The Cold Moon

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 discoveredBaker 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