The Cold Moon

turns, hoping to get lost in the traffic. He won’t break any laws so he’ll make a nice, careful—and sharp—turn, staying in his lane.” Like speed bumps and sudden braking, sharp, slow turns often dislodge important trace from treads of tires. “If the street’s still sealed off, I want a team from Crime Scene to sweep up everything at the intersection. It’s a long shot but I think we have to try.” He turned to Baker. “You just left the scene, right? About ten, fifteen minutes ago?”
    “About that,” Baker replied, sitting and stretching as he downed his coffee. He looked exhausted.
    “Was the street still sealed?”
    “Wasn’t paying much attention. I think it was.”
    “Find out,” Rhyme said to Sellitto, “and if so, send a team.”
    But the detective’s call revealed that the street was now open to traffic. Any trace left by the killer’s Explorer would have been obliterated by the first or second vehicle making the same turn.
    “Damn,” Rhyme muttered, his eyes returning once again to the evidence chart, thinking it had been a long time since a case had presented so much difficulty.
    Thom rapped on the doorjamb and led someone else into the room, a middle-aged woman in an expensive black coat. She was familiar to Rhyme but he couldn’t recall the name.
    “Hello, Lincoln.”
    Then he remembered. “Inspector.”
    Marilyn Flaherty was older than Rhyme but they’d both been captains at the same time and had worked together on a few special commissions. He remembered her as being smart and ambitious—and, out of necessity, just a little bit flintier and more driven than her male counterparts. They spoke for a few minutes about mutual acquaintances and colleagues past and present. She asked about the Watchmaker case and he gave her a synopsis.
    The inspector then pulled Sachs aside and asked about the status of the investigation, meaning, of course, the Other Case. Rhyme couldn’t help overhearing Sachs tell her that she’d found nothing conclusive. There’d been no major drug thefts from the evidence room of the 118th Precinct. Creeley’s partner and his employees confirmed the businessman’s depression and reported that he’d been drinking more lately. It turned out that he’d been going to Vegas and/or Atlantic City recently.
    “Possible organized crime connection,” Flaherty pointed out.
    “That’s what I was thinking,” Sachs said. Then she added that there seemed to be no clients with grudges against Creeley but that she and Pulaski were awaiting the client list from Jordan Kessler to check it out themselves.
    Suzanne Creeley, though, remained convinced that he’d had nothing to do with drugs or criminal activity and that he hadn’t killed himself.
    “And,” Sachs said, “we’ve got another death.”
    “ Another one?”
    “A man who came to the St. James a few times. Maybe met with the same people that Creeley did.”
    Another death? Rhyme reflected. He had to admit that the Other Case was developing some very interesting angles.
    “Who?” Flaherty asked.
    “Another businessman. Frank Sarkowski. Lived in Manhattan.”
    Flaherty was looking over the lab, the evidence charts, the equipment, frowning. “Any clue who killed him?”
    “I think it was during a robbery. But I won’t know until I read the file.”
    Rhyme could see the frustration in Flaherty’s face.
    Sachs too was tense. He soon realized why. As soon as Flaherty said, “I’m going to hold off on Internal Affairs for the time being,” Sachs relaxed. They weren’t going to take the case away from her. Well, Lincoln Rhyme was happy for Sachs, though in his heart he would have preferred that she hand off the Other Case to Internal Affairs and get back to working on His Case.
    Flaherty asked, “That young officer? Ron Pulaski? He’s working out okay?”
    “He’s doing a good job.”
    “I’m going to report to Wallace, Detective.” The inspector nodded at Rhyme. “Lincoln, it was good seeing you again. Take care.”
    “So long, Inspector.”
    Flaherty walked to the door and let herself out, walking just like a general on a parade ground.

    Amelia Sachs was about to call Pulaski and find out what he’d learned about Sarkowski when she heard a voice near her ear. “The Grand Inquisitor.”
    Sachs turned to look at Sellitto, dumping sugar in his coffee. He said, “Hey, step into my office.” And gestured toward the front hallway of Rhyme’s town house.
    Leaving the others, the two