Jeffery Deaver - The Cold Moon

Her face pale and grave, she hurried out the door, saying, "Problem. I'll be back in a half-hour."

"Sachs," Rhyme began. But he heard only the slamming front door in response.

The Camaro eased up over the curb on West Forty-fourth Street, not far from the West Side Highway.

A big man in an overcoat and a fur hat squinted at Sachs as she climbed out of the car. She didn't know him, or he her, but the all-business parking job and the NYPD placard on the dash made it clear she was the one he was waiting for.

The young man's ears and nose were bright red and steam curled from his nose. He stamped his feet to keep the circulation going. "Whoa, this's cold. I'm sicka winter already. You Detective Sachs?"

"Yeah. You're Coyle?"

They shook hands. He had a powerful grip.

"What's the story?" she asked.

"Come on. I'll show you."

"Where?"

"The van. In the lot up the street."

As they walked, briskly in the cold, Sachs asked, "What house you from?" Coyle had identified himself as a cop when he called.

The traffic was loud. He didn't hear.

She repeated her question. "What house you from? Midtown South?"

He blinked at her. "Yeah." Then blew his nose.

"I was there for a while," Sachs told him.

"Hmm." Coyle said nothing else. He directed her through the large parking lot. At the far end Coyle stopped, next to a Windstar van, the windows dark, the motor running.

He glanced around. Then opened the door.

Canvassing apartments and stores in Greenwich Village, near Lucy Richter's, Kathryn Dance was reflecting on the symbiotic relationship between kinesic and forensic sciences.

A practitioner of kinesics requires a human being-a witness, a suspect-the same way a forensic scientist requires evidence. Yet this case was distinguished by a surprising absence of both people and physical clues.

It frustrated her. She'd never been involved in an investigation quite like this one.

Excuse me, sir, madam, hey there, young man, there was some police activity near here earlier today, did you hear about it, ah, good, I wonder if you happened to see anyone in that area, leaving quickly. Or did you see anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary? Take a look at this picture…

But, nothing.

Dance didn't even recognize chronic witnessitis, the malady where people clearly know something but claim they don't, out of fear for themselves or their families. No, after forty freezing minutes on the street, she'd found the problem was simply that nobody'd seen squat.

Excuse me, sir, yes, it's a California ID but I'm working with the New York Police Department, you can call this number to verify that, now have you seen…

Zero.

Dance was taken aback once, shocked actually, when she approached a man coming out of an apartment. She'd blinked and her thoughts froze as she stared up at him-he was identical to her late husband. She'd controlled herself and run through her litany. He'd sensed something was up, though, and frowned, asking if she was all right.

How unprofessional can we be? Dance thought angrily. "Fine," she'd said with a fake smile.

Like his neighbors, though, the businessman hadn't seen anything unusual and headed up the street. With a long look back at him, Dance continued her search.

She wanted a lead, wanted to help nail this perp. Like any cop, of course, she wanted to take a sick, dangerous man off the streets. But she also wanted to spend time interviewing him after he'd been collared. The Watchmaker was different from any other perp she'd ever come up against. Kathryn Dance wanted badly to find out what made him tick-and laughed to herself at the unintended choice of words.

She continued stopping people for another block but found no one who could help.

Until she met the shopper.

On the sidewalk a block from Lucy's apartment she stopped a man wheeling a handcart filled with groceries. He glanced at the composite picture of the Watchmaker and said impulsively, "Oh, yeah, I think I saw somebody who looked like him… " Then he hesitated. "But I didn't really pay any attention." He started to leave.

Kathryn Dance, though, knew instantly he'd seen more.

Witnessitis.

"This's really important."

"All I saw was somebody running up the street. That's it."

"Listen, got an idea. Anything perishable in there?" She nodded at the grocery cart.

He hesitated again, trying to anticipate her. "Not really."

"How 'bout if we get some coffee and I ask you a few more questions. You mind?"

She could tell he did mind but just then a blast of icy wind rocked them and he looked like he wouldn't mind getting out of the cold. "I guess. But I really can't tell you anything else."

Oh, we'll see about that.

Amelia Sachs sat in the back of the van.

With Coyle's help, she was struggling to get retired detective Art Snyder into a sitting position on the backseat of the van. He was half conscious, muttering words she couldn't hear.

When Coyle had first opened the door, Snyder had been sprawled out, head back, unconscious, and she thought-to her horror-that he'd killed himself. She soon learned that he was simply drunk, though extremely so. She'd shaken him gently. "Art?" He'd opened his eyes, frowning and disoriented.

Now, the two officers got him on a seat.

"No, just wanna sleep. Leave me alone. Wanna sleep."

"This's his van?"

"Yeah," Coyle answered.

"What happened? How'd he get here?"

"He was up the street at Harry's. They wouldn't serve him-he was drunk already-and he wandered outside. I came in to buy some ciggies just after. The bartender knew I was a cop and told me about him. Didn't want him to drive off and kill himself or somebody else. I found him here, halfway inside. Your card was in his pocket."

Art Snyder shifted groggily. "Leave me alone." His eyes closed.

She glanced at Coyle. "I'll take over from here."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Only, could you flag down a cab, send it over here?"

"Sure."

The cop climbed out of the van and walked away. Sachs crouched down, touched his arm. "Art?"

He opened his eyes, squinting as he recognized her. "You…"

"Art, we're going to get you home."

"Leave me alone. Leave me the fuck alone."

There was a cut on his forehead and his sleeve was torn from a fall. He'd vomited not long ago.

He snapped, "Haven't you done enough? Haven't you fucking done enough to me?" His eyes bulged. "Go away. I want to be alone. Leave me alone!" He rolled to his knees, tried crawling to the driver's seat. "Go…away!"

Sachs pulled him back. He wasn't a small man but the alcohol had weakened him. He tried to stand but fell back on the seat.

"You were doing great." She nodded at a pint bottle on the floor. It was empty.

"What's it to you? What the fuck is it to you?"

"What happened?" she persisted.

"Don't you get it? You happened. You. "

"Me?"

"Why did I think it'd keep quiet? There're no fucking secrets in the department. I ask a few questions for you, where's the fucking file, what happened to it…next thing, my buddy I was meeting to play pool I told you about? He never shows. And doesn't return my calls…" He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Then I get a call-this guy was my partner for three years, him and me and our wives were going on a cruise. Guess who can't fucking make it?…All because I was asking questions. A retired cop asking questions…I should've told you to go fuck yourself the minute you walked through the door."

"Art, I-"

"Oh, don't worry, lady. I didn't mention your name. Didn't mention anything." He groped for the bottle. He saw it was empty. And flung it to the floor.

"Look, I know a good counselor. You can-"

"Counselor? What's he gonna counsel me on? How I fucked up my life?"