The Cold Moon

fireplace.
      • Ash in fireplace.
        • Financial records, spreadsheet, references to millions of dollars.
        • Checking logo on documents, sending entries to forensic accountant.
        • Diary re: getting oil changed, haircut appointment and going to St. James Tavern.
    • St. James Tavern
      • Creeley came here several times.
      • Apparently didn’t use drugs while here.
      • Not sure whom he met with, but maybe cops from the nearby 118th Precinct of the NYPD.
      • Last time he was here—just before his death—he got into an argument with persons unknown.
      • Checked money from officers at St. James—serial numbers are clean, but found coke and heroin. Stolen from precinct?
        • Not much drugs missing, only 6 or 7 oz. of pot, 4 of coke.
    • Unusually few organized crime cases at the 118th Precinct but no evidence of intentional stalling by officers.
    • Two gangs in the East Village possible but not likely suspects.
    • Interview with Jordan Kessler, Creeley’s partner, and follow-up with wife.
      • Confirmed no obvious drug use.
      • Didn’t appear to associate with criminals.
      • Drinking more than usual, taken up gambling; trips to Vegas and Atlantic City. Losses were large, but not significant to Creeley.
      • Not clear why he was depressed.
      • Kessler didn’t recognize burned records.
      • Awaiting list of clients.
      • Kessler doesn’t appear to gain by Creeley’s death.
    • Sachs and Pulaski followed by AMG Mercedes.
    FRANK SARKOWSKI HOMICIDE
----
    • Sarkowski was 57 years old, no police record, murdered on November 4 of this year, survived by wife and two teenage children.
    • Victim owned building and business in Manhattan. Business was doing maintenance for other companies and utilities.
    • Art Snyder was case detective.
    • No suspects.
    • Murder/robbery?
    • Business deal went bad?
    • Killed in Queens—not sure why he was there.
    • File and evidence missing.
    • No known connection with Creeley.
    • No criminal record—Sarkowski or company.

Chapter 15
    The bungalow was in Long Island City, that portion of Queens just over the East River from Manhattan and Roosevelt Island.
    Christmas decorations—plenty of them—were perfectly arranged in the yard, the sidewalk perfectly cleared of ice and snow, the Camry in the driveway perfectly clean, despite the recent snow. Window frames were being scraped for a new coat of paint, and a stack of bricks sat destined for a new path or patio.
    This was the house of a man with newly acquired free time.
    Amelia Sachs hit the doorbell.
    The front door opened a few seconds later and a solid man in his late fifties squinted up at her. He was in a green velour running suit.
    “Detective Snyder?” Sachs was careful to use his former title. Being polite gets you further than a gun, her father used to say.
    “Yeah, come on in. You’re Amelia, right?”
    Last name versus first name. You always choose which battles you want to fight. She smiled, shook his hand and followed him inside. Cold streetlight bled inside and the living room was unfriendly and chill. Sachs smelled damp smoke from the fireplace, as well as the scent of cat. She pulled off her jacket and sat on a wheezing sofa. It was clear that the Barcalounger, beside which were three remote controls, was the king’s throne.
    “The wife’s out,” he announced. A squint. “You Herman Sachs’s girl?”
    Girl . . .
    “That’s right. Did you work with him?”
    “Some, yeah. BK and a couple assignments in Manhattan. Good guy. Heard the retirement party was a blast. Went on all night. You want a soda or water or anything? No booze, sorry.” He said this with a certain tone in his voice, which—along with the cluster of veins in his nose—told her that, like a lot of cops of a certain age, he’d had a problem with the bottle. And was now in recovery. Good for him.
    “Nothing for me, thanks . . . just have a few questions. You were case detective on a robbery/homicide just before you retired. Name was Frank Sarkowski.”
    Eyes sweeping the carpet. “Yeah, remember him. Some businessman. Got shot in a mugging or something.”
    “I wanted to see the file. But it’s gone. The evidence too.”
    “No file?” Snyder shrugged, a little surprised. Not too much. “Records room at the house . . . always a mess.”
    “I need to find out what