Jeffery Deaver - The Cold Moon

"Where?"

"You fucking rookie, what's your house?"

Sachs couldn't speak for a moment, she was so shocked by the man's fury. "Technically I'm working Major Cases-"

"What the hell does 'technically' mean? Who're you working for?"

"I'm lead detective on this case. I'm supervised by Lon Sellitto. In MC. I-"

"You haven't been a detective-"

"I-"

"Don't you ever interrupt a superior officer. Ever. You understand me?"

Sachs bristled. She said nothing.

"Do you understand me?" he shouted.

"Perfectly."

"You haven't been a detective very long, have you?"

"No."

"I know that, because a real detective would've followed protocol. She would've come to the dep inspector and introduced herself and asked if it was all right to review a file. What you did…Were you about to interrupt me again?"

She had been. She said, "No."

"What you did was a personal insult to me." A fleck of spittle arced between them like a mortar round.

He paused. Would it be an interruption to talk now? She didn't care. "I had no intention of insulting you. I'm just running an investigation. I needed a file that's turned up missing."

"'Turned up missing.' What kind of thing is that to say? Either it's turned up or it's missing. If you're as sloppy with your investigating as you are with your language, I'm wondering if you didn't lose the file yourself and're trying to cover your ass by blaming us."

"The file was checked out of the One Three One and routed here."

"By who?" he snapped.

"That's the problem. That part of the log was blank."

"Were there any other files checked out that came here?" He sat on the edge of his desk and stared down at her.

Sachs frowned.

He continued. "Any files from anywhere else?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Do you know what I do here?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What's my job at the One Five Eight?"

"Well, you're in charge of the precinct, I assume."

"You assume," he mocked. "I've known officers dead in the streets because they assumed. Shot down dead."

This was getting tedious. Sachs's eyes went cold and locked onto his. She had no trouble maintaining the gaze.

Jefferies hardly noticed. He snapped, "In addition to running the precinct-your brilliant deduction-I'm in charge of the manpower allocation committee for the entire department. I review thousands of files a year, I see what the trends are, determine what shifts we need to make in personnel to cover work load. I work hand in glove with the city and state to make sure we get what we need. You probably think that's a waste of time, don't you?"

"I don't-"

"Well, it's not, young lady. Those files are reviewed by me and they're returned… Now, what's this particular report you're so goddamn interested in?"

Suddenly she didn't want him to know. This whole scene was off. Logically, if he had something to hide, it was unlikely that he'd behave like such a prick. But, on the other hand, he might be acting this way to divert suspicion. She thought back. She'd given the clerk only the file number, not the name Sarkowski. Most likely the scatterbrain wouldn't remember the lengthy digit.

Sachs said calmly, "I'd prefer not to say."

He blinked. "You-?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

Jefferies nodded. He seemed calm. Then he leaned forward and slammed his hand down on the desk again. "You fucking have to tell me. I want the case name and I want it now."

"No."

"I'll see you're suspended for insubordination."

"You do what you have to, Inspector."

"You will tell me the name of the file. And you will tell me now."

"No, I won't."

"I'll call your supervisor." His voice was cracking. He was getting hysterical. Sachs actually wondered if he'd physically hurt her.

"He doesn't know about it."

"You're all the same," Jefferies said, a searing voice. "You think you get a gold shield, you know everything there is to know about being a cop. You're a kid, you're just a kid-and a wiseass one. You come to my precinct, accuse me of stealing files-"

"I didn't-"

"Insubordination-you insult me, you interrupt me. You don't have any idea what it's like to be a cop."

Sachs gazed at him placidly. She'd slipped into a different place-her personal cyclone cellar. She knew that there might be disastrous implications from this confrontation but at the moment he couldn't touch her. "I'm leaving now."

"You're in deep trouble, young lady. I remember your shield. Five eight eight five. Think I didn't? I'll see you busted down to Warrants. How'd you like to shuffle paper all day long? You do not come into a man's precinct and insult him!"

Sachs strode past him, flung the door open and hurried up the hall. Her hands started shaking, her breath was coming fast.

His voice, nearly a scream, followed her down the hall. "I'll remember your shield. I'll make some calls. If you ever come back to my precinct again, you will regret it. Young lady, did you hear me?"

U.S. Army Sergeant Lucy Richter locked the door of her old Greenwich Village co-op and headed into the bedroom, where she stripped off her dark green uniform, bristling with perfectly aligned bars and campaign ribbons. She wanted to toss the garment on the bed but, of course, she hung it carefully in the closet, the blouse too, and tucked her ID and security badges carefully in the breast pocket, where she always kept them. She then cleaned and polished her shoes before setting them carefully in a rack on the closet door.

A fast shower, then, wrapped in an old pink robe, she curled up on the shag rug on the bedroom floor and gazed out the window. Her eyes took in the buildings across Barrow Street, the lights flickering between the wind-blown trees and the moon, white in the black sky, above lower Manhattan. This was a familiar sight to her, comforting. She used to sit here, just like this, when she was a little girl.

Lucy had been out of the country for some time and was back home on leave. She'd finally gotten over the jet lag and the grogginess from a marathon sleepfest. Now, with her husband still at work, she was content to sit, look out the window and to think about the distant past, and the recent.

The future, too, of course. The hours we have yet to spend seem to obsess us far more than those we've already experienced, Lucy reflected.

She grew up in this very co-op, here in the most congenial of Manhattan neighborhoods. She loved the Village. And when her parents moved across town and became snowbirds they transferred the place to their twenty-two-year-old daughter. Three years later, the night her boyfriend had proposed to her, she'd said yes but with a qualification: They had to live here. He, of course, agreed.

She enjoyed her life in the neighborhood, hanging out with friends, working food service and office jobs (a college dropout, she was nonetheless always the sharpest and hardest worker among her peers). She liked the culture and the quirkiness of the city. Lucy would sit right here, looking out the window, south, at the imposing landscape of this imposing city, think about what she wanted to do with her life or think about nothing at all.

But then came that September day and she watched it all, the flames, the smoke, then the horrible absence.

Lucy continued her routine, more or less content, and waited for the anger and hurt to go away, the emptiness to fill. But they never did. And so the skinny girl who was a Democrat and liked Seinfeld and baked her own bread with organic flour walked out the front door of this co-op, took the Broadway train uptown to Times Square and enlisted in the army.

Something, she'd explained to her husband, Bob, she had to do. He'd kissed her forehead, held her hard and didn't try to talk her out of it. (For two reasons. First, a former Navy SEAL, he thought the military experience was important for everyone. And second, he believed Lucy had an unerring sense of doing the right thing.)