name tag highly polished. He ran his fingers along his nose. “All right, gentlemen.” He was looking at the file in front of him. “I’m going to let Mr. Granger begin today.”
Granger had been standing quietly in the doorway and now ambled forward, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. As he took Smith’s place at the lectern, he half closed his eyes against the smoke, which drifted up toward the ceiling.
“Borodin is back in town,” he said with an obvious distaste for the communist agitator. “He’s been in the south to organize the Reds down there and make sure the funding is getting through, but he arrived back at Central Station last night.” He cleared his throat. “There is only one strike at the moment, over in Pudong, but be on the lookout for any information you can pick up. I will be doing the rounds of the other stations, but we believe they will be targeting Central for leaflet handouts and quick impromptu rallies. He’ll be using students to do the dirty work. We want to respond swiftly and I hardly need remind you what happens when the mob gets out of hand.” He looked around the room. “So make it a priority. Of course, the Municipal Council is very anxious that we keep up last year’s tough line.” Granger took another drag of his cigarette. “Any questions?”
Apart from a couple of coughs and feet scuffing the floor, the room was silent.
“All right,” Smith said, stepping forward. “Sorenson led a team out on the armed robbery this morning at a jeweler’s shop on Boone Road that you will probably have heard about. It looks like our friends in the Green Gang again, but they’re improving their speed; they were long gone by the time we got there. They wore masks, so no IDs from the old couple in the shop, but we did get a license plate, B4563. Please make a note of that.”
Field watched the uniformed officers around him writing the number down in their books.
“We’ve also got a kidnapping this morning. Bubbling Well Road, next to the Italian consulate. Young boy, about eleven, dark hair. Father’s quite high up in Fraser’s. Chinese, obviously. Not sure why they’ve reported it. I’m sure they’ll pay up in the end. No message in the paper yet, but probably the Green Gang again. There’s a picture of the boy pinned to the back wall there, so take a look at it on the way out. Now . . . there was a Russian girl murdered yesterday in the Happy Times block on Foochow Road.” Captain Smith was smiling as he said this and there was a jeer from the men. Sorenson whistled at the back. “I give you Detective Caprisi.”
Caprisi got up and walked to the front as the men continued to cheer and whistle. He wasn’t smiling when he turned and faced them.
“The Russian girl’s name,” Caprisi said, having waited for them to stop, “was Lena Orlov. She was tied up, stabbed almost twenty times. There does not appear to have been a sexual assault.”
“He couldn’t get the handcuffs undone,” Sorenson said. There was a guffaw of laughter.
Caprisi ignored it. “Has anyone ever heard of anything similar . . . not murder, but violence against Russian girls . . .”
“I’ve got a thousand,” Sorenson said. “A thousand cases.”
“I’ve got two,” someone else added, and there was another guffaw of laughter.
“The flats belong to Lu,” Caprisi said, his mood souring further. “So do the women in it. The doorman was taken away and executed yesterday, and everyone else in the neighborhood claims not to have seen a thing.”
Field noticed that Maretsky had come in and was leaning against the back wall, also scowling. Field assumed he’d heard the laughter.
“Chen and I are dealing with any direct leads,” Caprisi went on. “Along with Richard Field from S.1. But we want to hear about anyone who could give us a sense of this falling into a pattern.”
“I’ll raise you two thousand,” Sorenson said. “Two thousand Russian tarts being
Granger had been standing quietly in the doorway and now ambled forward, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. As he took Smith’s place at the lectern, he half closed his eyes against the smoke, which drifted up toward the ceiling.
“Borodin is back in town,” he said with an obvious distaste for the communist agitator. “He’s been in the south to organize the Reds down there and make sure the funding is getting through, but he arrived back at Central Station last night.” He cleared his throat. “There is only one strike at the moment, over in Pudong, but be on the lookout for any information you can pick up. I will be doing the rounds of the other stations, but we believe they will be targeting Central for leaflet handouts and quick impromptu rallies. He’ll be using students to do the dirty work. We want to respond swiftly and I hardly need remind you what happens when the mob gets out of hand.” He looked around the room. “So make it a priority. Of course, the Municipal Council is very anxious that we keep up last year’s tough line.” Granger took another drag of his cigarette. “Any questions?”
Apart from a couple of coughs and feet scuffing the floor, the room was silent.
“All right,” Smith said, stepping forward. “Sorenson led a team out on the armed robbery this morning at a jeweler’s shop on Boone Road that you will probably have heard about. It looks like our friends in the Green Gang again, but they’re improving their speed; they were long gone by the time we got there. They wore masks, so no IDs from the old couple in the shop, but we did get a license plate, B4563. Please make a note of that.”
Field watched the uniformed officers around him writing the number down in their books.
“We’ve also got a kidnapping this morning. Bubbling Well Road, next to the Italian consulate. Young boy, about eleven, dark hair. Father’s quite high up in Fraser’s. Chinese, obviously. Not sure why they’ve reported it. I’m sure they’ll pay up in the end. No message in the paper yet, but probably the Green Gang again. There’s a picture of the boy pinned to the back wall there, so take a look at it on the way out. Now . . . there was a Russian girl murdered yesterday in the Happy Times block on Foochow Road.” Captain Smith was smiling as he said this and there was a jeer from the men. Sorenson whistled at the back. “I give you Detective Caprisi.”
Caprisi got up and walked to the front as the men continued to cheer and whistle. He wasn’t smiling when he turned and faced them.
“The Russian girl’s name,” Caprisi said, having waited for them to stop, “was Lena Orlov. She was tied up, stabbed almost twenty times. There does not appear to have been a sexual assault.”
“He couldn’t get the handcuffs undone,” Sorenson said. There was a guffaw of laughter.
Caprisi ignored it. “Has anyone ever heard of anything similar . . . not murder, but violence against Russian girls . . .”
“I’ve got a thousand,” Sorenson said. “A thousand cases.”
“I’ve got two,” someone else added, and there was another guffaw of laughter.
“The flats belong to Lu,” Caprisi said, his mood souring further. “So do the women in it. The doorman was taken away and executed yesterday, and everyone else in the neighborhood claims not to have seen a thing.”
Field noticed that Maretsky had come in and was leaning against the back wall, also scowling. Field assumed he’d heard the laughter.
“Chen and I are dealing with any direct leads,” Caprisi went on. “Along with Richard Field from S.1. But we want to hear about anyone who could give us a sense of this falling into a pattern.”
“I’ll raise you two thousand,” Sorenson said. “Two thousand Russian tarts being
Similar Books
