The Cold Moon

“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