The Cold Moon

shook his head. “Why’re you doing this?” he asked in a whisper. “You’re young. You gotta learn—about some things it’s better just to let sleeping dogs lie.”
    “But what if they’re not sleeping?” she asked, leaning forward. “I got two widows and I got kids without their dads.”
    “Two?”
    “Creeley, that guy I mentioned. Went to the same bar as Sarkowski. Looks like they knew people from the One One Eight. And they’re both dead.”
    Snyder stared at the flatscreen TV. It was impressive.
    She asked, “So what do you hear?”
    He was studying the floor, seemed to notice some stains. Maybe he’d add replacing the carpet to his list of household projects. Finally: “Rumors. But that’s it. I’m being straight with you. I don’t know names. I don’t know anything specific.”
    Sachs nodded reassuringly. “Rumors’ll do.”
    “Some scratch was floating around. That’s all.”
    “Money? How much?”
    “Could be tall paper. I mean, serious. Or could be walking-around change.”
    “Go on.”
    “I don’t know any details. It’s like you’re on the street doing your job and somebody says something to a guy you’re standing next to and it doesn’t quite, you know, register but then you get the idea.”
    “You remember names?”
    “No, no. This was a while ago. Just, there might be some money. I don’t know how it got paid. Or how much. Or to who. All’s I heard was the person putting it together, they had something to do with Maryland. That’s where all the money goes.”
    “Anywhere specific? Baltimore? The Shore?”
    “Nope.”
    Sachs considered this, wondering what the scenario might’ve been. Did Creeley or Sarkowski have a house in Maryland, maybe on the water—Ocean City or Rehobeth? Did some of the cops at the One One Eight? Or was it the Baltimore syndicate? That made sense; it explained why they couldn’t find any leads to a Manhattan, Brooklyn or Jersey crew.
    She asked, “I want to see the Sarkowski file. Can you point me in any direction?”
    Snyder hesitated. “I’ll make some calls.”
    “Thanks.”
    Sachs rose.
    “Wait,” Snyder said. “Lemme say one thing. I called you a kid. Okay, shouldn’t’ve said that. You got balls, you don’t back down, you’re smart. Anybody can see that. But you ain’t been around long in this business. You gotta understand that what you’re thinking about the One One Eight. They’re not going to be clipping anybody. And even if something is going down, it’s not going to be black-and-white. You gotta ask yourself, What the fuck difference does it make? A few dollars here or there? Sometimes a bad cop saves a baby’s life. And sometimes a good cop takes something he shouldn’t. That’s life on the streets.” He gave her a perplexed frown. “I mean, Christ, you of all people oughta know that.”
    “Me?”
    “Well, sure.” He looked her up and down. “The Sixteenth Avenue Club.”
    “I don’t know what that is.”
    “Oh, I’ll bet you do.”
    And he told her all about it.

    Dennis Baker was saying to Rhyme, “I hear she’s a great shot.”
    The lab was male only at the moment; Kathryn Dance had returned to the hotel to check in once again and Amelia was out on the Other Case. Pulaski, Cooper and Sellitto were here, along with Jackson the dog.
    Rhyme explained about Sachs’s pistol club and the competitions she was in. Proudly he told Baker that she was very close to being the top handgun shot in the metro league. She’d be competing soon and was hoping to make the number-one slot.
    Baker nodded. “Looks like she’s in as good shape as most of the rookies just out of the academy.” He patted his belly. “I should be working out more myself.”
    Ironically, wheelchair-bound Rhyme was himself doing more exercising now than before the accident. He used a powered bicycle—an ergometer—and a computerized treadmill daily. He also did aqua therapy several times a week. This regimen served two purposes. It was intended to keep his muscle mass solid for the day when, as he believed, he would walk again. The exercises were also moving him further toward that goal by improving the nerve function in the damaged parts of his body. In the past few years he’d regained functions that doctors had told him he’d never again have.
    But Rhyme sensed that Baker wasn’t particularly interested in Sachs’s Bowflex routines—a deduction confirmed when the man asked his next question. “I heard that you