Jeffery Deaver - The Cold Moon

"He's doing a good job."

"I'm going to report to Wallace, Detective." The inspector nodded at Rhyme. "Lincoln, it was good seeing you again. Take care."

"So long, Inspector."

Flaherty walked to the door and let herself out, walking just like a general on a parade ground.

Amelia Sachs was about to call Pulaski and find out what he'd learned about Sarkowski when she heard a voice near her ear. "The Grand Inquisitor."

Sachs turned to look at Sellitto, dumping sugar in his coffee. He said, "Hey, step into my office." And gestured toward the front hallway of Rhyme's town house.

Leaving the others, the two detectives walked into the low-lit entryway.

"Inquisitor. That's what they call Flaherty?" Sachs asked.

"Yup. Not that she isn't good."

"I know. I checked her out."

"Uhm." The big detective sipped coffee and finished a Danish. "Look, I'm up to my ass in psycho clockmakers so I don't know what's up with this St. James thing. But if you got cops maybe're on the take, how come it's you and not Internal Affairs running the case?"

"Flaherty didn't want to bring them in yet. Wallace agreed."

"Wallace?"

"Robert Wallace. The deputy mayor."

"Yeah, I know him. Stand-up guy. And it's the right call, bringing in IAD. Why didn't she want to?"

"She wanted to give it to somebody in her command. She said the One One Eight's too close to the Big Building. Somebody'd find out Internal Affairs was involved and they'd cut and run."

Sellitto jutted his lower lip out in concession. "That could be." Then his voice lowered even further. "And you didn't argue too much 'cause you wanted the case."

She looked him in the eye. "That's right."

"So you asked and you got." He gave a cool laugh.

"What?"

"Now you're walking point."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Just, you gotta know the score. Now, anything goes bad, anything at all-good people get burned, bad guys get away-the fuckup's on your shoulders, even if you do everything right. Flaherty's protected and IAD's smelling like roses. On the other hand, you get righteous collars, they take over and suddenly everybody forgets your name."

"You're saying I got set up?" Sachs shook her head. "But Flaherty didn't want me to take the case. She was going to hand it off."

"Amelia, come on. End of a date, a guy says, 'Hey, had a great time but it's probably better if I don't ask you upstairs.' What's the first thing the girl says?"

"'Let's go upstairs.' What he had in mind all along. You're saying Flaherty was playing me?"

"All I'm saying is she didn't take the case away from you, right? Which she could've done in, like, five seconds."

Sachs's nail dug absently into her scalp. Her gut twisted at the idea of department politics at this high level-largely uncharted territory for her.

"Now, my point is, I wish you weren't lead on a case like this, not now in your career. But you are. So you have to remember-keep your head down. I mean stay fucking invisible."

"I-"

"Lemme finish. Invisible for two reasons. One, people find out you're after bad cops, rumors're going start-about this shield taking cash or that shield losing evidence, whatever. Fact they're not doesn't mean shit. Rumors're like the flu. You can't wish ' em away. They run their course and they take people's careers with 'em."

She nodded. "What's the second reason?"

"Just because you got a shield, don't think you're immune. A bad uniform in the One One Eight, yeah, he's not going to clip you. That doesn't happen. But the civilians he's dealing with won't want to hear his opinion. They won't think twice about tossing your body into the trunk of a car at JFK long-term parking… God bless you, kid. Go get 'em. But be careful. I don't want to have to go breaking any bad news to Lincoln. He'd never forgive me."

Ron Pulaski returned to Rhyme's, and Sachs met him in the front hallway, as she stood, looking into the kitchen, and thinking about what Sellitto had told her.

She briefed him about the latest in the Watchmaker case then asked, "What's the Sarkowski situation?"

He flipped through his notes. "I located his spouse and proceeded to interview her. Now, the decedent was a fifty-seven-year-old white male who owned a business in Manhattan. He had no criminal record. He was murdered on November four of this year and was survived by said wife and two teenage children, one male, one female. Death occurred by gunshot. He-"

"Ron?" she asked in a certain tone.

He winced. "Oh, sorry. Streamline, sure."

His copspeak was a habit Sachs was determined to break.

Relaxing, the rookie continued. "He was the owner of a building on the West Side, Manhattan. Lived there too. He also owned a company that did maintenance and trash disposal work for big companies and utilities around the city." His business had a clean record-federal, city and state. No organized crime connections, no investigations ongoing. He himself had no warrants or arrests, except a speeding ticket last year."

"Any suspects in his death?"

"No."

"What house ran the case?"

"The One Three One."

"He was in Queens when he died, not Manhattan?"

"That's right."

"What happened?"

"The perp got his wallet and cash then shot him three times in the chest."

"The St. James? Did she ever hear him say anything about it?"

"Nope."

"Did he know Creeley?"

"The wife wasn't sure, didn't think so. I showed her the picture and she didn't recognize him." He grew quiet for a moment and then added, "One thing. I think I saw it again, the Mercedes."

"You did?"

"After you dropped me off I crossed the street fast to beat a light and I looked behind me to see if there was traffic. I couldn't get a good look but I thought I saw the Merc. Couldn't see the tag. Just thought I'd mention it."

Sachs shook her head. "I had a visitor too." She told him about the break-in to her car. And added that she believed she'd seen the Mercedes as well. "That driver's been a busy boy." She then looked at his hands, which held only his thick notebook. "Where's the Sarkowski file?"

"Okay, that's the problem. No file, no evidence. I went through the entire evidence locker in the One Three One. Nothing."

"Okay, this's getting funky. No evidence?"

"Missing."

"The file was checked out?"

"Might've been but it's not in the computer log. It should've been there if somebody took it or it got sent somewhere. But I got the name of the case detective. He lives in Queens. Just retired. Art Snyder." Pulaski handed her a sheet of paper with the man's name and address on it. "You want me to talk to him?"

"No, I'll go see him. I want you to stay here and write up our notes on a whiteboard. I want to see the big picture. But don't do it in the lab. There's too much traffic." Crime scene and other officers routinely made deliveries to Rhyme's. With a case involving crooked cops, she didn't want anyone to see what they'd learned. She nodded toward Rhyme's exercise room, where his ergometer and treadmill were located. "We'll keep it in there."

"Sure. But that won't take long. When I'm done, you want me to meet you at Snyder's?"

Sachs thought again about the Mercedes. And she heard Sellitto's words looping through her head: …The trunk of a car at JFK long-term parking…

"Naw, when you're through, just stay here and help out Lincoln." She laughed. "Maybe it'll improve his mood."

THE WATCHMAKER

CRIME SCENE ONE

Location:

Repair pier in Hudson River, 22nd Street.

Victim:

Identity unknown.

Male.

Possibly middle-aged or older, and may have coronary condition (presence of anticoagulants in blood).

No other drugs, infection or disease in blood.