“Yeah.” Joe took another gulp of coffee, not minding the scald on the way down. “Not surprised.”
“Right. Well, I’m real sorry things went down that way, and I wanted to tell you that straight off, but we don’t have to talk about it again.”
“Smart.” Joe wasn’t cutting the kid any slack, and he felt a twinge of guilt. If the new hire had come a month ago, Joe would have taken him for an espresso at Ferrara’s. Ever curious, Joe would have asked for his story, what made him want to join the NYPD, and what his goals were on the force. He would have shared his own insights about the job and been the unofficial one-man welcoming committee. At thirty-five years old, Joe was a veteran, and if he could set an example for young officers, it might help them withstand corrupting influences.
What a joke. Joe couldn’t even keep his own friend on the straight and narrow.
The young man shifted. “And I have no reason to believe whatthey’re saying about you, either. I never judge a man based on rumor.”
Joe studied McCormick’s face, which had turned a ruddy shade to match his hair. “And those rumors are?” He figured he knew them all, but it wouldn’t hurt to be sure.
“Oh, uh, just that you could have sprung Boyle from jail with your testimony but decided not to.”
“I told the truth in my statement. That’s it.” Connor’s story was that he thought the man Joe had been handcuffing during a speakeasy raid had a gun. Connor claimed he needed to neutralize the threat. The truth was that Wade Martin had been unarmed and already neutralized.
“Well, they say bullets were flying that night, and the one that killed Martin could have easily come from some other miscreant. If you’d kept quiet, maybe Boyle would still be free. They say you ought to have been more loyal to your friend.”
“I’m loyal to the oath I took when I swore to serve and protect this city. My friend shot an unarmed man I had already subdued. Is anyone saying that Boyle simply shouldn’t have taken the shot?”
McCormick kicked at the foot of Joe’s desk, sending his coffee sloshing. “Well, me, for one. I say that.”
With a nod of acknowledgment, Joe wiped up the coffee spill with a napkin, then tossed the sodden wad into a nearby waste bin. If the kid had scruples, Joe could only pray he held on to them longer than Connor had. The man he’d shot left behind a young widow about to give birth to a fatherless child.
That senseless killing never should have happened.
Aware McCormick still stood there, Joe felt his mouth twitch at one corner in his best attempt to stop scowling. “Welcome to the force.”
McCormick excused himself, and just in time. Joe had an appointment to keep.
At the doorway to his boss’s office, he cleared his throat. “Inspector Murphy? I’m ready if you are.”
After shoving a stack of files aside, the inspector in charge of investigations motioned Joe inside and gestured to the chair across from his desk.
Joe sat. “This isn’t working,” he began. He’d called this meeting and saw no sense in not getting straight to the point.
Murphy’s blond eyebrows knit together. “After you tell me exactly what you’re referring to, you’d better have a solution to propose.”
Of course he did. Joe hadn’t come here to whine. “Sir, every time we raid a speakeasy and padlock the door, violence breaks out, people get hurt, and five more speakeasies pop up within the week anyhow. I’m sure you read the commissioner’s annual reports.” In one year alone, the NYPD made ten thousand arrests on Prohibition-related charges. Only two hundred thirty-nine of those accused were convicted. Three thousand cases were dismissed, and the seven thousand remaining cases languished in the enormous backlog overwhelming state courts.
“Is this about Boyle?” Murphy’s grey eyes narrowed.
Joe had expected that question. “It’s not about what happened that night. But that does serve as one more example of the risks we take and the little reward we gain—if any—with these raids. We aren’t succeeding in shutting down the illegal sale of alcohol. We’re only moving it around.”
In truth, he’d been disillusioned about Prohibition enforcement almost since the Volstead Act went into effect more than five years ago. “This entire bootlegging underworld is a Hydra. Cut down one outfit and another one takes its place almost immediately. We’re chasing our tails. Spinning our wheels. Pick your own metaphor, but you know what I mean.”
Murphy folded his arms over his barrel chest. “Are you getting to the part where you tell me how to solve the problem of Prohibition in Manhattan?”
“You and I both know that’s a problem that can’t be solved completely. All I’m asking is that we try a different angle.” Joe drew in a breath. “Egyptian art and forgeries.”
“You’re kidding.” Murphy’s expression suspended between amusement and the very opposite.
“Ever since King Tut’s tomb was opened a few years ago, there’s been a demand for all things Egypt. And since the Egyptian government closed off the exportation of antiquities, the demand for forgeries has gone up. Forgery is another form of money laundering, just like bootlegging.”
“And you have proof this is happening?” The inspector lit a Chesterfield and sent a plume of smoke into the air.
“I have no proof that someone is going to get robbed tonight, but you and I both know it’ll happen. Crime happens all the time, including forgeries, whether we’re savvy to it or not.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
