Duncan was helped to his feet.
Amelia Sachs asked, “Why didn’t you just come to us and tell us what happened? Or make a tape of Baker admitting what he’d done? You could’ve avoided this whole charade.”
Duncan gave a harsh laugh. “And who could I trust? Who could I send a tape to? How did I know who was honest and who was working with Baker? . . . It’s a fact of life, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Corrupt cops.”
Rhyme noticed Sachs gave absolutely no reaction to this comment, as two uniformed officers led their perp, such as he was, to a squad car.
They were, at least temporarily, once again a team.
You and me, Sachs . . .
Lincoln Rhyme’s case had become Amelia Sachs’s and if the Watchmaker had turned out to be toothless there was still a lot of work left to do. The corruption scandal at the 118th house was now “front-burnered,” as Sellitto said (prompting Rhyme’s sardonic comment, “Now there’s a verb you don’t hear every day”). Benjamin Creeley’s and Frank Sarkowski’s killer or killers had yet to be identified specifically from among the cops who were suspected of complicity. And the case against Baker had to be cobbled together and the Maryland connection—and the extortion money—unearthed.
Kathryn Dance volunteered to interview Baker but he was refusing to say a word so the team had to rely on traditional crime scene and investigative work.
On Rhyme’s instruction, Pulaski was cross-referencing Baker’s phone calls and poring over his records and Palm Pilot, trying to find out whom he spent the most time with at the 118th and elsewhere but wasn’t coming up with anything helpful. Mel Cooper and Sachs were analyzing evidence from Baker’s car, house on Long Island and office at One Police Plaza, as well as the houses or apartments of several girlfriends he’d been dating recently (none of whom knew about the others, it turned out). Sachs had searched with her typical diligence and had returned to Rhyme’s with cartons of clothes, tools, checkbooks, documents, photos, weapons and trace from his tire treads.
After an hour of looking over all of this, Cooper announced, “Ah. Got something.”
“What?” Rhyme asked.
Sachs told him, “Found some ash in the clothes that were in the trunk of Baker’s car.”
“And?” Sellitto asked.
Cooper added, “Identical to the ash found in the fireplace at Creeley’s. Places him at that scene.”
They also found a fiber from Baker’s garage that matched the rope used in Benjamin Creeley’s “suicide.”
“I want to link Baker to Sarkowski’s death too,” Rhyme said. “Get Nancy Simpson and Frank Rettig out to Queens, that place where his body was found. Take some soil samples. We might be able to place Baker or one of his buddies there too.”
“The soil I found at Creeley’s, in front of the fireplace,” Sachs pointed out, “had chemicals in it—like from a factory site. It might match.”
“Good.”
Sellitto called Crime Scene in Queens and ordered the collection.
Sachs and Cooper also found samples of sand and some vegetation that turned out to be seaweed. These substances were found in Baker’s car. And there were similar samples in his garage at home.
“Sand and seaweed,” Rhyme commented. “Could be a summer house—Maryland, again. Maybe Baker’s got one, or a girlfriend of his.”
But a check of the real estate databases showed that this wasn’t the case.
Sachs wheeled in the other whiteboard from Rhyme’s exercise room and she jotted the latest evidence. Clearly frustrated, she stood back and stared at the notations.
“The Maryland connection,” she said. “We’ve got to find it. If they killed two people, and nearly Ron and me, they’re willing to kill more. They know we’re closing them up and they won’t want any witnesses. And they’re probably destroying evidence right now.”
Sachs was silent. She looked flustered.
It’s hard when your lover is also your professional partner. But Lincoln Rhyme couldn’t hold back, even—especially—with Amelia Sachs. He said in a low, even voice, “This’s your case, Sachs. You’ve been living it. I haven’t. Where does it all point?”
“I don’t know.” She dug a thumbnail into her finger. Her mouth tight, she shook her head, staring at the evidence chart. Loose ends. “There’s not enough evidence.”
“There’s never enough evidence,” Rhyme reminded. “But that’s not an excuse. That’s what we’re here for, Sachs. We’re the ones who examine a few dirty bricks and figure out what the entire castle looked like.”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t help you, Sachs. You’ve got to figure this one out on your own. Think about what you’ve got. Somebody with a connection to Maryland . . . somebody following you in a Mercedes . . . saltwater and seaweed . . . cash, a lot of cash. Crooked cops.”
“I don’t know,” she repeated stridently.
But he wasn’t giving an inch. “That’s not an option. You have to know.”
She glared at him—and at the hard message beneath the words, which was: You can walk out that door tomorrow and throw away your career if you want. But for now you’re still a cop with a job to do.
Her fingernails worried her scalp.
“There’s something more, something you’re missing,” Rhyme muttered as he too gazed at the evidence charts.
“So, you’re saying we have to think outside the box,” said Ron Pulaski.
“Ah, clichés,” Rhyme snapped. “Well, okay, if you’re in a box, maybe you’re there for a reason. I say don’t think outside it; I say look more closely at what’s inside with you. . . . So, Sachs, what do you see in there?”
She stared at the charts for some moments.
Then she smiled and whispered, “Maryland.”
BENJAMIN CREELEY HOMICIDE
* * *
• 56-year-old Creeley, apparently suicide by hanging. Clothesline. But had broken thumb, couldn’t tie noose.
• Computer-written suicide note about depression. But appeared not to be suicidally depressed, no history of mental/emotional problems.
• Around Thanksgiving two men broke into his house and possibly burned evidence. White men, but faces not observed. One bigger than other. They were inside for about an hour.
• Evidence in Westchester house:
• Broke through lock; skillful job.
• Leather texture marks on fireplace tools and Creeley’s desk.
• Soil in front of fireplace has higher acid content than soil around house and contains pollutants. From industrial site?
• Traces of burned cocaine in fireplace.
• Ash in fireplace.
• Financial records, spreadsheet, references to millions of dollars.
• Checking logo on documents, sending entries to forensic accountant.
• Diary re: getting oil changed, haircut appointment and going to St. James Tavern.
• Analysis of ash from Queens CS lab:
• Logo of software used in corporate accounting.
• Forensic accountant: standard executive compensation figures.
• Burned because of what they revealed, or to lead investigators off?
• St. James Tavern
• Creeley came here several times.
• Apparently didn’t use drugs while here.
• Not sure whom he met with, but maybe cops from the nearby 118th Precinct of the NYPD.
• Last time he was here—just before his death—he got into an argument with persons unknown.
• Checked money from officers at St. James—serial numbers are clean, but found coke and heroin. Stolen from precinct?
• Not much drugs missing, only 6 or 7 oz. of pot, 4 of coke.
• Unusually few organized crime cases at the 118th Precinct but no evidence of intentional stalling by officers.
• Two gangs in the East Village possible but not likely suspects.
• Interview w
ith Jordan Kessler, Creeley’s partner, and follow-up with wife.
• Confirmed no obvious drug use.
• Didn’t appear to associate with criminals.
• Drinking more than usual, taken up gambling; trips to Vegas and Atlantic City. Losses were large, but not significant to Creeley.
• Not clear why he was depressed.
• Kessler didn’t recognize burned records.
• Awaiting list of clients.
• Kessler doesn’t appear to gain by Creeley’s death.
• Sachs and Pulaski followed by AMG Mercedes.
FRANK SARKOWSKI HOMICIDE
* * *
• Sarkowski was 57 years old, owned business in Manhattan, 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?
• Was shot to death as part of apparent robbery. Weapon recovered on scene—Smith & Wesson knockoff, .38 Special, no prints, cold gun. Case detective believes it could have been a professional hit.
• Business deal went bad?
• Killed in Queens—not sure why he was there.
• Deserted part of borough, near natural gas tanks.
• File and evidence missing.
• File went to 158th Precinct on/around November 28. Never returned. No indication of requesting officer.
• No indication where it went in the 158th.
• DI Jefferies not cooperative.
• No known connection with Creeley.
• No criminal record—Sarkowski or company.
• Rumors—money going to cops at the 118th Precinct. Ended up someplace/someone with a Maryland connection. Baltimore mob involved?
• No leads.
• No indications of mob involvement.
• No other Maryland connections found.
THE WATCHMAKER
* * *
CRIME SCENE FIVE
Location:
• Office building, Thirty-second Street and Seventh Ave.
Victims:
• Amelia Sachs/Ron Pulaski.
Perp:
• Dennis Baker, NYPD
M.O.:
• Gunshot (attempt).
Evidence:
• .32 Autauga Mk II pistol.
• Latex gloves.
• Recovered from Baker’s car, home, office:
• Cocaine.
• $50,000 cash.
• Clothing.
• Receipts from clubs and bars, incl. the St. James.
• Carpeting fibers from Explorer.
• Fiber that matched the rope used in Creeley’s death.
• Ash found at Baker’s same as ash in Creeley’s fireplace.
• Presently taking soil samples from site where Sarkowski was murdered.
• Sand and seaweed. Oceanfront Maryland connection?
Other:
• Gerald Duncan set up entire scheme to implicate Dennis Baker and others who killed Duncan’s friend. Eight or ten other officers from the 118th are involved, not sure who. Someone else, other than cops from the 118th, is involved. Duncan no longer homicide suspect.
Chapter 33
Amelia Sachs walked into a tiny, deserted grocery store in Little Italy, south of Greenwich Village. The windows were painted over and a single bare bulb burned inside. The door to the darkened back room was ajar, revealing a large heap of trash, old shelves and dusty cans of tomato sauce.
The place resembled a former social club of a smalltime organized crime crew, which in fact it had been until it was raided and closed up a year ago. The landlord was temporarily the city, which was trying to dump the place, but so far, no takers. Sellitto had said it’d be a good, secure place for a sensitive meeting of this sort.
Seated at a rickety table were Deputy Mayor Robert Wallace and a clean-cut young cop, an Internal Affairs detective. The IAD officer, Toby Henson, greeted Sachs with a firm handshake and a look in his eyes that suggested if she offered any positive response to an invitation to go out with him, he’d give her the evening of her life.
She nodded grimly, focused only on doing the hard job that lay ahead. Her rethinking of the facts, looking within the box, as Rhyme urged, had produced results, which turned out to be extremely unpleasant.
“You said there was a situation?” Wallace asked. “You didn’t want to talk about it over the phone.”
She briefed the men about Gerald Duncan and Dennis Baker. Wallace had heard the basics but Henson laughed in surprise. “This Duncan, he was just a citizen? And he wanted to bring down a crooked cop? That’s why he did this?”
“Yep.”
“He have names?”
“Only Baker’s. There’re about eight or ten others from the One One Eight but there’s someone else, a main player.”
“Someone else?” Wallace asked.
“Yep. All along we were looking for somebody with a connection to Maryland. . . . Did we get that one wrong.”
“Maryland?” the IAD man asked.
Sachs gave a grim laugh. “You know that game of Telephone?”
“You mean at a kids’ party? You whisper something to the person next to you and by the time it goes around, it’s all different?”
“Yep. My source heard ‘Maryland.’ I think it was ‘Marilyn.’”
“A person’s name?” When she nodded, Wallace’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, you don’t mean. . . . ?”
“Inspector Marilyn Flaherty.”
“Impossible.”
Detective Henson shook his head. “No way.”
“I wish I was wrong. But we’ve got some evidence. We found sand and saltwater trace in Baker’s car. She’s got a house in Connecticut, near the beach. And I’ve been followed by somebody in a Mercedes AMG. At first I thought it was a crew from Jersey or Baltimore. But it turns out that that’s what Flaherty owns.”
“A cop owns an AMG?” the Internal Affairs officer asked in disbelief.
“Don’t forget Flaherty’s a cop making a couple hundred thousand a year illegally,” Sachs said stiffly. “And we found a black-and-gray hair about the length of hers in the Explorer that Baker had stolen from the pound. Oh, and remember: She definitely didn’t want IAD to handle the case.”
“Yeah, that was strange,” Wallace agreed.
“Because she was going to bury the whole thing. Give it to one of her people to ‘handle.’ But it would’ve disappeared.”
“Holy shit, an inspector,” whispered the IAD pretty boy.
“She’s in custody?” Wallace asked.
Sachs shook her head. “The problem is we can’t find the money. We don’t have probable cause to subpoena her bank records or get paper to search her house. That’s why I need you.”
Wallace said, “What can I do?”
“I’ve asked her to meet us here. I’m going to brief her on what happened—only a watered-down version. I want you to tell her that we’ve discovered Baker has a partner. The mayor’s called a special commission and he’s going to pull out all the stops to track them down. Tell her that Internal Affairs is totally on board.”
“You’re thinking she’ll panic, head for the money and you’ll nail her.”
“That’s what we hope. My partner’s going to put a tracker on her car while she’s in here tonight. After she leaves, we’re going to tail her. . . . Now, are you okay lying to her?”
“No, I’m not.” Wallace looked down at the rough tabletop, marred with graffiti. “But I’ll do it.”
Detective Toby Henson had apparently lost all interest in his romantic future with Sachs. He sighed and gave an assessment that she couldn’t help but agree with. “This’s going to be bad.”
Now, what’ve we learned?
Ron Pulaski, accustomed to thinking we because of the
twin thing, asked himself this question.
Meaning: What’ve I learned in working on this case with Rhyme and Sachs?
He was determined to be the best cop he could and he spent a lot of time evaluating what he’d done right and what he’d done wrong on the job. Walking down the street now toward the old grocery store where Sachs was meeting with Wallace, he couldn’t really see that he’d messed up anything too bad on the case. Oh, sure, he could’ve run the Explorer scene better. And he was damn sure going to keep his weapon outside the Tyvek jumpsuit from now on—and not use choke holds, unless he really had to.
But on the whole? He’d done pretty good.
Still, he wasn’t satisfied. He supposed this feeling came from working for Detective Sachs. That woman set a high bar. There was always something else to check out, one more clue to find, another hour to spend on the scene.
Could drive you crazy.
Could also teach you to be one hell of a cop.
He’d really have to step up now, with her leaving. Pulaski’d heard that rumor, of course, and he wasn’t very happy about it. But he’d do what was necessary. He didn’t know, though, that he’d ever have her drive. After all, at the moment, hurrying down the freezing street, he was thinking of his family. He really wanted just to head home. Talk to Jenny about her day—not his, no, no—and then play with the kids. That was so fun, just watching the look in his boy’s eyes. It changed so fast and so completely—when his son noticed something he’d never seen before, when he made connections, when he laughed. He and Jenny would sit on the floor with Brad in between them, crawling back and forth, his tiny fingers gripping Pulaski’s thumb.
And their newborn daughter? She was round and wrinkled as an old grapefruit and she’d lie nearby in the SpongeBob bassinet and be happy and perfect.
But the pleasure of his family would have to wait. After what was about to happen, it was going to be a long night.
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 123
