Jeffery Deaver - The Cold Moon

"I'd love to," Rhyme said, with a sincerity that he believed masked his absolute lack of desire to be outside, negotiating the icy streets in his wheelchair. "But I'm writing an op ed piece for the Times. " He nodded at his computer. "Besides, I have to wait here for the repairman." He shook his head. "One to five."

Thom started to say something-undoubtedly to urge Rhyme to go anyway-but it was Sachs who said, "Sorry. Other plans."

Rhyme said, "If it involves ice and snow, I'm not interested." He supposed she and the girl, Pammy Willoughby, were planning another outing with the girl's adoptee, Jackson the Havanese.

But Amelia Sachs apparently had a different agenda. "It does," she said. "Involve snow and ice, I mean." She laughed and kissed him on the mouth. "But what it doesn't involve is you."

"Thank God," Lincoln Rhyme said, blowing a stream of wispy breath toward the ceiling and turning back to the computer screen.

"You."

"Hey, Detective, how you doing?" Amelia Sachs asked.

Art Snyder gazed at her from the doorway of his bungalow. He looked better than when she'd seen him last-when he was lying in the backseat of his van. He wasn't any less angry, though. His red eyes were fixed on hers.

But when your profession involves getting shot at from time to time, a few glares mean nothing. Sachs gave a smile. "I just came by to say thanks."

"Yeah, for what?" He held a coffee mug that clearly didn't contain coffee. She saw that a number of bottles had reappeared on the sideboard. She noted too that none of the Home Depot projects had progressed.

"We closed the St. James case."

"Yeah, I heard."

"Kind of cold out here, Detective," she said.

"Honey?" A stocky woman with short brown hair and a cheerful, resilient face called from the kitchen doorway.

"Just somebody from department."

"Well, invite her in. I'll make coffee."

"She's a busy lady," Snyder said sourly. "Running all over town, doing all kinds of things, asking questions. She probably can't stay."

"I'm freezing my ass off out here."

"Art! Let her in."

He sighed, turned and walked inside, leaving Sachs to follow him and close the door herself. She dropped her coat on a chair.

Snyder's wife joined them. The women shook hands. "Give her the comfy chair, Art," she scolded.

Sachs sat in the well-worn Barcalounger, Snyder on the couch, which sighed under his weight. He left the volume up on the TV, which displayed a frantic, high-definition basketball game.

His wife brought two cups of coffee.

"None for me," Snyder said, looking at the mug.

"I've already poured it. You want me to throw it out? Waste good coffee?" She left it on the table beside him and returned to the kitchen, where garlic was frying.

Sachs sipped the strong coffee in silence, Snyder staring at ESPN. His eyes followed a basketball from its launchpad outside the three-point line; his fist clenched minutely when it swished in.

A commercial came on. He changed channels to celebrity poker.

Sachs remembered that Kathryn Dance had mentioned the power of silence in getting somebody to talk. She sat, sipping, looking at him, not saying a word.

Finally, irritated, Snyder asked, "The St. James thing?"

"Uh-huh."

"I read it was Dennis Baker behind it. And the deputy mayor."

"Yep."

"I met Baker a few times. Seemed okay. Him being on the bag surprised me." Concern crossed Snyder's face. "Homicides too? Sarkowski and that other guy?"

She nodded. "And an attempt." She didn't share that she herself had been the potential victim.

He shook his head. "Money's one thing. But offing people…that's a whole different ball game."

Amen.

Snyder asked, "Was one of perps that guy I told you about? Had a place in Maryland or something?"

She figured that he deserved some credit. "That was Wallace. But it wasn't a place. It was a thing." Sachs explained about Wallace's boat.

He gave a sour laugh. "No kidding. The Maryland Monroe ? That's a pisser."

Sachs said, "Might not've broken the case if you hadn't helped."

Snyder had a millisecond of satisfaction. Then he remembered he was mad. He made a point of rising, with a sigh, and filling his mug with more whiskey. He sat down again. His coffee remained untouched. He channel-surfed some more.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I can stop you?" he muttered.

"You said you knew my father. Not many people're still around who did. I just wanted to ask you about him."

"The Sixteenth Avenue Club?"

"Nope. Don't want to know about that."

Snyder said, "He was lucky he got away."

"Sometimes you dodge the bullet."

"At least he cleaned up his act later. Heard he never got into any trouble after that."

"You said you worked with him. He didn't talk much about his job. I always wondered what it was like back then. Thought I'd write down a few things."

"For his grandkids?"

"Something like that."

Reluctantly Snyder said, "We never were partners."

"But you knew him."

A hesitation. "Yeah."

"Just tell me: What was the story on that commander…the crazy one? I always wanted to know the scoop."

" Which crazy one?" Snyder scoffed. "There were plenty."

"The one who sent the tactical team to the wrong apartment?"

"Oh. Caruthers?"

"I think that was him. Dad was one of the portables holding off the hostage-taker until ESU found the right place."

"Yeah, yeah. I was on that. What an asshole, Caruthers. The putz…Thank God nobody was hurt. Oh, and that was the same day he forgot the batteries in his bullhorn… One other thing about him: He'd send his boots out to be polished. He'd have the rookies do it, you know. And he'd tip 'em, like, a nickel. I mean, tipping uniforms is weird to start. But then five goddamn cents?"

The TV volume came down a few bars. Snyder laughed. "Hey, you wanta hear one story?"

"You bet."

"Well, your dad and me and a bunch of us, off duty, were going to the Garden, see a fight or game or something. And this kid comes up with a zip gun-you know what that is?"

She did. She said she didn't.

"Like a homemade gun. Holds a single twenty-two shell. And this poor fuck mugs us, you can believe it. He sticks us up right in the middle of Three-four Street. We're handing over wallets. Then your dad drops his billfold, accidental on purpose, you know what I'm saying? And the kid bends down to pick it up. When he stands up he shits-he's staring right into the muzzles of our pieces, four Smitties, cocked and ready to unload. The look on that kid's face…He said, 'Guess it ain't my day.' Is that classic or what? 'Guess it ain't my day.' Man, we laughed all night about that… " His face broke into a smile. "Oh, and one other thing…"

As he talked, Sachs nodded and encouraged him. In reality she knew many of these stories. Herman Sachs wasn't the least reluctant to talk to his daughter about his job. They'd spend hours in the garage, working on a transmission or fuel pump, while stories of a cop's life on the streets reeled past-planting the seeds for her own future.

But of course she wasn't here to learn family history. No, this was simply an officer-needs-assistance call, a 10-13 of the heart. Sachs had decided that former detective Art Snyder wasn't going down. If his supposed friends didn't want to see him because he'd helped nail the St. James crew, then she'd set him up with plenty of cops who would: herself, Sellitto, Rhyme and Ron Pulaski, Fred Dellray, Roland Bell, Nancy Simpson, Frank Rettig, a dozen others.

She asked him more questions and he replied-sometimes eagerly, sometimes with irritation, sometimes distracted, but always giving her something. A couple of times Snyder rose and refilled his mug with liquor and frequently he'd glance at his watch and then at her, his meaning clear: Don't you have someplace else to be?