.’

  He focused on his father’s eyes, and as Gerry began to withdraw, he gripped his forearm. ‘Dad, what am I going to find out? What was Moe talking about?’

  Gerry tried to pull away, but Quinn held him. ‘Please, whatever it is, you’re still my father. Nothing can change that.’

  ‘Joe—’

  ‘Is that why Mom got sick? Is that what happened to her?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about your mother.’

  ‘Dad, I have to know. You can’t expect me to walk away.’

  ‘Then you’re not my son.’ Gerry Quinn stood. ‘Then you’re not my son.’

  *

  Quinn knew that Aidan was awake, but neither man spoke.

  After a few minutes, Aidan was snoring, but Quinn struggled in vain for sleep. Unwelcome trains of thought led him nowhere he wanted to go. He tossed and turned on the straw mattress.

  When he heard movement outside he got up, slipped out to the front room and closed the door behind him.

  Martha stood by the window, her skin pale in the moonlight. He moved close enough to touch her, but she didn’t turn. She ran her fingers down the window-pane and put her face to the glass, as she had in the kuch alein guesthouse on Coney Island that summer long ago. She wore a thin silk nightdress.

  ‘What are you trying to do, Joe?’

  ‘I’m not trying to do anything.’

  ‘What is it that you want?’

  ‘I want to know what he’s frightened of. What we’re all scared of.’

  ‘We’re not frightened of anything.’

  ‘Then tell me why Mom got sick.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know, or you just don’t want to think about what we do know?’

  ‘We don’t know anything. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Why did she give up, Martha? Why did she fade away? I never saw her touch a drop of alcohol before.’

  Her face reddened. ‘Before they took me in? Is that what you’re saying?’

  Only a hair’s breadth separated them. A sheen of sweat glistened on her neck. ‘Don’t do this, Joe,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll destroy us.’

  ‘What use is a life based on a lie?’

  ‘There is no lie!’ Martha spun around. ‘I’ve fought for this peace, Joe. Don’t destroy it. If you do, I’ll never forgive you.’

  He held up the photograph.

  She closed her eyes.

  ‘Is that where Dad took you, Martha? Is that what he had in mind for you?’

  She opened her eyes and slapped him. ‘You filthy, despicable— You disgust me!’ She shoved him in the chest. ‘Get out of here.’ She snatched the photograph and pushed it into his face. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Get out!’

  Martha ran down the corridor and slammed her bedroom door so hard that the apartment shook. Quinn leant his forehead against the window.

  ‘What’s going on, Joe?’ Aidan was still half asleep.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I just woke up and heard shouting.’

  ‘We were arguing.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘It doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  ‘It was about the case I’m working on. She’s not telling me everything she knows.’

  ‘Leave her be, Joe, okay? We don’t want your world coming into this house. She’s my responsibility now, and however much I owe you, I’m going to make sure she’s protected.’

  Quinn went back to his bed. His head pounded and his throat was raw. There were still no patterns in the goddamn darkness. He got up again and put on his coat.

  As he marched along the sidewalk towards the Gardner, he fought to stop himself looking back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  QUINN AWOKE TO A SHOWER OF NEWSPAPERS AND CAPRISI’S GRINNING face. He blinked up at the light, then rolled out from under the desk. His back was crooked and stiff and his mouth tasted like a skunk’s breath.

  ‘How can you fall out with your wife when you don’t have one?’ Caprisi asked.

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘They charge, you know, for sleeping under a Headquarters desk.’

  ‘I was working late.’

  Caprisi raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure you were.’

  All the newspapers save the Tribune had devoted their front page to pictures of the previous night’s crime scene. The Sun had an image of Duncan’s body in the car. A large banner below its masthead claimed an exclusive. The others bore a photograph of Brandon talking to the press. They reported breathlessly that the NYPD’s most seasoned and respected detective had been assigned t
he case. There were confident predictions that the matter would, therefore, soon be resolved. Two had the same headline: ‘Mayor’s Aide Slain’. The World claimed Tammany members were privately blaming supporters of La Guardia, with dark suggestions that an organized-crime syndicate may have been behind the murder.

  No one linked it to Matsell’s death.

  Caprisi raised his arm and tapped his watch. ‘We’ve got to go. You were dead to the world, so I left it until the last minute.’

  Quinn stretched, then tried to tidy his hair and collar.

  Caprisi handed him a cup of coffee. ‘You’re a mess.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Oh, Schneider came by. He didn’t want to wake you, but he doesn’t want either of us to mention what you found in Matsell’s mouth at any meeting.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He thinks it’s … confusing.’

  ‘Confusing?’

  ‘Hell, I don’t know, Joe. That’s what he said. Take it up with McCredie, why don’t you?’

  They turned towards the briefing room. As they passed an open window, they heard the press baying for blood. McCredie was struggling to make his way through the throng. The questions came faster than they had the previous night. ‘Is it La Guardia, Chief? What does his wife say? You think it could have been a broad? Have you spoken to the mayor? You think the Bull can crack it? How come his pants were down? You figure there could be a La Guardia connection?’

  McCredie finally made it to the side door, where a couple of uniformed officers shoved the mob back.

  The briefing room was quieter than usual. Most of the detectives were digesting the morning’s headlines. Neither Brandon nor any of his cronies was present.

  Quinn and Caprisi took up their position at the back beneath the clock. It was just a shade before eight. Kitty and Mae stood by one of the large wood panels, smoking. They both held a cup of coffee. Mae had cut her blonde hair short. It suited her. ‘We’re going to install a bunk under your desk,’ she told Quinn. ‘You’re lucky the boss wasn’t in. You know how he hates people sleeping on the job.’

  ‘You had a fight with your wife?’ Kitty had a low cigarette voice. ‘Or did you just pick one with yourself?’

  ‘He hasn’t got a wife,’ Mae said.

  ‘You got a sweetheart, Quinn?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, you’re available?’

  They all grinned. Everyone in the joint knew Kitty was sweet on Mae.

  Brandon and Hegarty, the press chief, strolled in together. Kitty stared at them. ‘Jesus,’ she muttered. ‘What happened to those two?’

  ‘Somebody taught them some manners,’ Mae said. She smiled approvingly at Quinn.

  Kitty picked up the message. She dropped her cigarette, ground out the stub and leant closer. ‘So, what happened, lover-boy?’

  ‘We had an exchange of views.’

  McCredie swept into the room, trailed by the commissioner and Mayor Jimmy Walker.

  ‘Okay, listen up,’ McCredie said. ‘You’ve seen the headlines. You all know the mayor here. Just in case some of you have been relying on the newspapers, let me give it to you straight: Spencer Duncan was murdered last night at around six. He had his pants below his knees and his private parts were exposed, but not molested. He had a cut to his neck, but he was killed by a knife to the heart. His driver was also murdered, but that’s incidental. It was Duncan they were after.’

  McCredie paused for effect. ‘I don’t need to tell you that the mayor wants and needs some answers. The press are pointing the finger at La Guardia, so things are about to get hotter.’ McCredie glanced at Walker. The mayor nodded. ‘The Bull heads this up. If anyone can crack it, he can. But I’m on the case, too. You can all miss line-up this morning. Get the hell out of here and work the streets. Turn over your stoolies, look in at some of the local precincts; keep your eyes peeled and your ears pegged to every goddamn sidewalk. If you hear something, call it in here to me or the Bull. Mae will be on the line. This has absolute priority over any and all other cases.’

  McCredie stepped down. Mayor Walker took his place. Beside him, the commissioner adjusted the gardenia in his buttonhole and stroked the ends of his waxed moustache.

  Walker surveyed the room as if he was about to make a presidential address. ‘Spencer Duncan was a friend of mine, so I want these men caught quick. And, rest assured, when you have them, I’ll make damned certain that every single one takes a walk to the Chair. I know your reputation and, as mayor, I’ve supported this department in every way I could. Now we have the press howling for a result and a mystery to which even Johnny Brandon hasn’t yet got the answer. So, I want some action, and I want it now.’

  Walker turned on his heel and stalked out, followed by the commissioner. Quinn saw Ed McCredie give the Bull a barely perceptible but ironic shake of the head.

  They filed out in silence. Outside, the pressmen waited beside the mayor’s silver-trimmed Duesenberg. The chauffeur already had the engine running.

  At the end of the corridor, McCredie beckoned Quinn and Caprisi into his office. He’d already chalked a list of assignments on the blackboard, and leads that had to be followed. ‘I want you to babysit the widow,’ he said. ‘She’s upset, so you hold her hand, tell her we’re doing everything we can. Keep those monkeys in the press away from her.’

  ‘But, sir …’ Quinn saw the surprise on Caprisi’s face too. This was surely a job for some uniforms.

  ‘You did well with the Matsell connection, but the Bull is onto it now. He’ll take a look at the Wall Street fix as well.’

  ‘Couldn’t we get some uniform boys to take care of the widow?’

  ‘No. He was the mayor’s chief aide, for Christ’s sake. I can’t have this blow up in my face. Maybe it’s just for today. Tomorrow we’ll take another look.’ McCredie squeezed Quinn’s shoulder. ‘You’ve done well, son. You’re going places, even if the Bull does want to put you six feet under. But you’re the new kids on the block and I need you to do this.’

  ‘Sir, why doesn’t Schneider want—’

  ‘I don’t care what Schneider wants. Mae!’

  Caprisi turned towards the door, but Quinn remained where he was. ‘Sir, can I have a word?’ He glanced at his partner. ‘In private.’ Caprisi slipped out.

  ‘What’s this about, son?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’d like to ask a couple of questions.’

  ‘Detective, we’re rushed off our feet here. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘It’ll take just a few moments.’

  McCredie retreated behind his desk and lit a cigarette. ‘Go on, son.’

  ‘I’m curious you’ve never really talked about him. He worked here a long time. I figure you must all have known him.’

  ‘We don’t judge a man by the sins of his father. I told you that already.’ McCredie blew out a thick plume of smoke. ‘If we did, I’d be up Shit Creek and so would most of the other guys out on that floor. You seem like a smart kid. You’re clever and you’re a good man to have around in a tight spot. That’s enough for me, so I’ll stick with you even if you have made mortal enemies of Johnny and some of the other boys.’

  ‘ “The sins of the father”?’

  McCredie avoided his gaze. ‘You’d better ask him.’

  ‘He won’t talk about his time here.’

  ‘Hell!’ McCredie stood. ‘It’s no big deal. He had a different style, that’s all. He and guys like Johnny never hit it off. It came to something and your father bunked out. That was his choice.’

  ‘Why did he leave?’

  ‘I don’t know, son. You’d have to ask him.’

  ‘He didn’t give a reason?’

  ‘Not one that I recall.’

  ‘Were he and Moe Diamond friends?’

  ‘I have no idea. Diamond should be in an asylum.’

  ‘That’s what my father said.’

  ‘Well, he’s right.’
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br />   ‘But Moe gave me the idea that—’

  ‘Forget Moe, son. I wouldn’t trust him to tell me the time of day. I know your old man’s a bit of a mystery. He always was a taciturn bastard, though a damned good cop. One of the best, in fact. He deserved his reputation, which you couldn’t say for everyone around here. But maybe he just got tired, like we all do.

  Maybe he needed a change of scene. What I’m sure of is that you’re young and keen, so you get out there and knock us dead.’ McCredie rounded his desk and clapped Quinn’s back. ‘Just not as vigorously as you did with the Bull, okay?’

  Quinn took the back stairs to the basement, where he found Maretsky picking his nose. ‘Good morning,’ Quinn said.

  ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  Quinn sighed. ‘Let’s look on the bright side, shall we? Is Yan about?’

  ‘Not for an hour.’

  ‘I need a favour. It’s kind of urgent.’

  Maretsky slipped from his stool. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘I’d like to see all the homicide files from November last year until now.’

  ‘Have you asked Johnny’s permission?’

  ‘I don’t need it.’

  Maretsky sucked his teeth. ‘He still likes to know. I can get you the active list. If you want to take it further, you’d better talk to him. Why November?’

  ‘It’s when Charlie Matsell came back to the city.’

  A few minutes later, Maretsky emerged with a list in his hand. ‘Who do you want to know about? Most of the victims deserved everything they got. There was Rothstein, of course, still officially unsolved, then Mick “The Knife” Garraway three weeks later. There was our friend Dr Mackie over in Queens.’

  ‘Dr Mackie?’

  ‘He sent a couple of his elderly patients to the eternal hospital in the sky and mysteriously inherited their estates. Not very clever.’

  ‘How did he kill them?’

  ‘Arsenic. He’s due to fry next week.’ Maretsky warmed to his theme. ‘There was the Philadelphia Strangler, who murdered a bunch of people on the Upper East Side. He must be about ready to go to the Chair as well.’

  ‘What about women?’

  ‘Two of the Philadelphia guy’s victims were women.’