The Cold Moon (18 page)

This was Gerte, the other bartender at the St. James. She was on her way to work and had agreed to meet Sachs before her shift.

There was a no-smoking sign on the wall but the woman continued to strangle a live cigarette between her ruddy index and middle fingers. Nobody on the staff here said anything about it; professional courtesy in the restaurant world, Sachs guessed.

The woman's dark eyes narrowed as she read the detective's ID.

"Sonja said you had some questions. But she didn't say what." Her voice was low and rough.

Sachs sensed that Sonja had probably told her everything. But the detective played along and gave the woman the relevant details — the ones that she could share, at least — and then showed her the picture of Ben Creeley. "He committed suicide." No surprise in Gerte's eyes. "And we're looking into his death."

"I seen him, I guess, a couple, three times." She looked at the menu blackboard. "I can eat for free at the St. James. But I'm going to miss dinner. Since I'm here. With you."

"How 'bout I buy you some food?"

Gerte waved at the waitress and ordered.

"You want anything?" the waitress asked Sachs.

"You have herbal tea?"

"If Lipton's an herb, we got it."

"I'll have that."

"Anything to eat?"

"No, thanks."

Gerte looked at the detective's slim figure and gave a cynical laugh. She then asked, "So that guy who killed himself — did he leave a family?"

"That's right."

"Tough. What's his name?"

A question that didn't instill confidence that Gerte would be a source of good info. And, sure enough, it turned out that she really wasn't any more helpful than Sonja. All she recalled was that she'd seen him in the bar about once a month for the past three months. She too had the impression that he'd been hanging out with the cops in their back room but wasn't positive. "The place is pretty busy, you know."

Depends on how you define busy, Sachs reflected. "You know any of the officers there personally?"

"From the precinct? Yeah, some of them."

As the beverages arrived, Gerte recited a few first names, some descriptions. She didn't know anybody's last name. "Most of 'em who come in're okay. Some're shits. But ain't that the whole world?... About him." A nod at Creeley's picture. "I remember he didn't laugh much. He was always looking around, over his shoulder, out the windows. Nervous like." The woman poured cream and Equal into her coffee.

"Sonja said he had an argument the last time he came in. Do you remember any other fights?"

"Nope." Sipping coffee loudly. "Not while I was there."

"You ever see him with any drugs?"

"Nope."

Useless, Sachs was thinking. This seemed like a dead end.

The bartender drew deeply on her cigarette and shot the smoke toward the ceiling. She squinted at Sachs and gave a meaningless smile with her bright red lips. "So why you so interested in this guy?"

"Just routine."

Gerte gave a knowing look and finally said, "
Two
guys come into the St. James and not long after that they're both dead. And that's routine, huh?"

"Two?"

"You didn't know."

"No."

"Figured you didn't. Otherwise you woulda said something up front."

"Tell me."

Gerte fell silent and looked off; Sachs wondered if the woman was spooked. But she was merely staring at the hamburger and fries coming in for a landing on the table.

"Thanks, honey," she growled. Then looked back at Sachs. "Sarkowski. Frank Sarkowski."

"What happened?"

"Killed in a robbery, I heard."

"When?"

"Early November. Something like that."

"Who'd he see at the St. James?"

"He was in the back room some is all I know."

"Did they know each other?" A nod toward Creeley's picture.

The woman shrugged and eyed her hamburger. She pulled the bun off, spread a little mayonnaise on it and struggled with the ketchup lid. Sachs opened it for her.

"Who was he?" the policewoman asked.

"Businessman. Looked like a bridge-and-tunnel guy. But I heard he lived in Manhattan and had money. They were Gucci jeans he wore. I never talked to him except to take his order."

"How'd you find out about his death?"

"Overheard something. Them talking."

"The officers from the precinct?"

She nodded.

"Any
other
deaths that you heard of?"

"Nope."

"Any other crimes? Shakedowns, assaults, bribes?"

She shook her head, pouring ketchup on the burger and making a pool for dunking the fries. "Nothing. That's all I know."

"Thanks." Sachs put ten down on the table to cover the woman's meal.

Gerte glanced at the money. "The desserts're pretty good. The pie. You ever eat here, have the pie."

The detective added another five.

Gerte looked up and gave an astute smile. "Why'm I telling you all this stuff? You're wondering, right?"

Sachs nodded with a smile. She'd been wondering exactly that.

"You wouldn't understand. Those guys in the back room, the cops? The way they look at us, Sonja and me, the things they say, the things they
don't
say. The way they joke about us when they think we can't hear 'em..." She gave a bitter smile. "Yeah, I pour drinks for a living, okay? That's all I do. But that don't give 'em the right to make fun of me. Everybody's got the right to some dignity, don't they?"

Joanne Harper, Vincent's dream girl, had not returned to the workshop yet.

The men were in the Band-Aid-mobile, parked on east Spring Street across from the darkened workshop where Duncan was about to kill his third victim and Vincent was about to have his first heart-to-heart in a long, long time.

The SUV wasn't anything great but it was safe. The Watchmaker had stolen it from someplace where he said it wouldn't be missed for a while. It also sported New York plates that'd been stolen from another tan Explorer — to pass an initial call-in by the cops if they happened to get spotted (they rarely checked the VIN number, only plates, the Watchmaker lectured Vincent).

That was smart, Vincent allowed, though he'd asked what they'd do if some cop
did
check the VIN. It wouldn't match the tag and he'd know the Explorer was stolen.

Duncan had replied, "Oh, I'd kill him." As if it was obvious.

Moving right along...

Duncan looked at his pocket watch and replaced it, zipped up the pocket. He opened his shoulder bag, which contained the clock and other tools of the trade, all carefully organized. He wound the clock, set the time and zipped the cover of the bag closed. Through the nylon, Vincent could hear the ticking.

They hooked up hands-free headsets to their mobile phones and Vincent set a police scanner on the seat next to him (Duncan's idea, of course). He clicked it on and heard a mundane clatter of transmissions about traffic accidents, the progress of street closings for some event on Thursday, an apparent heart attack on Broadway, a chain snatching...

Life in da big city...

Duncan looked himself over carefully, made sure all his pockets were sealed. He rolled a dog-hair remover over his body, to pick up trace evidence, and reminded Vincent to do the same before he came inside for his heart-to-heart with Joanne.

Meticulous...

"Ready?"

Vincent nodded. Duncan climbed out of the Band-Aid-mobile, looked up and down the street, then walked to the service door. He picked the lock in about ten seconds. Amazing. Vincent smiled, admiring his friend's skill. He ate two candy bars, chewed them down with fierce bites.

A moment later the phone vibrated and he answered. Duncan said, "I'm inside. How's the street look?"

"A few cars from time to time. Nobody on the sidewalks. It's clear."

Vincent heard a few metallic clicks. Then the man's voice in a whisper: "I'll call you when she's ready."

Ten minutes later Vincent saw someone in a dark coat walking toward the workshop. The stance and motion suggested it was a woman. Yep, it was his flower girl, Joanne.

A burst of hunger filled him.

He ducked low, so she wouldn't see him. He pushed the
TRANSMIT
button on the phone.

He heard the click of Duncan's phone. No "hello" or "yes."

Vincent lifted his head slightly and saw her walk up to the door. He said into the phone, "It's her. She's alone. She should be inside any minute."

The killer said nothing. Vincent heard the click of the phone hanging up.

Okay, he was a keeper.

Joanne Harper and Kevin had had three coffees at Kosmo's Diner, otherwise just another functional, boring eatery in SoHo, but as of today a very special place. She was now walking to the back door of the workshop, reflecting that she wished she could have lingered for another half hour or so. Kevin had wanted to — there were more jokes to tell, more stories to share — but her job loomed. It wasn't due till tomorrow night, but this was an important client and she needed to make sure the arrangements were perfect. She'd reluctantly told him she had to get back.

She glanced up and down the street, still a bit uneasy about the pudgy man in the parka and the weird sunglasses. But the area was deserted. Stepping inside the workshop, she slammed the door and double-locked it.

Hanging up her coat, Joanne inhaled deeply, the way she always did when she first walked inside, enjoying the myriad scents inside the shop: jasmine, rose, lilac, lily, gardenia, fertilizer, loam, mulch. It was intoxicating.

She flicked on the lights and started toward the arrangements she'd been working on earlier. Then she froze and gave a scream.

Her foot had struck something. It scurried away from her. She leapt back, thinking: Rat!

But then she looked down and laughed. What she'd kicked was a large spool of florist wire in the center of the aisle. How had it gotten there? All of the spools hung from hooks on the wall nearby. She squinted through the dimness and saw that somehow this one had slipped off and rolled across the floor. Odd.

Must be ghosts of florists past, she said to herself, then regretted the joke. The place was eerie enough and an image of the fat man in the sunglasses came back immediately. Don't go spooking yourself.

She picked up the spool and saw why it had fallen: the hook had slipped out of the wood. That's all. But then she noticed something else curious. This spool was one of the new ones; she hadn't used any wire from it yet, she thought. But she
must
have; some was missing.

She laughed. Nothing like love to make a girl forgetful.

Then she paused, cocking her head. She was listening to a sound she was unaccustomed to.

What was it?

Very odd... dripping water?

No, it was mechanical. Metal...

Weird. It sounded like a ticking clock. Where was it coming from? The workshop had a large wall clock in the back but it was electric and didn't tick. Joanne looked around. The noise, she decided, was coming from a small, windowless work area just beyond the refrigerated room. She'd check it out in a minute.

Joanne bent down to repair the hook.

Chapter 13

Amelia Sachs skidded to a stop in front of Ron Pulaski. After he jumped in she pointed the car north and gunned the engine.

The rookie gave her the details of the meeting with Jordan Kessler. He added, "He seemed legit. Nice guy. But I just thought I ought to check with Mrs. Creeley myself to confirm everything — about what Kessler gets because of Creeley's death. She said she trusts him and everything's on the up-and-up. But I still wasn't sure so I called Creeley's lawyer. Hope that was okay."

"Why wouldn't it be okay?"

"Don't know. Just thought I'd ask."

"It's always okay to do too
much
work in this business," Sachs told him. "The problems're when somebody doesn't do enough."

Pulaski shook his head. "Hard to imagine somebody working for Lincoln and being lazy."

She gave a cryptic laugh. "And what'd the lawyer say?"

"Basically the same thing Kessler and the wife said. He buys out Creeley's share at fair market value. It's all legit. Kessler said his partner had been drinking more and had taken up gambling. His wife told me she was surprised he did that. Never was an Atlantic City kind of guy."

Sachs nodded. "Gambling — maybe some mob connections there. Dealing to them, or just taking along recreational drugs. Money laundering maybe. He win or lose, you know?"

"Dropped some big money, seems like. I was wondering if he hit a loan shark to cover the loss. But his wife said the losses were no big deal, what with his income and everything. A couple hundred thousand didn't hurt much.
She
wasn't real happy about it, you can imagine... Kessler said he had a good relationship with all his clients. But I asked for a list. I think we ought to talk to them ourselves."

"Good," Sachs told him. Then she added, "Things're getting gluier. There was another death. Murder/robbery, maybe." She explained about her meeting with Gerte and told him about Frank Sarkowski. "I need you to track down the file."