The Cold Moon

for his murder methods? No helpful information from publisher.
    • Strand of gray-and-black hair, probably woman’s.
    • No prints at all, throughout entire vehicle.
    • Beige cotton fibers from gloves.
    • Sand matching that used in alleyway.
    • Smooth-soled size-13 shoe print.

Chapter 20
    “I need a case file.”
    “Yeah.” The woman was chewing gum. Loudly.
    Snap.
    Amelia Sachs was in the file room at the 158th Precinct in Lower Manhattan, not far from the 118th. She gave the night-duty file clerk at the gray desk the number of the Sarkowski file. The woman typed on a computer keyboard, a staccato sound. A glance at the screen. “Don’t have it.”
    “You sure?”
    “Don’t have it.”
    “Hm.” Sachs gave a laugh. “Where do we think it’s run off to?”
    “Run off to?”
    “It came here on the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth of November from the One Three One house. It looked like it was requested from somebody here.”
    Snap.
    “Well, it’s, like not logged in. You sure it came here?”
    “No, not one thousand percent. But—”
    “One thousand?” the woman asked, chewing away. A pack of cigarettes sat next to her, ready to be scooped up in a hurry when she fled downstairs on her break or left for the night.
    “Is there any scenario where it wouldn’t’ve been logged?”
    “Scenario?”
    “Would a file always be logged in?”
    “If it’s for a specific detective it’d go directly to his office and he’d log it. You’ve gotta log it. It’s a rule.”
    “If there was no recipient name on the request?”
    “Then it’d come here.” She nodded at a large basket holding a card that said Pending. “And whoever wanted it’d have to come down and pick it up. Then he’d log it in. Has to be logged in.”
    “But it wasn’t.”
    “Has to be. Because otherwise, how do we know where it is?” She pointed to another sign. Log it!
    Sachs prowled through the large basket.
    “Like, you’re not supposed to do that.”
    “But see my problem?”
    A blink. The gum snapped.
    “It came here. But you can’t find it. So what do I do about that?”
    “Submit a request. Somebody’ll look for it.”
    “Is that really going to happen? Because I’m not sure it would.” Sachs looked toward the file room. “I’ll just take a look, you don’t mind.”
    “Really, you can’t.”
    “Just take a few minutes.”
    “You can’t—”
    Sachs walked past her and plunged into the stacks of files. The clerk muttered something Sachs couldn’t hear.
    All the files were organized by number and color-coded to indicate that they were open or closed or trial pending. Major Cases files had a special border on them. Red. Sachs found the recent files and, going through the numbers one by one, sure enough—the Sarkowski file wasn’t there.
    She paused, looking up the stacks, hands on her hips.
    “Hi,” a man’s voice said.
    She turned and found herself looking at a tall, gray-haired man in a white shirt and navy slacks. He had a military bearing about him and he was smiling. “You’re—?”
    “Detective Sachs.”
    “I’m DI Jefferies.” A deputy inspector generally ran the precinct. She’d heard the name but knew nothing about him. Except that he was obviously a hard worker, since he was here, still on the job at this late hour.
    “What can we do you for, Detective?”
    “There was a file delivered here from the One Three One. About two weeks ago. I need it as part of an investigation.”
    He glanced at the file clerk who’d just dimed her out. She was standing in the hallway. “We don’t have it, sir. I told her that.”
    “Are you sure it was sent here?”
    Sachs said, “The log at the transferring house said it was.”
    “Was it logged?” Jefferies asked the clerk.
    “No.”
    “Well, is it in the pending basket?”
    “No.”
    “Come on into my office, Detective. I’ll see what we can do.”
    Sachs ignored the clerk. She didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.
    Through the nondescript halls, turning corners here and there, not saying a word. Sachs struggling on her arthritic legs to keep up with the man’s energetic pace.
    Inspector Jefferies strode into his corner office, nodded at the chair across from his desk and closed the door, which had a large brass plaque on it. Halston P. Jefferies.
    Sachs sat.
    Jefferies suddenly leaned down, his face inches from hers. He slammed his fist onto the desk. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
    Sachs reared