The Cold Moon (13 page)

— THE WATCHMAKER

• Not in any poetry databases; probably his own.
  

• Cold Moon is lunar month, the month of death.
  

• $60 in pocket, no serial number leads; prints negative.
  

• Fine sand used as "obscuring agent." Sand was generic. Because he's returning to the scene?
  

• Metal bar, 81 pounds, is needle-eye span. Not being used in construction across from the alleyway. No other source found.
  

• Duct tape, generic, but cut precisely, unusual. Exactly the same lengths.
  

• Thallium sulfate (rodent poison) found in sand.
  

• Soil containing fish protein found inside victim's jacket.
  

• Very little trace found.
  

• Brown fibers, probably automotive carpeting.
  

Other:

• Vehicle.
  

   
  

• Probably Ford Explorer, about three years old. Brown carpet.
  

• Review of license tags of cars in area Tuesday morning reveals no warrants. No tickets issued Monday night.
  

• Checking with Vice about prostitutes, re: witness.
  

There's a good-old-boy network in urban government, a matrix of money, patronage and power extending like a steel cobweb everywhere, high and low, connecting politicos to civil servants to business associates to labor bosses to workers... It's endless.

New York City is no exception, of course, but the good-old-boy network Amelia Sachs found herself enmeshed in at the moment had one difference: a prime player was a good old girl.

The woman was in her midfifties, wearing a blue uniform with plenty of gingerbread on the front — commendations, ribbons, buttons, bars. An American flag pin, of course. (Like politicians, NYPD brass who appear in public
have
to wear the red, white and blue.) She had a pageboy cut of dull salt-and-pepper hair, framing a long, somber face.

Marilyn Flaherty was an inspector, one of the few women at this level in the department (the rank of inspector trumps captain). She was a senior officer in the Operations Division. This was a command that reported directly to the chief of department — the NYPD designation for police chief. Op Div had many functions, among them liaising with other organizations and agencies about major events in the city — planned ones, like dignitaries' visits, and unexpected, like terrorist attacks. Flaherty's most important role was being the police department's contact with City Hall.

Flaherty had come up through the ranks, like Sachs (coincidentally, both women had also grown up in adjacent Brooklyn neighborhoods). The inspector had worked in Patrol Services — walking a beat — then the Detective Bureau, then she'd run a precinct. Stern and brittle, thick and broad, she was a formidable woman in all ways, with the wherewithal — okay, the
balls
— to maneuver through the minefield a woman in the upper ranks of law enforcement faces.

To observe that she'd succeeded, you had only to glance at the wall and take note of the framed pictures of friends: city officials, union bosses and wealthy real estate developers and businessmen. One depicted her and a stately bald man sitting on the porch of a big beach house. Another showed her at the Metropolitan Opera, on the arm of a man Sachs recognized — a businessman as rich as Donald Trump. Another indicator of her success was the size of the One Police Plaza office in which they now sat; Flaherty somehow had landed a massive corner model with a view of the harbor, while all the command inspectors Sachs knew didn't have such nice digs.

Sachs was sitting opposite Flaherty, the inspector's expansive and polished desk between them. The other person present in the room was Robert Wallace, a deputy mayor. He sported a jowly, self-confident face and a head of silver hair sprayed into a politician's perfect coif.

"You're Herman Sachs's daughter," Flaherty said. Without waiting for a response she looked at Wallace. "Patrolman. Good man. I was at the ceremony where they gave him that commendation."

Sachs's father had been given a number of commendations over the years. She wondered which one this had been for. The time he talked a drunken husband into giving up the knife he was holding to his wife's throat? The time he went through a plate-glass window, disarming a robber in a convenience store while he was off duty? The time he delivered a baby in the Rialto theater, with Steve McQueen fighting bad guys up on the silver screen while the Latina mother lay on the popcorn-littered floor, grunting in her rigorous labor?

Wallace asked, "What's this all about? We understand there might be some crimes police officers're involved in?"

Flaherty turned her steel gray eyes to Sachs and nodded.

Go.

"It's possible... We have a drug situation. And a suspicious death."

"Okay," Wallace said, stretching the syllables out with a sigh and wincing. The former Long Island businessman, now on the mayor's senior staff, served as special commissioner to root out corruption in city government. He'd been ruthlessly efficient at the job; in the past year alone he'd closed up major fraud schemes among building inspectors and teachers' union officials. He was clearly troubled at the thought of crooked cops.

Flaherty's creased face, though, unlike Wallace's, gave nothing away.

Under the inspector's gaze, Sachs explained about the suicide of Benjamin Creeley, suspicious because of the broken thumb, as well as the burned evidence at his house, traces of cocaine and the possible connection to some cops who frequented the St. James.

"The officers're from the One One Eight."

Meaning the 118th Precinct, located in the East Village. The St. James, she'd learned, was the watering hole for the station house.

"There were four of them in the bar when I was there, but others hang out there too from time to time. I have no idea who Creeley met with. Whether it was one or two or a half dozen."

Wallace asked, "You get their names?"

"No. I didn't want to ask too many questions at this point. And I didn't even get a confirmation that Creeley actually met with anyone from the house. It's likely, though."

Flaherty touched a diamond ring on her right middle finger. It was huge. Other than this, and a thick gold bracelet, she wore no jewelry. The inspector remained emotionless but Sachs knew this particular news would trouble her a great deal. Even the hint of dirty cops sent a chill throughout city government, but a problem at the 118 would be especially awkward. It was a showcase house, with a higher share of collars, as well as a higher rate of casualties among its officers, than other precincts. More senior cops moved from the 118 to positions in the Big Building than from anywhere else.

"After I found out there might be a connection between them and Creeley," Sachs said, "I hit an ATM and took out a couple of hundred bucks. I exchanged that for all the cash in the till at the St. James. Some of the bills had to come from the officers there."

"Good. And you ran the serial numbers." Flaherty rolled a Mont Blanc pen absently along the desk blotter.

"That's right. Negative on the numbers from Treasury and Justice. But nearly all the bills tested positive for cocaine. One for heroin."

"Oh, Jesus," Wallace said.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Flaherty said. Sachs nodded and explained to the deep mayor what the inspector was referring to: Many twenty-dollar bills in general circulation contained some drugs. But the fact that nearly every bill the cops in the St. James had paid with showed trace was a cause for concern.

"Same composition as the coke that was found in Creeley's fireplace?" Flaherty asked.

"No. And the bartender said she'd never seen them with drugs."

Wallace asked, "Do you have
any
evidence that police officers were directly involved in the death?"

"Oh, no. I'm not even suggesting that. The scenario I'm thinking of is that, if any cops' involved at all, it was just hooking Creeley up with some crew, looking the other way and taking some points if he was laundering money or a percentage of the profit from the drugs. Then burying any complaints or stepping on investigations from other houses."

"Any arrests in the past?"

"Creeley? No. And I called his wife. She said she never saw him doing any drugs. But a lot of users can keep a secret pretty well. Dealers definitely can if they're not using the product themselves."

The inspector shrugged. "Of course, it could be completely innocent. Maybe Creeley just met a business acquaintance at the St. James. You mentioned he was arguing with somebody there just before he died?"

"Seems that way."

"And so one of his business deals went bad. Real estate or something. Might have nothing to do with the One One Eight."

Sachs nodded emphatically. "Absolutely. It could be a pure coincidence that the St. James's a hangout for cops. Creeley could've been killed because he borrowed money from the wrong people or was a witness to something."

Wallace looked out the window at the bright, cold sky. "With the death, I think we've got to jump on this. Fast. Let's get IAD involved."

Internal Affairs would be the logical outfit to investigate any crimes involving police. But Sachs didn't want that, at least not at this point. She'd turn the case over to them later, but not until she'd nailed the perps herself.

Flaherty touched the marbled pen once more then seemed to think better. Men can get away with all kinds of careless mannerisms; women can't afford to, not at this level. With fingers tipped in perfectly manicured nails, the polish clear, Flaherty placed the pen in her top drawer. "No, not IAD."

"Why not?" Wallace asked.

The inspector shook her head. "It's too close to the One One Eight. Word could get back."

Wallace nodded slowly. "If you think it's best."

"I do."

But Sachs's elation that Internal Affairs wasn't going to take over her case didn't last long. Flaherty added, "I'll find somebody here to give it to. Somebody senior."

Sachs hesitated only a moment. "
I'd
like to follow up on it, Inspector."

Flaherty said, "You're new. You've never handled anything internal." So the inspector'd been doing her homework too. "These're different sorts of cases."

"I understand that. But I can handle it." Sachs was thinking: I'm the one who broke the case. I've taken it this far. And it's my first homicide. Goddamn it, don't take it away from me.

"This isn't just crime scene work."

Calmly she said, "I'm lead investigator on the Creeley homicide. I'm not doing tech work."

"Still, I think it's best... So. If you could get me all the case files, everything you have."

Sachs was sitting forward, her index fingernail digging into her thumb. What could she do to keep the case?

It was then that the deputy mayor frowned. "Wait. Aren't you the one who works with that ex-cop in the wheelchair?"

"Lincoln Rhyme. That's right."

He considered this for a moment then looked at Flaherty. "I say let her run with it, Marilyn."

"Why?"

"She's got a solid-gold reputation."

"We don't need a reputation. We need somebody with experience. No offense."

"None taken," Sachs replied evenly.

"These are very sensitive issues. Inflammatory."

But Wallace liked his idea. "The mayor'd love it. She's associated with Rhyme and he's good press.
And
he's civilian. People'll look at it like she's an independent investigator."

People... meaning reporters, Sachs understood.

"I don't want a big, messy investigation," Flaherty said.

Sachs said quickly, "It won't be. I've got only one officer working with me."

"Who?"

"Out of Patrol. Ronald Pulaski. He's a good man. Young but good."

After a pause Flaherty asked, "How would you proceed?"

"Find out more about Creeley's connection with the One One Eight and the St. James. And about his life — see if there might've been another reason to murder him. I want to talk to his business partner. Maybe there was a problem with clients or some work he was doing. And we need to find out more about the connection between Creeley and the drugs."

Flaherty wasn't completely convinced but she said, "Okay, we'll try it your way. But you keep me informed. Me and nobody else."

A huge sense of relief flooded through Sachs. "Of course."

"Informed by phone or in person. No e-mails or memos..." Flaherty frowned. "One thing, you have any other cases on your plate?"

Inspectors don't rise to this level without a sixth sense. The woman had asked the one question Sachs was hoping she wouldn't.

"I'm assisting on the homicide — the Watchmaker."

Flaherty frowned. "Oh, you're on
that
one? I didn't know that... Compared with a serial doer, this St. James situation isn't as important."

Rhyme's words, echoing:
Your case is colder than the Watchmaker...

Wallace was lost in thought for a moment. Then he glanced at Flaherty. "I think we have to be adults here. What's going to look worse for the city? A man who kills a few people or a scandal in the police department that the press breaks before we control it? Reporters go for crooked cops like sharks after blood. No, I want to move on this. Big."

Sachs bridled at Wallace's comment —
kills a few people
— but she couldn't deny that their goals were the same. She wanted to see the Creeley case through to the end.

For the second time in one day she found herself saying, "I can handle both cases. I promise you it won't be a problem."

In her mind she heard a skeptical voice saying,
Let's hope, Sachs.

Chapter 9

Amelia Sachs collected Ron Pulaski from Rhyme's, a kidnapping she gathered the criminalist wasn't too pleased about, though the rookie didn't seem very busy at the moment.