How did he get them if not through normal confiscation process as he had claimed?
Obviously, Ray Moretti wasn’t the only person in Manhattan who favored that wine, but he was more likely than the waiter to know where to get it—without going to France.
Considering how Murphy had responded the last time Joe had brought him a clue related to Connor Boyle, Joe hadn’t shared this bit during their meeting earlier this morning. Neither would he confide in just anyone on the force, given the thirsty nature of New York’s finest. Who knew if others were in on this? After all, if those bottles really had been confiscated, it could have been a clerk who had made those records disappear. Joe had taken a risk as it was by questioning the waiter in front of the entire detective bureau. He had banked on them not paying much attention. Bigger fish had been arrested last night, too, suspected of violent crimes, petty theft, and drugs.
Which meant there was plenty for Joe to do without this bottle mystery. Still, he couldn’t ignore it.
An incessant, repetitive noise from several feet away drew a snap of irritation. “McCormick,” Joe said.
The young man jerked his head up, eyes wide, and dropped the pencil he’d been tapping. “Sorry. Habit.”
Joe beckoned him over, and McCormick obeyed.
“Pull up a chair.”
McCormick did as he was told. It was almost embarrassing how eager he was to please Joe, especially after the way Joe had been treating him. He’d been unfair to the new hire. Perhaps hecould make up for that. “A while ago, you started to ask me about something strange you’d found. I brushed you off and had to chase a lead. Did you ever tell anyone else what you found?”
“Oh.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Yes, sir, I did. I told the Property Room clerk since I figured I was reading the records wrong. He said he’d take care of it, and that I didn’t need to concern myself any further.”
“That’s good.” Joe sounded about as convinced as he felt, which was not at all. “Well, now you’ve got me curious. What was that all about?”
McCormick shifted in the chair. No, he squirmed. “It’s probably nothing.”
Right. “If it’s nothing, then there’s no harm in explaining it to me, is there?” When he didn’t respond, Joe tried a different tack. “I get the feeling he told you to keep whatever you found to yourself. If he made a mistake, maybe he’s scared of getting in trouble. Losing his job, even. But here’s a free tip. Your job isn’t to look out for his. Your job, at the moment, is to answer my questions.Capisce?”
A small smile edged the young man’s lips. “Capisce.”
Joe didn’t bother correcting him. By now, other policemen had noticed their little meeting. Maybe they were listening, too. “Let’s take a walk.”
Outside, both men turned up their collars as they descended the steps from the police headquarters. After heading south on Centre, they turned east on Grand.
Whipping in from the west, damp wind carried the smell of the Hudson. The cold seeped through clothes and soaked into bones.
“How far are we going?” the kid asked.
“Not far.” Joe wasn’t hungry for lunch, but he always had room for cannoli.
As they approached Mulberry, Joe pointed north, toward Kenmare. “You ever hear about the Bootleggers Curb Exchange?”
Crossing the street, McCormick looked at the corner Joe indicated. “Is that where it was? Two blocks from police headquarters?”
Joe nodded. “In the early days of Prohibition, speakeasy owners and illicit alcohol distributors gathered right there, buying cases of rum and beer off trucks right in the street.” He jerked his thumb toward the opposite end of Mulberry. “At 121, they would gather to discuss and plan alcohol sales.”
“Wasn’t there a big raid on that place three years ago?” McCormick asked.
“There was. Police found thousands of liquor bottles and barrels of rum. Thousands.”
“They should have known better than to operate so close to headquarters. Right?” McCormick added, as if suddenly unsure of himself. Perhaps he’d realized that the bootleggersdidknow what they were doing in choosing such locations.
“A lot of cops were on the take to protect them,” Joe said. “Looked the other way, but with open palms ready to be filled with cash.”
McCormick’s face shadowed. “Not you, though. You never took a dime.”
“You sure about that?”
The younger man’s brow furrowed, and he slowed his steps to a halt, standing in a spread of slush.
Joe decided to put him out of his misery. Smiling, he elbowed McCormick. “You’re right.”
