The Cold Moon (22 page)

FRANK SARKOWSKI HOMICIDE

• Sarkowski was 57 years old, no police record, murdered on November 4 of this year, survived by wife and two teenage children.
  

• Victim owned building and business in Manhattan. Business was doing maintenance for other companies and utilities.
  

• Art Snyder was case detective.
  

• No suspects.
  

• Murder/robbery?
  

• Business deal went bad?
  

• Killed in Queens — not sure why he was there.
  

• File and evidence missing.
  

• No known connection with Creeley.
  

• No criminal record — Sarkowski or company.
  

Chapter 15

The bungalow was in Long Island City, that portion of Queens just over the East River from Manhattan and Roosevelt Island.

Christmas decorations — plenty of them — were perfectly arranged in the yard, the sidewalk perfectly cleared of ice and snow, the Camry in the driveway perfectly clean, despite the recent snow. Window frames were being scraped for a new coat of paint, and a stack of bricks sat destined for a new path or patio.

This was the house of a man with newly acquired free time.

Amelia Sachs hit the doorbell.

The front door opened a few seconds later and a solid man in his late fifties squinted up at her. He was in a green velour running suit.

"Detective Snyder?" Sachs was careful to use his former title. Being polite gets you further than a gun, her father used to say.

"Yeah, come on in. You're Amelia, right?"

Last name versus first name. You always choose which battles you want to fight. She smiled, shook his hand and followed him inside. Cold streetlight bled inside and the living room was unfriendly and chill. Sachs smelled damp smoke from the fireplace, as well as the scent of cat. She pulled off her jacket and sat on a wheezing sofa. It was clear that the Barcalounger, beside which were three remote controls, was the king's throne.

"The wife's out," he announced. A squint. "You Herman Sachs's girl?"

Girl...

"That's right. Did you work with him?"

"Some, yeah. BK and a couple assignments in Manhattan. Good guy. Heard the retirement party was a blast. Went on all night. You want a soda or water or anything? No booze, sorry." He said this with a certain tone in his voice, which — along with the cluster of veins in his nose — told her that, like a lot of cops of a certain age, he'd had a problem with the bottle. And was now in recovery. Good for him.

"Nothing for me, thanks... just have a few questions. You were case detective on a robbery/homicide just before you retired. Name was Frank Sarkowski."

Eyes sweeping the carpet. "Yeah, remember him. Some businessman. Got shot in a mugging or something."

"I wanted to see the file. But it's gone. The evidence too."

"No file?" Snyder shrugged, a little surprised. Not too much. "Records room at the house... always a mess."

"I need to find out what happened."

"Geez, I don't remember much." Snyder scratched the back of his muscular hand, flaking with eczema. "You know, one of
those
cases. No leads at all... I mean zip. After a week you kind of forget about 'em. You musta run some of those."

The question was almost a taunt, a comment on the fact that she obviously hadn't been a detective for long and probably
hadn't
run many of those sorts of cases. Or any other, for that matter.

She didn't respond. "Tell me what you remember."

"Found him in this vacant lot, lying by his car. No money, no wallet. The piece was nearby."

"What was it?"

"A cold Smittie knockoff. Was wiped clean — no prints."

Interesting. Cold meant no serial numbers. The bad guys bought them on the street when they wanted an untraceable weapon. You could never completely obliterate the numbers of a stamped gun — which was a requirement for all U.S. manufacturers — but some foreign weapon companies didn't put serial numbers on their products. They were what professional killers used and often left behind at crime scenes.

"Snitches hear anything afterward?"

Many homicides were solved because the killer made the mistake of bragging about his prowess at a robbery and exaggerating what he'd stolen. Word often got back to snitches, who'd dime the guy out for a favor from the cops.

"Nothing."

"Where was the vacant lot?"

"By the canal. You know those big tanks?"

"The natural gas tanks?"

"Yeah."

"What was he doing there?"

Snyder shrugged. "No idea. He had this maintenance company. I think one of his clients was out there, and he was checking on them or something."

"Crime Scene find anything solid? Trace? Fingerprints? Footprints?"

"Nothing jumped out at us." His rheumy eyes kept examining her. He seemed a little bewildered. He might be thinking, So this is the new generation NYPD. Glad I got out when I did.

"Were you convinced everything was what it seemed to be? A robbery that went bad."

He hesitated. "Pretty convinced."

"But not totally convinced?"

"I guess it coulda been a clip."

"Pro?"

Snyder shrugged. "I mean, there's nobody around. You've gotta walk a half mile just to get to a residential street. It's all factories and things. Kids just don't hang there. There's no reason to. I was thinking the shooter took the wallet and money to make it look like a mugging. And leaving the gun behind — that smelled like a hit to me."

"But no connection to the mob?"

"Not that I found. But one of his employees told me he'd just had some business deal fall through. Lost a lot of money. I followed up but it didn't lead anywhere."

So Sarkowski — maybe Creeley too — might've been working with some OC crew: drugs or money laundering. It went south and they killed him. That would explain the Mercedes tail — some capos or soldiers were checking up on her investigation — and the cops at the 118 were running interference for the crew.

"The name Benjamin Creeley come up in your investigation?"

He shook his head.

"Did you know that the vic — Sarkowski — used to hang at the St. James?"

"The St. James... Wait, that bar in Alphabet City? Around the corner from..." His voice faded.

"That's right. The One One Eight."

Snyder was troubled. "I didn't know that. No."

"Well, he did. Funny that a guy who lived on the West Side and worked in Midtown would hang out in a dive way over there. You know anything about that?"

"Naw. Not a single thing." He looked around the room sullenly. "But if you're asking me if anybody at the One One Eight came to me and said bury the Sarkowski case, they didn't. We ran it by the book and got on to other shit."

She looked him in the eye. "What do you know about the One One Eight?"

He picked up one of the remotes, played with it, put it back down.

"Did I mention something?" Sachs said.

"What?" he asked glumly. She noticed his eyes flick to an empty break front. She could see rings on the wood, where the bottles had been.

"I've got a shitty memory," she told him.

"Memory?"

"I can hardly remember my name."

Snyder was confused. "A kid like you?"

"Oh, you bet," she said with a laugh. "The minute I walk out your front door I'll forget I was even here. Forget your name, your face. Gone completely. Funny how that works."

He got the message. Still, he shook his head. "Why're you doing this?" he asked in a whisper. "You're young. You gotta learn — about some things it's better just to let sleeping dogs lie."

"But what if they're not sleeping?" she asked, leaning forward. "I got two widows and I got kids without their dads."

"Two?"

"Creeley, that guy I mentioned. Went to the same bar as Sarkowski. Looks like they knew people from the One One Eight. And they're both dead."

Snyder stared at the flatscreen TV. It was impressive.

She asked, "So what do you hear?"

He was studying the floor, seemed to notice some stains. Maybe he'd add replacing the carpet to his list of household projects. Finally: "Rumors. But that's it. I'm being straight with you. I don't know names. I don't know anything specific."

Sachs nodded reassuringly. "Rumors'll do."

"Some scratch was floating around. That's all."

"Money? How much?"

"Could be tall paper. I mean, serious. Or could be walking-around change."

"Go on."

"I don't know any details. It's like you're on the street doing your job and somebody says something to a guy you're standing next to and it doesn't quite, you know, register but then you get the idea."

"You remember names?"

"No, no. This was a while ago. Just, there might be some money. I don't know how it got paid. Or how much. Or to who. All's I heard was the person putting it together, they had something to do with Maryland. That's where all the money goes."

"Anywhere specific? Baltimore? The Shore?"

"Nope."

Sachs considered this, wondering what the scenario might've been. Did Creeley or Sarkowski have a house in Maryland, maybe on the water — Ocean City or Rehobeth? Did some of the cops at the One One Eight? Or was it the Baltimore syndicate? That made sense; it explained why they couldn't find any leads to a Manhattan, Brooklyn or Jersey crew.

She asked, "I want to see the Sarkowski file. Can you point me in any direction?"

Snyder hesitated. "I'll make some calls."

"Thanks."

Sachs rose.

"Wait," Snyder said. "Lemme say one thing. I called you a kid. Okay, shouldn't've said that. You got balls, you don't back down, you're smart. Anybody can see that. But you ain't been around long in this business. You gotta understand that what you're thinking about the One One Eight. They're not going to be clipping anybody. And even if something
is
going down, it's not going to be black-and-white. You gotta ask yourself, What the fuck difference does it make? A few dollars here or there? Sometimes a bad cop saves a baby's life. And sometimes a good cop takes something he shouldn't. That's life on the streets." He gave her a perplexed frown. "I mean, Christ, you of all people oughta know that."

"Me?"

"Well, sure." He looked her up and down. "The Sixteenth Avenue Club."

"I don't know what that is."

"Oh, I'll bet you do."

And he told her all about it.

Dennis Baker was saying to Rhyme, "I hear she's a great shot."

The lab was male only at the moment; Kathryn Dance had returned to the hotel to check in once again and Amelia was out on the Other Case. Pulaski, Cooper and Sellitto were here, along with Jackson the dog.

Rhyme explained about Sachs's pistol club and the competitions she was in. Proudly he told Baker that she was very close to being the top handgun shot in the metro league. She'd be competing soon and was hoping to make the number-one slot.

Baker nodded. "Looks like she's in as good shape as most of the rookies just out of the academy." He patted his belly. "I should be working out more myself."

Ironically, wheelchair-bound Rhyme was himself doing more exercising now than before the accident. He used a powered bicycle — an ergometer — and a computerized treadmill daily. He also did aqua therapy several times a week. This regimen served two purposes. It was intended to keep his muscle mass solid for the day when, as he believed, he would walk again. The exercises were also moving him further toward that goal by improving the nerve function in the damaged parts of his body. In the past few years he'd regained functions that doctors had told him he'd never again have.

But Rhyme sensed that Baker wasn't particularly interested in Sachs's Bowflex routines — a deduction confirmed when the man asked his next question. "I heard that you guys're... going out."

Amelia Sachs was a lantern that attracted many moths and Rhyme wasn't surprised that the detective was checking out the availability of the flame. He laughed at the detective's quaint term.
Going out.
He said, "You could put it that way."

"Must be tough." Then Baker blinked. "Wait, I didn't mean what you think."

Rhyme, though, had a pretty good idea what the detective was saying. He wasn't referring to a relationship between a crip and somebody who was mobile — Baker seemed hardly to notice Rhyme's condition. No, he was referring to a very different potential conflict. "Two cops, you meant."

The Other Case versus His Case.

Baker nodded. "Dated an FBI agent once. She and I had jurisdictional issues."

Rhyme laughed. "That's a good way to put it. Of course, my ex wasn't a cop and we had a pretty rough time too. Blaine had a great fastball. I lost some nice lamps. And a Bausch & Lomb microscope. Probably shouldn't've brought it home... Well, having it at home was okay; I shouldn't've had it on the nightstand in the bedroom."

"I'm not gonna make jokes about microscopes in the bedroom," Sellitto called from across the room.

"Sounds like you just did, if you ask me," Rhyme replied.

Deflecting Baker's small talk, Rhyme wheeled over to Pulaski and Cooper, who were trying to lift prints from the spool from the florist shop, on Rhyme's hope that the Watchmaker couldn't undo the green metallic wire with gloves on and had used his bare hands. But they were having no success.