The syndicate, p.21
The Syndicate, page 21
“It was pre-agreed. Said he had a car he wanted to get rid of.”
“Did he tell you why?”
The dogs were barking and Joe waited for them to stop. It took a while.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Did you know the man?”
“Never saw him before in my life. And no, before you ask I didn’t get his name.”
A plea of ignorance was common but he seemed genuine. “Could you try to describe him for me?”
“Not that tall. Dressed in a suit. Had some scars on his face from the war, but a lot of men do. Oh, he had some kind of accent, like he was from out of town.”
She stopped writing and looked at him as he spoke. “Could you say where his accent was from?”
“Hard to say. Maybe East Coast. Seemed like a city boy. But not from L.A. At least, not born here.”
“Everything alright, Joe?” a voice said.
Which was when Conroy realized that the crane had stopped. The driver was walking toward them. He stopped a few yards behind Joe and took his gloves off. The Dobermans ran over, licking his fingers.
Joe didn’t reply. The crane driver was big, even bigger than Joe. She looked at the two men and then at the dogs and felt suddenly vulnerable. She wondered if she’d feel the same if she were a man.
Conroy said, “I’m not trying to get you in trouble, Joe. I’m not going to call the police.”
“You still going to write about us?”
“Joe?” the crane driver called, to no response. The dogs ran past Conroy, making her shiver. “Everything good?”
“Nothing so far implicates you in any crime,” she said to Joe with as much confidence she could muster.
There was the sound of tires on gravel and all three of them turned around to see a dusty Mercury pull up outside Joe’s office trailer. The window was down and Abe saluted two fingers in their direction. Conroy had never expected to be so happy to see that man.
Joe backed up a step. “They with you?”
Conroy nodded. She spoke quickly. “Joe, if you tell me you had no idea that the car was stolen then I’ll print that exactly.” When he didn’t reply, she said, “Say it. Say you had no idea the car was stolen.”
“I had no idea the car was stolen,” Joe muttered, slightly confused.
“Good. Then that’s what I’ll write and that’s what the police will believe if they ever find out.”
Joe visibly relaxed, but by now Craine and Abe were walking toward them. Conroy turned back and gave them a look that told them to stay put.
“Joe, can somebody tell me what’s going on?” This from the crane driver.
“Hold it a second,” said Joe, raising his hand. “We’re talking.”
“And if you tell me you want to say something off the record, I won’t print it.” There was a time when Conroy didn’t have such scruples, but that only made her value them more now. “There’s a code of ethics,” she said. “I take it seriously.”
“What about this whole conversation?”
“Conroy,” said Abe.
“Hold on.”
Conroy was standing in the center of four men with her hands out, like they’d crossed onto an ice pond. If any one of them moved too quickly this whole situation could fall through. She looked at Joe and spoke slowly and clearly, knowing that what she said next could determine whether they ever found the shooter’s car.
“We can’t do it after, Joe. That’s not how it works. But if there was something else you wanted to tell me now, that can be between you and me. You won’t see it printed. For example.” She took a breath. “What I’d really like to know is where the car is now.”
Joe moved from one foot to the other, his eyes shifting in all directions. Dear Joe wasn’t well versed in the art of lying.
“Off the record . . . we didn’t crush it,” he said. “Most of the cars here, it costs more to fix ’em up than buy another. With that car, it looked fine. We figured it was in good condition so we sold it on. I told you, I got a good eye for value.”
“I totally understand,” Conroy said, holding her pad up. “Now can you tell me who you sold it to?”
Chapter 27
No two people have matching fingerprints. The loops, whorls and arches that make up our fingerprint patterns are unique to every individual. When a person touches glass or a similarly nonporous surface, they leave proof of their identity behind. Often a single fingerprint left on a crime scene has been the entire basis for a court conviction.
Even after tracking down the missing witness, Craine had yet to gather any viable suspects or plausible theories. Which meant that the car parked in the center of Conroy’s basement parking lot was now the only piece of evidence that could potentially identify the man who murdered Benjamin Siegel.
It was a blue ’38 Nash, and the three of them stood looking at it like a naval mine swept ashore that might explode any minute.
The Nash was in many ways unremarkable to look at. Craine thought there was something strangely innocent about it. A family vehicle kidnapped and dragged into this mess no different from the rest of them.
Like three envoys to a dead man they never knew, they had driven from Joe’s straight to the person who had bought the car secondhand and Abe had paid the owner there and then in cash. Abe was so eager he’d taken out one of his thick rolls of notes and handed over the whole thing without ever asking the owner how much he wanted for it.
The man had seemed nervous. It was more than enough to buy three brand new cars. “What if I ask for more?”
“You really don’t want to do that,” Abe had said, taking the keys from his hands.
The car had been towed to Conroy’s apartment building and Craine had explained how important it was that they not touch anything. It was a mobile crime scene, liable to be contaminated.
Retrieving as many table lamps as Conroy could carry down from her apartment, Abe and Conroy had positioned them around the car so that the surfaces were illuminated. To anyone in the building who might have walked past it would have looked like a bizarre automobile séance.
For thirty minutes they stood watching as Craine examined the car inside and out. It was methodical work. No one pretended they knew how to help—Craine was the only one of them remotely qualified.
After surveying the entire car from the outside, Craine put on gloves and examined the interior. He was thorough in his search but found no traces of blood, no clothes and no ammunition. No physical evidence whatsoever to connect the car to the killing.
Which left only the prints.
The car’s metallic coachwork and glass windows made it ideal for fingerprint-lifting, even if it had changed hands several times over a period of five days.
Craine examined the door handle on the outside of the driver’s side, but it was covered in dust and dirt. Retrieving prints would be close to impossible. But when he examined the handle on the inside of the door, he made out the unmistakable papillary lines of a series of fingerprints.
“We have prints,” he said. “Pass me the brush.”
Craine had already explained the process to the others and Conroy approached with the bowl of powder mix and one of her rouge brushes. Typically, a crime scene examiner would lift latent prints using metallic powder and adhesive strips. Given the circumstances, Craine had to make do without. He’d mixed soot with cornstarch taken from Conroy’s kitchen. The combined powder mix wouldn’t be as effective as the aluminum powder the police techs used, but it would be sufficient given the circumstances.
Without being asked, Abe twisted the lamplight to give Craine a better view as he lightly brushed the fine powder over the metal handle. He gave it a minute to settle and then took out a roll of clear Scotch tape.
It had been almost two decades since Craine had done this kind of police work. Taking several deep breaths to steady his hand, he placed a piece of tape firmly over the largest and clearest fingerprint. He made sure the pressure was even and then slowly peeled it off.
Conroy was behind him, biting her nails. Abe stood back, smoking one cigarette after another. Everyone was tense. No one said a word.
Craine took a step back and held it up to the light. His eyes adjusted focus. Yes, he could make out the unmistakable raised ridges of a fingerprint.
“I’ve got one,” he said.
An hour later, and he had several fingerprints identified and taped onto blank card; different prints from different fingers of different men. But one of them belonged to his shooter, he was sure of it.
Their entire investigation rested on the trace of these lines.
Chapter 28
The lights were dimmed in the offices of the Herald, the air cool and static. The newspaper typically went “off stone” at 5 P.M. and the office emptied soon after, transferring gossip and debate to local drinking holes.
But Conroy had only recently returned, typing up her notes from the afternoon as Craine tried to figure out what to do with the latent prints pulled off the car. Besides, she wrote best late at night. It was the only time the office was quiet enough that she could hear herself think. One of the upsides of never being invited to drinks. Probably the only upside.
“Tilda?” This from Alice, standing over her desk.
“You off?” she said without looking up. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Alice didn’t say anything. In fact, Alice didn’t move at all.
“Tilda.”
She lost her train of thought. “What? You’re hovering. What is it?”
“Wire Editor told me he got something that came through the teletype yesterday.”
Alice waited for Conroy’s eyes to show she was listening.
“Uh-uh. I’m with you.”
“Some Italian mobster released from prison in Chicago. It rang a bell from my days at Associated Press, so I called my old editor long-distance. He said that Paul Ricca, head of the Chicago Outfit, was released early this week.”
It took a few seconds for Conroy to process this. When Frank Nitti, former head of the Chicago Outfit, was arrested in 1943 for extorting Hollywood studios, Nitti killed himself rather than go to prison. His successor, Paul Ricca, had been sentenced to fifteen years, but it was well known he still controlled the Chicago Outfit from inside.
“Did he say why?”
“Only that the parole board approved it.”
“This was earlier this week? Has anyone else picked this up?” Conroy was annoyed with herself; she’d been so focused on Siegel she’d missed a major story. More than that, she’d missed a viable connection to Benjamin Siegel. She should try to contact Craine.
“No,” Alice said, checking over both shoulders. “No one.”
Conroy frowned.
“I thought it was odd, too,” Alice said. “But my old editor says they’ve been told not to print it. Orders from above. Then I checked with a friend of mine at the Examiner. Same thing.”
Conroy leaned back in her chair. There were higher forces in play here.
“You know you’re too smart to be a clerk, Alice.”
“Oh, I know.”
“We have a photo of this guy Ricca?”
“Not to hand. Can try the morgue in the morning.”
The “morgue” was slang for the archives department. It would have rolls of microfilm of both old newspapers and court photographs.
Conroy stood up and grabbed her bag. “Let’s head down now. I want to find out about this guy.”
A man’s voice stopped her. “Conroy.”
Tilda looked up to see the City Editor leaning out of his office, “Tilda, you got a second?”
Conroy followed the City Editor into his office, making polite small talk until they were both sitting down.
“I’m not exactly sure where this has come from, but our publisher spoke to me today.”
The owner. The oil heir turned newspaper mogul.
“This should come as no surprise, given what happened with Henson and Redhill, but the line of enquiry you’re pursuing has ruffled feathers.”
Conroy could already see the direction this conversation was heading. There was no steering it away. She spoke quickly, desperate to share her story.
“Sir, William Wilson invested in The Flamingo before Siegel bought out his shares. And major studios have been paying off Siegel’s Extras Union to stop strikes. This story is national.”
The City Editor didn’t share her urgency. He spoke slowly, delivering a eulogy. “Billy Wilson and Louis Mayer are two important people in this city. Major donors. And M.G.M. is an important corporate client for this paper.”
There had been a journalism “code of ethics” for decades, but in Conroy’s experience, there had been misuse of power for even longer. Owners of newspapers swayed headlines as favors for their allies. At times it felt like the whole city was a giant chess game that a handful of men in penthouse offices were playing to amuse themselves.
“The owner should push back,” she said, trying to sound controlled.
“Tilda, we sell advertising to M.G.M. at twenty dollars an inch. We can’t afford to be pointing fingers at the largest studio in Hollywood.”
Conroy stared at her shorthand pad. She didn’t want him to see the frustration on her face. She had always known the City Editor to be gutsy and hawkish. He’d earned a reputation as a hard-hitting journalist. It was unlike him to shy away from controversy.
“Sir, we’re the only paper who has the trust of our readers. We owe it to the public to tell these types of stories.”
He lowered his voice. “You can’t go out there with a story that involves some of the most powerful figures on the West Coast and not expect repercussions.”
“How can you believe in the freedom of the press if you’re bowing to their demands?”
He didn’t like being spoken to like that. “My hands are tied. The decision’s made.”
“So you’re pulling the story?”
“I’m putting it on hold until we can figure out a way forward.”
He was trying to placate her but she could see right through it. There would be no way forward. It would end here, never to come up again.
“I can’t believe this.”
“Go home, Tilda. Take a break if you need to. I’m sorry, but it’s done.”
Tilda Conroy wasn’t prone to crying. It wasn’t something she did often and she never used it to her advantage. But in the City Editor’s office, after five exhausting days investigating Siegel’s murder, those tears found their way to her eyes without permission.
Some of the other reporters at the Herald had private members’ clubs, but most of them excluded women, Jews and Negroes, so Conroy took Alice to a cocktail bar off Little Tokyo that didn’t have a Whites Only policy. During the war, there were a series of attacks by sailors on Latinos and Negroes in nearby neighborhoods but Little Toyko was usually safe from that kind of trouble.
“We’re waiting for our husbands,” Conroy said to the waitress when they’d entered, her usual excuse to let her come in unaccompanied.
The bar wasn’t segregated and they were sitting in a booth not far from the counter, sipping at highballs. Alice would offer to pay, but Conroy would cover it. She knew Alice’s salary was a third less than the white girls’ in the steno pool, despite her being overqualified for her role in the first place.
After Conroy had explained what had happened with the City Editor, Alice lit up a cigarette and thought it over. Even though she was her senior, Conroy didn’t ask for deference and didn’t expect it either. Alice had always had a knack for getting details that eluded other reporters, and Conroy respected her opinion more than most.
“What smarts is that he was so behind it, then changed his mind,” Alice said, reaching for the ashtray.
“He didn’t change his mind, it was changed for him by the D.A.’s office. Wilson and Mayer spoke to City Hall.”
“When you intend to publicly accuse someone of a crime, that’s usually what happens.”
“Now you’re on their side?”
Alice pulled a face. “’Course not, Tilda. I’m only saying it’s the way it is.”
Conroy noticed the waitress kept looking over. Maybe she frowned upon two women drinking, but Conroy didn’t care. She took several gulps. Tonight she was drinking with ambition. “We finally have a story and he pulls it. Like grabbing defeat from victory.”
“Sorry, Tilda. I know how hard you worked on it.”
“So did you, Alice.” Conroy exhaled into her glass. The alcohol wasn’t calming her down. “I’m so angry about the whole thing. He has no earthly idea how close we are to blowing the lid off this. So close. It’s one of the biggest crime stories of the decade, and he’s shut it down because he’s worried about his ad revenue for the next quarter.” She finished her cocktail, then put her palm against her head as if remembering something. “Craine. Dammit. I need to call him. He needs to know about this too.”
“What is this with you and Craine?” Alice said, stirring the ice in her Gin Rickey.
“How do you mean?”
“Feels personal. Do you know him?”
“No, not really,” Conroy said vaguely. She didn’t want Alice to know that she and Craine shared a past. She changed the subject. “You want another drink?”
“No, I’m good.”
Conroy knew Alice wouldn’t probe her any further. People often assumed women gathered together to gossip about their love lives, but Alice and Tilda rarely talked about anything but work. Tilda knew Alice was married to a black police officer she’d met in Chicago, but she knew nothing about “Mr. Hickerson” other than his dislike of California’s climate and that she was always on at him to buy them a new car.
“The problem with this whole thing,” Alice mused, “is that no one is going to let you run the story if it involves upsetting people. You need to get the studios and Wilson onside.”
“How? They’re never going to support this story, Alice.”
Conroy had never had a lot of faith in America’s institutions. The entire establishment seemed to be run by men of a certain type, and they didn’t respond well to women who had their own point of view. She’d always lacked the apple pie wholesomeness men liked.
