The Cold Moon

ever came.
    The double hit—his crime and the death of their relationship—took its toll; she decided to quit Patrol completely. Give it up for a desk job. It was only the chance meeting with Lincoln Rhyme that pulled her back from that decision and kept her in uniform. But the incident sealed within her an abiding repulsion for crooked police. It was something that was more horrific to her than lying politicians and cheating spouses and ruthless perps.
    This was why nothing would stop her from finding out if the St. James crew was in fact a circle of bad cops from the 118th Precinct. And if so, nothing would stop her from bringing down the crooked officers and the OC crews working with them.
    Her Camaro now skidded to the curb. Sachs tossed the NYPD parking identification card onto the Chevy’s dash and climbed out, slamming the door fiercely as if she were trying to close a hole that had opened between the present and this hard, hard past.

    “Hell, that’s gross.”
    In the upper floor of the parking garage where the Watchmaker’s SUV was found, the patrol officer who made this comment to his colleagues was looking down at the figure, lying on his belly.
    “Man, you got that one right,” one of his buddies replied. “Jesus.”
    Another offered the uncoplike declaration, “Yuck.”
    Sellitto and Bo Haumann jogged up to the scene.
    “Are you all right? Are you all right?” Sellitto shouted.
    He was speaking to Ron Pulaski, who stood over the man on the ground, who was covered with pungent trash. The rookie, decorated with garbage himself, was gasping. Pulaski nodded. “Scared the hell out of me. But I’m fine. Man, he was pretty strong for a homeless guy.”
    A medic ran up and rolled the attacker over on his back. Pulaski’d cuffed him and the metal bracelets jingled on his wrists. His eyes danced madly and his clothing was torn and filthy. The body stench was overwhelming. He’d recently urinated in his pants. (Hence, “gross” and “yuck.”)
    “What happened?” Haumann asked Pulaski.
    “I was searching the scene.” He pointed out the stairwell landing. “It appeared that the perpetrators made their exit through this locale. . . .”
    Stop it, he reminded himself.
    He tried again. “The perps ran up those stairs, I’m pretty sure, and I was searching up here, looking for footprints. Then I heard something and turned around. This guy was coming for me.” He pointed to a pipe the homeless guy had been carrying. “I couldn’t get my weapon out in time but I threw that trash can at him. We fought for a minute or two and I finally got him in a chokehold.”
    “We don’t use those,” Haumann reminded.
    “I meant to say I was successfully able to restrain him through self-defense methods.”
    The tactical chief nodded. “Right.”
    Pulaski found the headset and plugged it back in. He winced as a voice blasted into his ears: “For Christ’s sake, are you alive or dead? What’s going on?”
    “Sorry, Detective Rhyme.”
    Pulaski explained what had happened.
    “You’re all right?”
    “Yes, I’m fine.”
    “Good,” the criminalist said. “Now, tell me why the fuck your weapon was inside your overalls.”
    “An oversight, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”
    “Oh, it better not. What’s the number-one rule on a hot scene?”
    “A hot—”
    “A hot scene—where the perp might still be around. The rule is: Search well but watch your back. Got it?”
    “Yessir.”
    “So the escape route’s contaminated,” Rhyme grumbled.
    “Well, it’s just covered with garbage.”
    “Garbage,” was Rhyme’s exasperated response. “Then I guess you better start cleaning it up. I want all the evidence here in twenty minutes. Every bit. You think you can do that?”
    “Yes, sir. I’ll—”
    Rhyme disconnected abruptly.
    As two ESU officers pulled on latex gloves and carted off the homeless guy, Pulaski bent down and started to remove the trash. He was trying to recall what there was about Rhyme’s tone that sounded familiar. Finally it occurred to him. It was the very same mix of anger and relief when Pulaski’s father had a “discussion” with his twin sons after he’d caught them having a footrace on the elevated train tracks near their home.

    Like a spy.
    Standing on a street corner in Hell’s Kitchen, retired detective Art Snyder was in a trench coat and old alpine hat with a small feather in it, looking like a has-been foreign agent from a John le Carré