The Cold Moon

off with his wife to the movies, working in a backyard so small that his twin brother called it a grass throw rug.
    Simple stuff. So Pulaski was pretty uneasy meeting Jordan Kessler, Benjamin Creeley’s partner. When the coin toss in Sachs’s Camaro earned him the businessman, rather than the bartender, he’d called and arranged to see Kessler, who’d just returned from a business trip. (His jet, meaning really his, not a, jet, had just landed, and his driver was bringing him into the city.)
    He now wished he’d picked the bartender. Big money made him uneasy.
    Kessler was at a client’s office in lower Manhattan and wanted to postpone seeing Pulaski. But Sachs had told him to be insistent and he had been. Kessler agreed to meet him in the Starbucks on the ground floor of his client’s building.
    The rookie walked into the lobby of Penn Energy Transfer, quite a place—glass and chrome and filled with marble sculptures. On the wall were huge photographs of the company’s pipelines, painted different colors. For factory accessories they were pretty artistic. Pulaski really liked those pictures.
    In the Starbucks a man squinted the cop’s way and waved him over. Pulaski bought himself a coffee—the businessman already had some—and they shook hands. Kessler was a solid man, whose thin hair was distractingly combed over a shiny crown of scalp. He wore a dark blue shirt, starched smooth as balsa wood. The collar and cuffs were white and the cuff links rich gold knots.
    “Thanks for meeting down here,” Kessler said. “Not sure what a client would think about a policeman visiting me on the executive floor.”
    “What do you do for them?”
    “Ah, the life of an accountant. Never rests.” Kessler sipped his coffee, crossed his legs and said in a low voice, “It’s terrible, Ben’s death. Just terrible. I couldn’t believe it when I heard. . . . How’re his wife and son taking it?” Then he shook his head and answered his own question. “How would they be taking it? They’re devastated, I’m sure. Well, what can I do for you, Officer?”
    “Like I explained, we’re just following up on his death.”
    “Sure, whatever I can do to help.”
    Kessler didn’t seem nervous to be talking to a police officer. And there was nothing condescending in the way he talked to a man who made a thousand times less money than he did.
    “Did Mr. Creeley have a drug problem?”
    “Drugs? Not that I ever saw. I know he took pain pills for his back at one time. But that was a while ago. And I don’t think I ever saw him, what would you say? I never saw him impaired. But one thing: We didn’t socialize much. Kind of had different personalities. We ran our business together and we’ve known each other for six years but we kept our private lives, well, private. Unless it was with clients we’d have dinner maybe once, twice a year.”
    Pulaski steered the conversation back on track. “What about illegal drugs?”
    “Ben? No.” Kessler laughed.
    Pulaski thought back to his questions. Sachs had told him to memorize them. If you kept looking at your notes, she said, it made you seem unprofessional.
    “Did he ever meet with anybody who you’d describe as dangerous, maybe someone who gave you the impression they were criminals?”
    “Never.”
    “You told Detective Sachs that he was depressed.”
    “That’s right.”
    “You know what he was depressed about?”
    “Nope. Again, we didn’t talk much about personal things.” The man rested his arm on the table and the massive cuff link tapped loudly. Its cost was probably equal to Pulaski’s monthly salary.
    In Pulaski’s mind, he heard his wife telling him, Relax, honey. You’re doing fine.
    His brother chimed in with: He may have gold links but you’ve got a big fucking gun.
    “Apart from the depression, did you notice anything out of the ordinary about him lately?”
    “I did, actually. He was drinking more than usual. And he’d taken up gambling. Went to Vegas or Atlantic City a couple times. Never used to do that.”
    “Could you identify this?” Pulaski handed the businessman a copy of the images lifted from the ash that Amelia Sachs had recovered at Creeley’s house in Westchester. “It’s a financial spreadsheet or balance sheet,” the patrolman said.
    “Understand that.” A little condescending now but it seemed unintentional.
    “They were in Mr. Creeley’s possession. Do they mean anything to you?”
    “Nope. They’re hard to