The Cold Moon

a fast breath. He looked up and found her staring at the file the way a child stares at a snake in the backyard.
    He continued reading. “ ‘There is no trust greater than that between the citizens of these United States and the law enforcement officers who are charged with protecting them. The officers of the Sixteenth Avenue Club committed an inexcusable breach of this sacred trust and not only perpetuated the crimes they were meant to prevent but brought inestimable shame upon their courageous and self-sacrificing brothers and sisters in uniform.
    “ ‘Accordingly, I, the Mayor of the City of New York, hereby bestow upon the following officers the Medal for Valor for their efforts in bringingthese criminals to justice: Patrolman Vincent Pazzini, Patrolman Herman Sachs and Detective Third-Grade Lawrence Koepel.’”
    “What?” Sachs whispered.
    Rhyme continued reading. “Each of these officers risked his life on a number of occasions by working undercover to provide information instrumental in identifying the perpetrators and gathering evidence to be used in their trials. Because of the dangerous nature of this assignment, these commendations are being presented in a closed proceeding, and this record will be sealed, for the safety of these three courageous officers and their families. But they should rest assured that, although the praises for their efforts are not being sung in public, the gratitude of the city is no less.’”
    Amelia Sachs was staring at him. “He—?”
    Rhyme nodded at the file. “Your father was one of the good guys, Sachs. He was one of the three who got away. Only they weren’t perps; they were working for Internal Affairs. He was to the Sixteenth Avenue Club just what you were to the St. James crew, only he was undercover.”
    “How did you know?”
    “I didn’t know. I remembered something about the Luponte report and the corruption trials but I didn’t know your father was involved. That’s why I wanted to see it.”
    “How ’bout that,” Sellitto said through a mouthful of coffee cake.
    “Keep looking, Lon. There’s something else.”
    The detective dug through the folder and found a certificate and a medal. It was an NYPD Medal for Valor, one of the highest commendations given by the department. Sellitto handed it to Sachs. Her full lips parted, eyes squinting, as she read the unframed parchment document, which bore her father’s name. The decoration swung from her unsteady fingers.
    “Hey, that’s sweet,” said Pulaski, pointing at the certificate. “Look at all those scrolls and things.”
    Rhyme nodded toward the folder on the turning frame. “It’s all in there, Sachs. His handler at Internal Affairs had to make sure that the other cops believed him. He gave your dad a couple thousand a month to spread around, make it seem like he was on the take too. He had to be credible—if anybody thought he was an informant, he could’ve been killed, especially with Tony Gallante involved. IAD started a fake investigation on him so it’d look believable. That’s the case they dropped for insufficient evidence. They worked out a deal with Crime Scene so that the chain-of-custody cards were lost.”
    Sachs lowered her head. Then she gave a soft laugh. “Dad was alwaysthe modest one. It was just like him—the highest commendation he ever got was secret. He never said a thing about it.”
    “You can read all the details. Your father said he’d wear a wire, he’d give all the information they needed about Gallante and the other capos involved. But he’d never testify in open court. He wasn’t going to jeopardize you and your mother.”
    She was staring at the medal, which swung back and forth—like a pendulum of a clock, Rhyme thought wryly.
    Finally Lon Sellitto rubbed his hands together. “Listen, glad for the happy news,” he grumbled. “But how ’bout we get the hell out of here and go over to Manny’s. I could use some lunch. And, guess what? I’ll bet they pay their heating bill.”
    “I’d love to,” Rhyme said, with a sincerity that he believed masked his absolute lack of desire to be outside, negotiating the icy streets in his wheelchair. “But I’m writing an op ed piece for the Times. ” He nodded at his computer. “Besides, I have to wait here for the repairman.” He shook his head. “One to five.”
    Thom started to say something—undoubtedly to urge Rhyme to go anyway—but it was Sachs who said, “Sorry. Other