The Cold Moon

by Jeffery Deaver

  "No. I'm going to be outside looking for witnesses."

  Lucy was staring down at the floor, a good semaphore signal to a kinesics expert. Dance said nothing.

  The soldier said, "You said you were from California. You going back soon?"

  "Tomorrow, probably."

  "Just wondering if you'd have time for coffee or something." Lucy played with a potholder. On it were the words 4th Infantry Division. Steadfast and Loyal.

  "Sure. We'll work it out." Dance found a card in her purse and wrote her hotel name on it, then circled her mobile on the front.

  Lucy took it.

  "Call me," Dance said.

  "I will."

  "Everything okay?"

  "Oh, sure. Just fine."

  Dance shook the woman's hand, then left the apartment, reminding herself of an important rule in kinesic analysis: Sometimes you don't need to uncover the truth behind every deception you're told.

  Chapter 25

  Amelia Sachs returned to Rhyme's with a small carton of evidence.

  "What do we have?" he asked.

  Sachs went over again what she'd found at the scene, then added details on the boards.

  According to the NYPD crime scene database on fibers, what Sachs had discovered on Lucy's uniform was from a shearling coat, the sort of collar found on leather jackets that used to be worn by pilots--bomber jackets. Sachs had field-tested the clock for nitrates--this one wasn't explosive either--and it was identical to the other three, yielding no trace except a recent stain of what turned out to be wood alcohol, the sort used as an antiseptic and for cleaning. As with the florist, the Watchmaker hadn't had time to leave another poem or had chosen not to.

  Rhyme agreed to go public with the announcement about the calling card of the clock, though he predicted that all the announcement would do would be to guarantee that the killer didn't leave a clock until he was sure the victim was unable to call for help.

  The trace that Sachs had found along the route where the killer had most likely escaped revealed nothing helpful.

  "There wasn't anything else," she explained.

  "Nothing?" Rhyme asked. He shook his head.

  Locard's principle . . .

  Ron Pulaski arrived, pulling off his coat and hanging it up. Rhyme noticed that Sachs's eyes turned at once to the rookie.

  The Other Case . . .

  Sachs asked, "Any luck with the Maryland connection?"

  The rookie replied, "Three ongoing federal investigations into corruption at the Baltimore waterfront. One of them has a link to the New York metro area but it was only the Jersey docks. And it's not about drugs. They're looking into kickbacks and falsified shipping documents. I'm waiting to hear back from Baltimore PD about state investigations. Neither Creeley or Sarkowski had any property in Maryland and neither of them ever went there on business that I could find. The closest Creeley got was regular business meetings in Pennsylvania to meet some client. And Sarkowski didn't travel at all. Oh, and still no client list from Jordan Kessler. I left a message again but he hasn't returned the call."

  He continued. "I found a couple of people assigned to the One One Eight who were born in Maryland but they don't have any connection there now. I ran a roster of names of everybody who's assigned to the house against property tax databases in Maryland--"

  "Wait," Sachs said. "You did that?"

  "Was that wrong?"

  "Uhm, no, Ron. It was right. Good thinking." Sachs shared a smile with Rhyme. He lifted an eyebrow, impressed.

  "Maybe. But nothing panned out."

  "Well, keep digging."

  "Sure thing."

  Sachs then walked over to Sellitto and asked, "Got a question. You know Halston Jefferies?"

  "Dep inspector at the One Five Eight?"

  "Right. What's with him? Got a real short fuse."

  Sellitto laughed. "Yeah, yeah, he's a rageaholic."

  "So I'm not the only one he acts that way with?"

  "Nup. Reams you out for no reason. How'd you cross paths?" He glanced at Rhyme.

  "Nope," the criminalist replied cheerfully. "That'd have to be her case. Not my case."

  Her exasperated look didn't faze him. Pettiness could, in some circumstances, be quite exhilarating, Rhyme reflected.

  "I needed a file and I went to the source. He thought I should've gotten his okay."

  "But you needed to keep the brass in the dark about what's going on at the One One Eight."

  "Exactly."

  "It's just the way he is. Had some problems in the past. His wife was a socialite--"

  "That's a great word," Pulaski interrupted, " 'socialite,' like 'socialist.' Only they're opposites. In a way."

  When Sellitto shot him a cool look the rookie fell silent.

  The detective continued. "I heard they lost some serious money, Jefferies and his wife. I mean big money. Money you and me, we can't even find where the decimal point goes. Some business thing his wife was into. He was hoping to run for office--Albany, I think. But you can't go there without big bucks. And she left him after the business fell through. Though with a temper like that, he had to've had issues beforehand."

  She was nodding at this information when her phone rang. She answered. "That's right, that's me. . . . Oh, no. Where? . . . I'll be there in ten minutes."

  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 Yor
k 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?"

  She glanced toward the bottle. "You stumbled. Everybody stumbles."

  "Not what I'm talking about. This's because I fucked everything up."

  "What do you mean, Art?"

  "Because I was a cop. I wasted everything. I wasted my life."

  She felt a chill; his words echoed her feelings. He was expressing exactly the reason she wanted to leave the force. She said, "Art, how 'bout we get you home?"

  "I could've done a hundred other things. My brother's a plumber. My sister went to grad school and works for an ad agency now. She did that butterfly commercial for those feminine things. She's famous. I could've done something."

  "You're just feeling--"

  "Don't," he snapped, pointing a finger at her. "You don't know me good enough to talk to me that way. You got no right."

  Sachs fell silent. True. She didn't have the right.

  "Whatever happens 'causa what you're looking into, I'm fucked. Good or bad, I'm fucked."

  Her heart chilled to see his anger and pain; she put her arm around him, "Art, listen--"

  "Get your hands off me." His head lolled against the window.

  Coyle walked up a moment later, directing a Yellow Cab toward the van. Together Coyle and Sachs helped Snyder to the cab and got him inside. She gave the driver Snyder's address, then emptied her wallet, handing him close to fifty dollars and the detective's car keys. "I'll call his wife, let her know he's coming," she told the cabbie. The taxi eased into thick Midtown traffic.

  "Thanks," she said to Coyle, who nodded and walked off. She was grateful he didn't ask any questions.

  After he was gone, Sachs reached into her pocket and extracted Snyder's pistol, which she'd lifted from his rear belt holster when she'd put her arm around him. Maybe he had another piece at home but at least he wouldn't be using this one to kill himself. She unloaded it, kept the bullets and hid the weapon in the springs under the front passenger seat. She then locked the door and returned to her car.

  Her index finger dug into her thumb. Her skin itched. Her anger steamed as she realized that apart from the extortion and the stolen evidence there was a broader crime that her father--and all crooked cops--committed. Her simple effort to get to the truth had turned into something flinty and dangerous, affecting even the innocent. Snyder's future life as a retiree, which he'd looked forward to for years, was dissolving. All because of whatever happened at the 118th Precinct.

  Just like the families of the convicted cops in the Sixteenth Avenue Club had their lives changed forever by what her father and his buddies had done. Wives and children had been forced to give up their homes to banks and quit school to get jobs; they'd
been ostracized, forever tainted by the scandal.

  She still had time to get out--leave police work, and get out. Get into Argyle, get away from the bullshit and the politics, make a new life for herself. She still had time. But for Art Snyder, it was too late.

  Why, Dad? Why'd you do it?

  Amelia Sachs would never know.

  Time had passed on and taken with it any chance she might find answers to that question.

  All she could do was speculate, which does nothing but leave a wound in the soul that feels like it will never heal.

  Turning back the clock was the only answer and that, of course, was no answer at all.

  Tony Parsons was sitting across from Kathryn Dance in a coffee shop, his shopping cart of groceries beside them.

  He squinted and shook his head. "I've been trying to remember but I really can't think of anything else." He grinned. "Think you wasted your money." He lifted his coffee cup.

  "Well, we'll give it a shot." Dance knew he had more information. Her guess was that he'd spoken without thinking--oh, how interrogators love impulsive subjects--and then realized that the man he'd seen might be a killer, maybe even the one who'd committed those horrible murders at the pier and in the alleyway the previous day. Dance knew that people who are happy to give statements about cheating neighbors and shoplifting teens grow forgetful when the crimes turn capital.

  Maybe a tough nut, Dance reflected, but that didn't bother her. She loved challenges (the exhilaration she often felt when a subject finally confessed was always dulled by the thought that the signature on his statement marked the end of another verbal battle).

  She poured milk into her coffee and looked longingly at a piece of apple pie sitting in a display case at the counter. Four hundred and fifty calories. Oh, well. She turned back to Parsons.

  He poured some extra sugar into his coffee and stirred it. "You know, maybe if we just talked about it for a bit I could remember something else."

  "That's a great idea."

  He nodded. "Now, then, let's have us a good old heart-to-heart."

  And gave her a big smile.

  Chapter 26

  She was his consolation prize.

  She was his present from Gerald Duncan.

  She was the killer's way of saying he was sorry and meaning it, not like Vincent's mother.

  It was also a good way to slow down the police--raping and killing one of their own. Duncan had mentioned the redheaded policewoman working at the site of the second murder and suggested Vincent take her (oh, yes, please . . . red hair, like Sally Anne's). But, watching the police at Lucy Richter's apartment in Greenwich Village from the Buick, he and Duncan had realized there was no way to get to the redhead; she was never by herself. Yet the other woman, a plainclothed detective or something, started up the street by herself, looking for witnesses, it seemed.