A note from Nancy Simpson explained about the place. "Bar on East Ninth Street. Sleazy neighborhood. Why'd a rich accountant go there? Seems funny."
"Not necessarily."
She glanced Rhyme's way then walked to the corner of the room. He got the message and followed in the red Storm Arrow wheelchair.
Sachs crouched down beside him. He wondered if she'd take his hand (since some sensation had returned to his right fingers and wrist, holding hands had taken on great importance to them both). But there was a very thin line between their personal and their business lives and she now remained purely professional.
"Rhyme," she whispered.
"I know what--"
"Let me finish."
He grunted.
"I have to follow up on this."
"Priorities. Your case is colder than the Watchmaker, Sachs. Whatever happened to Creeley, even if he was murdered, the perp's probably not a multiple doer. The Watchmaker is. He has to be our priority. Whatever evidence there is about Creeley'll still be there after we nail our boy."
She was shaking her head. "I don't think so, Rhyme. I've pushed the button. I've started asking questions. You know how that works. Word's starting to spread about the case. Evidence and suspects could be disappearing right now."
"And the Watchmaker's probably targeting somebody else right now too. He could be killing somebody else right now. . . . And, believe me, if there's another murder and we drop the ball there'll be hell to pay. Baker told me the request for us came from the top floor."
Insisted . . .
"I won't drop the ball. You get another scene, I'll run it. If Bo Haumann stages a tactical op, I'll be there."
Rhyme gave an exaggerated frown. "Tactical? You don't get dessert until you finish your vegetables."
She laughed, and now he felt the pressure of her hand. "Come on, Rhyme, we're in cop land. Nobody runs just one case at a time. Most Major Cases desks're littered with a dozen files. I can handle two."
Troubled by a foreboding he couldn't articulate, Rhyme hesitated then said, "Let's hope, Sachs. Let's hope."
It was the best blessing he could give.
Chapter 8
He came here?
Amelia Sachs, standing beside a planter that smelled of urine and sported a dead yellow stalk, glanced through the grimy window.
She suspected the place would be bad, knowing the address, but not this bad. Sachs was standing outside the St. James Tavern, on a wedge of broken concrete rising from the sidewalk. The bar was on East Ninth Street, in Alphabet City, the nickname referring to the north-south avenues that ran through it: A, B, C and D. The place had been a terror some years ago, a remnant of the gang wastelands on the Lower East Side. It had improved somewhat (crack houses were morphing into expensive fix-'em-uppers w/ vu) but it was still a rough-and-tumble 'hood; sitting in the snow at Sachs's feet was a discarded hypodermic needle, and a spent 9-millimeter shell casing rested on the window ledge six inches from her face.
What the hell had accountant/venture capitalist, two-home-owning, Beemer-driving Benjamin Creeley been doing in a place like this the day before he died?
At the moment, the large, shabby tavern wasn't too crowded. Through the greasy window she spotted aging locals at the bar or tables: spongy women and scrawny men who'd get a lot, or most, of their daily calories from the bottle. In a small room in the back were some white men in jeans, dungarees, work shirts. Four of them, all loud--even through the window she could hear their crude voices and laughter. She thought immediately of the punks who'd spend hour after hour in the Mafia social clubs, some slow, some lazy--but all of them dangerous. One glance told her these were men who'd hurt people.
Entering the place, Sachs found a stool at the small end of the bar's L, where she was less visible. The bartender was a woman of around fifty, with a narrow face, red fingers, hair teased up like a country-western singer's. There was a weariness about her. Sachs thought, It's not that she's seen it all; it's that everything she has seen has been in places just like this.
The detective ordered a Diet Coke.
"Hey, Sonja," called a voice from the back room. In the filthy mirror behind the bar Sachs could see it belonged to a blond man in extremely tight blue jeans and a leather jacket. He had a weasely face and appeared to have been drinking for some time. "Dickey here wants you. He's a shy boy. Come on over here. Come on and visit the shy boy."
"Fuck you," somebody else shouted. Presumably Dickey.
"Come 'ere, Sonja, sweetheart! Sit on shy boy's lap. It'll be comfy. Real smooth. No bumps."
Some guffaws.
Sonja knew that she too was the butt of their mean humor but she called back gamely, "Dickey? He's younger'n my son."
"That's okay--everybody knows he's a motherfucker!"
Huge laughter.
Sonja's eyes met Sachs's and then looked away quickly, as if she'd been caught aiding and abetting the enemy. But one advantage of drunks is that they can't sustain anything--cruelty or euphoria--for very long and soon they were on to sports and rude jokes. Sachs sipped her soda, asked Sonja, "So. How's it going?"
The woman offered an unbreakable smile. "Just fine." She had no interest in sympathy, especially from a woman who was younger and prettier and didn't tend bar in a place like this.
Fair enough. Sachs got down to business. She flashed her badge, subtly, and then showed her a picture of Benjamin Creeley. "Do you remember seeing him in here?"
"Him? Yeah, a few times. What's this about?"
"Did you know him?"
"Not really. Just sold him some drinks. Wine, I remember. He wanted red wine. We got shitty wine but he drank it. He was pretty decent. Not like some people." No need to glance into the back room to indicate whom she meant. "But I haven't seen him for a while. Maybe a month. Last time he came in he got into a big argument. So I figured he wouldn't be coming back."
"What happened?"
"I don't know. Just heard some shouting and then he was storming out the door."
"Who was he arguing with?"
"I didn't see it. I just heard."
"He ever do drugs that you saw?"
"No."
"Were you aware that he killed himself?"
Sonja blinked. "No shit."
"We're following up on his death. . . . I'd appreciate keeping it to yourself, my asking you about it."
"Yeah, sure."
"Can you tell me anything about him?"
"God, I don't even know his name. I guess he was in here maybe three times. He have a family?"
"Yes, he did."
"Oh, that's tough. That's harsh."
"Wife and a teenage boy."
Sonja shook her head. Then she said, "Gerte might've known him better. She's the other bartender. She works more'n me."
"Is she here now?"
"Naw, should be here in a while. You want I should have her call you?"
"Give me her number."
The woman jotted it down. Sachs leaned forward and nodded toward the picture of Creeley and said, "Did he meet anybody in particular here that you can remember?"
"All I know is it was in there. Where they usually hang." She nodded at the back room.
A millionaire businessman and that crowd? Had two of them been the ones who'd broken into the Creeleys' Westchester house and had the marshmallow roast in his fireplace?
Sachs looked into the mirror, studying the men's table, littered with beer bottles, ashtrays and gnawed chicken wing bones. These guys had to be in a crew. Maybe young capos in an organized crime outfit. There were a lot of Sopranos franchises around the city. They were usually petty criminals but often it was the smaller crews who were more dangerous than the traditional Mafia, which avoided hurting civilians and steered clear of crack and meth and the seamier side of the underworld. She tried to get her head around a Benjamin Creeley-gang connection. It was tough.
"You see them with pot, coke--any drugs?"
Sonja shook her head. "Nope."
"Crew?"
"A gang. Who's their boss, who they report to? Anything?"
Sonja didn't speak for a moment. She glanced at Sachs to see if she was serious and then gave a laugh. "They're not in a gang. I thought you knew. They're cops."
At last the clocks--the Watchmaker's calling cards--arrived from the bomb squad with a clean bill of health.
"Oh, you mean they didn't find any really tiny weapons of mass destruction inside?" Rhyme asked caustically. He was irritated that they'd been out of his possession--more risk of contamination--and at the delay in their arrival.
Pulaski signed the chain-of-custody cards and the patrolman who'd delivered the clocks left.
"Let's see what we've got." Rhyme moved his wheelchair to the examination table as Cooper unpacked the clocks from plastic bags.
They were identical, the only difference being the blood crusted on the base of the clock that had been left on the pier. They seemed old--they weren't electric; you wound them by hand. But the components were modern. The works inside were in a sealed box, which had been opened by the bomb squad, but both clocks were still running and showed the correct time. The housing was wood, painted black, and the face was antiqued white metal. The numbers were Roman numerals, and the hour and minute hands, also black, ended in sharp arrows. There was no second hand but the clocks clicked loudly every second.
The most unusual feature was a large window in the top half of the face that displayed a disk on which were painted the phases of the moon. Centered in the window now was the full moon, depicted with an eerie human face, staring outward with ominous eyes and thin lips.
The full Cold Moon is in the sky . . .
Cooper went over the clocks with his usual precision and reported that there were no friction ridge prints and only minimal trace evidence, all of which matched samples that Sachs had collected around both scenes, meaning that none of it had been picked up in the Watchmaker's car or residence.
"Who makes them?"
"Arnold Products. Framingham, Massachusetts." Cooper did a Google search and read from the website. "They sell clocks, leather goods, office decorations, gifts. Upscale. The stuff's not cheap. A dozen different models of clocks. This is the Victorian. Genuine brass mechanism, oak, modeled after a British clock sold in the eighteen hundreds. Costs fifty-four dollars wholesale. They don't sell to the public. Have to go through the dealer."
"Serial numbers?"
"Only on the mechanisms. Not the clocks themselves."
"Okay," Rhyme ordered, "make the call."
"Me?" Pulaski asked, blinking.
"Yup. You."
"I'm supposed to--"
"Call the manufacturer and give them the serial numbers of the mechanism."
Pulaski nodded. "Then see if they can tell us which store it was shipped to."
"One hundred percent," Rhyme said.
The rookie took out his phone, got the number from Cooper and dialed.
Of course, the killer might not have been the purchaser. He could've stolen them from a store. He could've stolen them from a residence. He could've bought them used at a garage sale.
But "could've" is a word that goes with the territory of crime scene work, Rhyme reflected.
You have to start somewhere.
THE WATCHMAKER
* * *
CRIME SCENE ONE
Location:
* Repair pier in Hudson River, 22nd Street.
Victim:
* Identity unknown.
* Male.
* Possibly middle-aged or older, and may have coronary condition (presence of anticoagulants in blood).
* No other drugs, infection or disease in blood.
* Coast Guard and ESU divers checking for body and evidence in New York Harbor.
* Checking missing persons reports.
Perp:
* See below.
M.O.:
* Perp forced victim to hold on to deck, over water, cut fingers or wrists until he fell.
* Time of attack: between 6 P.M. Monday and 6 A.M. Tuesday.
Evidence:
* Blood type AB positive.
* Fingernail torn, unpolished, wide.
* Portion of chain-link fence cut with common wire cutters, untraceable.
* Clock. See below.
* Poem. See below.
* Fingernail markings on deck.
* No discernible trace, no fingerprints, no footprints, no tire tread marks.
CRIME SCENE TWO
Location:
* Alley off Cedar Street, near Broadway, behind three commercial buildings (back doors closed at 8:30 to 10 P.M.) and one government administration building (back door closed at 6 P.M.).
* Alley is a cul-de-sac. Fifteen feet wide by one hundred and four feet long, surfaced in cobblestones, body was fifteen feet from Cedar Street.
Victim:
* Theodore Adams.
* Lived in Battery Park.
* Freelance copywriter.
* No known enemies.
* No warrants, state or federal.
* Checking for a connection with buildings around alley. None found.
Perp:
* The Watchmaker.
* Male.
* No database entries for the Watchmaker.
M.O.:
* Dragged from vehicle to alley, where iron bar was suspended over him. Eventually crushed throat.
* Awaiting medical examiner's report to confirm.
* No evidence of sexual activity.
* Time of death: approximately 10:15 P.M. to 11 P.M. Monday night. Medical examiner to confirm.
Evidence:
* Clock.
* No explosives, chemical-or bioagents.
* Identical to clock at pier.
* No fingerprints, minimal trace.
* Arnold Products, Framingham, MA. Calling to find distributors and retailers.
* Poem left by perp at both scenes.
* Computer printer, generic paper, HP LaserJet ink.
* Text:
The full Cold Moon is in the sky,
shining on the corpse of earth,
signifying the hour to die
and end the journey begun at birth.
--The Watchmaker
* Not in any poetry databases; probably his own.
* Cold Moon is lunar month, the month of death.
* $60 in pocket, no serial number leads; prints negative.
* Fine sand used as "obscuring agent." Sand was generic. Because he's returning to the scene?
* Metal bar, 81 pounds, is needle-eye span. Not being used in construction across from the alleyway. No other source found.
* Duct tape, generic, but cut precisely, unusual. Exactly the same lengths.
* 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?
The Cold Moon Page 9