Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217)

by Deaver, Jeffery

  • 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 dep 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’re 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 on
e 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.

  “How fast’ve you had her up to?” Pulaski touched the dashboard of her 1969 Camaro SS. Then he said quickly, “I mean ‘it,’ not ‘her.’”

  “You don’t need to be so politically correct, Ron. I’ve been clocked at one eighty-seven.”

  “Whoa.”

  “You like cars?”

  “More, I like cycles, you know. My brother and I had two of ’em when we were in high school.”

  “Matching?”

  “What?”

  “The cycles.”

  “Oh, because we’re twins, you mean. Naw, we never did that. Dress alike and stuff. Mom wanted us to but we were dorky enough as it was. She laughs now, of course—’cause of our uniforms. Anyway, when we were riding, it wasn’t like we could just go out and buy whatever we wanted, two matching Hondas 850s or whatever. We got whatever we could, second- or third-hand.” He gave a sly grin. “One night, Tony was asleep, I snuck into the garage and swapped out the engines. He never caught on.”

  “You still ride?”

  “God gives you a choice: children or motorcycles. The week after Jenny got pregnant, some lucky dude in Queens got himself a real fine Moto Guzzi at a good price.” He grinned. “With a particularly sweet engine.”

  Sachs laughed. Then she explained their mission. There were several leads she wanted to follow up on: The other bartender at the St. James—Gerte was her name—would be arriving at work soon and Sachs needed to talk to her. She also wanted to talk to Creeley’s partner, Jordan Kessler, who was returning from his Pittsburgh business trip.

  But first there was one other task.

  “How’d you like to go undercover?” she asked.

  “Well, okay, I guess.”

  “Some of the crew from the One One Eight might’ve gotten a look at me at the St. James. So this one’s up to you. But you won’t be wearing any wires, anything like that. We’re not getting evidence, just information.”

  “What do I do?”

  “In my briefcase. On the backseat.” She downshifted hard, skidded through a turn, straightened the powerful car. Pulaski picked up the briefcase from the floor. “Got it.”

  “The papers on top.”

  He nodded, looking them over. The heading on an official-looking form was Hazardous Evidence Inventory Control. Accompanying it was a memo that explained about a new procedure for doing periodic spot checks of dangerous evidence, like firearms and chemicals, to make sure they were properly accounted for.

  “Never heard about that.”

  “No, because I made it up.” She explained that the poi
nt was to give them a credible excuse to go into the bowels of the 118th Precinct and compare the evidence logs with the evidence actually present.

  “You tell them you’re checking all the evidence but what I want you to look at is the logs of the narcotics that’ve been seized in the past year. Write down the perp, date, quantity and the arrests. We’ll compare it with the district attorney’s disposition report on the same cases.”

  Pulaski was nodding. “So we’ll know if any drugs disappeared between the time they were logged in and when the perp went to trial or got pled out. . . . Okay, that’s good.”

  “I hope so. We won’t necessarily know who took them but it’s a start. Now, go play spy.” She stopped a block away from the 118th, on a shabby street of tenements in the East Village. “You comfortable with this?”

  “Never done anything quite like it, gotta say. But, sure, I’ll give it a shot.” He hesitated, looking over the form, then took a deep breath and climbed out of the car.

  When he was gone, Sachs made some calls to trusted, and discreet, colleagues in the NYPD, the FBI and the DEA to see if any organized crime, homicide or narcotics cases at the 118th had been dropped or were stalled under circumstances that might be suspicious. No one had heard of anything like that but the statistics revealed that despite its shining conviction record, there’d been very few organized crime investigations out of the house. Which suggested that detectives might be protecting local gangs. One FBI agent told her that some of the traditional mob had been making forays into the East Village once again, now that it was becoming gentrified.

  Sachs then called a friend of hers running a gang task force in Midtown. He told her that there were two main posses in the East Village—one Jamaican, one Anglo. Both dealt in meth and coke and wouldn’t hesitate to kill a witness or take out somebody who’d tried to cheat them or wasn’t paying on time. Still, the detective said, staging a death to look like a suicide by hanging just wasn’t the style of either gang. They’d cap him on the spot with a Mac-10 or an Uzi and head off for a Red Stripe or a Jameson.

  A short time later, Pulaski returned, with his typical voluminous notes. This boy writes down everything, Sachs reflected.