The Cold Moon

happened.”
    “Geez, I don’t remember much.” Snyder scratched the back of his muscular hand, flaking with eczema. “You know, one of those cases. No leads at all . . . I mean zip. After a week you kind of forget about ’em. You musta run some of those.”
    The question was almost a taunt, a comment on the fact that she obviously hadn’t been a detective for long and probably hadn’t run many of those sorts of cases. Or any other, for that matter.
    She didn’t respond. “Tell me what you remember.”
    “Found him in this vacant lot, lying by his car. No money, no wallet. The piece was nearby.”
    “What was it?”
    “A cold Smittie knockoff. Was wiped clean—no prints.”
    Interesting. Cold meant no serial numbers. The bad guys bought them on the street when they wanted an untraceable weapon. You could never completely obliterate the numbers of a stamped gun—which was a requirement for all U.S. manufacturers—but some foreign weapon companies didn’t put serial numbers on their products. They were what professional killers used and often left behind at crime scenes.
    “Snitches hear anything afterward?”
    Many homicides were solved because the killer made the mistake of bragging about his prowess at a robbery and exaggerating what he’d stolen. Word often got back to snitches, who’d dime the guy out for a favor from the cops.
    “Nothing.”
    “Where was the vacant lot?”
    “By the canal. You know those big tanks?”
    “The natural gas tanks?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What was he doing there?”
    Snyder shrugged. “No idea. He had this maintenance company. I think one of his clients was out there, and he was checking on them or something.”
    “Crime Scene find anything solid? Trace? Fingerprints? Footprints?”
    “Nothing jumped out at us.” His rheumy eyes kept examining her. He seemed a little bewildered. He might be thinking, So this is the new generation NYPD. Glad I got out when I did.
    “Were you convinced everything was what it seemed to be? A robbery that went bad.”
    He hesitated. “Pretty convinced.”
    “But not totally convinced?”
    “I guess it coulda been a clip.”
    “Pro?”
    Snyder shrugged. “I mean, there’s nobody around. You’ve gotta walk a half mile just to get to a residential street. It’s all factories and things. Kids just don’t hang there. There’s no reason to. I was thinking the shooter took the wallet and money to make it look like a mugging. And leaving the gun behind—that smelled like a hit to me.”
    “But no connection to the mob?”
    “Not that I found. But one of his employees told me he’d just had some business deal fall through. Lost a lot of money. I followed up but it didn’t lead anywhere.”
    So Sarkowski—maybe Creeley too—might’ve been working with some OC crew: drugs or money laundering. It went south and they killed him. That would explain the Mercedes tail—some capos or soldiers were checking up on her investigation—and the cops at the 118 were running interference for the crew.
    “The name Benjamin Creeley come up in your investigation?”
    He shook his head.
    “Did you know that the vic—Sarkowski—used to hang at the St. James?”
    “The St. James . . . Wait, that bar in Alphabet City? Around the corner from . . .” His voice faded.
    “That’s right. The One One Eight.”
    Snyder was troubled. “I didn’t know that. No.”
    “Well, he did. Funny that a guy who lived on the West Side and worked in Midtown would hang out in a dive way over there. You know anything about that?”
    “Naw. Not a single thing.” He looked around the room sullenly. “But if you’re asking me if anybody at the One One Eight came to me and said bury the Sarkowski case, they didn’t. We ran it by the book and got on to other shit.”
    She looked him in the eye. “What do you know about the One One Eight?”
    He picked up one of the remotes, played with it, put it back down.
    “Did I mention something?” Sachs said.
    “What?” he asked glumly. She noticed his eyes flick to an empty breakfront. She could see rings on the wood, where the bottles had been.
    “I’ve got a shitty memory,” she told him.
    “Memory?”
    “I can hardly remember my name.”
    Snyder was confused. “A kid like you?”
    “Oh, you bet,” she said with a laugh. “The minute I walk out your front door I’ll forget I was even here. Forget your name, your face. Gone completely. Funny how that works.”
    He got the message. Still, he