The Vanished Man

public thinks all we do is catch perps. Or thinks we don’t catch perps, more likely. Uhn-uhn—half the job is business bushwah. You know what my father called business? ‘Busy-ness.’ He worked for American Standard for thirty-nine years. Sales rep. B-U-S-Y-ness. True about our job too.” He held out his hand.
    Dismay pooling around her, drowning her, she handed him the battered leather case containing the silver shield and ID card.
    Badge Number Five Eight Eight Five . . .
    What could she do? Be a fucking security guard?
    Behind him the captain’s phone rang and he spun around to answer it.
    “Marlow here. . . . Yessir. . . . We’ve got security arranged for that.” And as he continued to talk to thecaller, something about the Andrew Constable trial, it seemed, the captain placed the interoffice envelope in his lap. He pinched the phone in the crook of his neck, turned back to face Sachs and continued his conversation as he unwound the red thread that was twisted around the clasps to keep the envelope sealed.
    Droning on about the trial, the new charges against Constable and others in the Patriot Assembly, raids up in Canton Falls. Sachs noted the man’s perfectly nuanced, respectful tone, how he played the deference game so perfectly. Maybe he was talking to the mayor or governor.
    Maybe Congressman Ramos.
    Playing the game, playing politics. . . . Is this what policework is really about? It was so far from her nature that she wondered if she had any business being a cop.
    No busy-ness.
    That thought tore her apart. Oh, Rhyme. What’re we going to do?
    We’ll get through it, he’d said. But life isn’t about getting through. Getting through is losing.
    Marlow, still pinching the phone between ear and shoulder, was rambling on and on in the language of government. He finally got the envelope opened and dropped her shield into it.
    He then reached in and extracted something wrapped in tissue paper.
    “ . . . don’t have time for a ceremony. We’ll do something later.” This latter message was whispered and it seemed to Sachs he was speaking to her.
    Ceremony?
    A glance at her. Now another whisper, his hand over the receiver. “This insurance stuff. Who understandsit? I’ve got to learn all about mortality tables, annuities, double indemnity. . . .”
    Marlow unwrapped the tissue, revealing a gold NYPD badge.
    Back in his normal voice as he spoke into the phone: “Yessir, we’ll stay on top of that situation. . . . We’ve got people in Bedford Junction too. And Harrisonburg up the road. We’re completely proactive.”
    Whispering again, to her. “Kept your old number, Officer.” He held up the badge, which glistened brilliant yellow. The numbers were the same as her Patrol ID: 5885. He slipped the badge into her leather shield holder. Then he found something else in the yellow envelope: a temporary ID, which he also mounted in the holder. Then handed it back.
    The card identified her as Amelia Sachs, detective third-grade.
    “Yessir, we’ve heard about that and our threat assessment is that it’s a handleable situation. . . . Good, sir.” Marlow hung up and shook his head. “Give me a bigot’s trial any day over insurance meetings. Okay, Officer, you’ll need to get your picture taken for your permanent ID.” He considered something then added cautiously, “This isn’t a chauvinist thing so don’t take it the wrong way but they like it better with women’s hair pulled back. Not down and all, you know, well, down. Looks tougher, I guess. You have a problem with that?”
    “But, I’m not suspended?”
    “Suspended? No, you made detective. Didn’t they call you? O’Connor was supposed to call you. Or his assistant or somebody.”
    Dan O’Connor, the head of the Detective Bureau.
    “Nobody called me. Except your secretary.”
    “Oh, well. They were supposed to call.”
    “What happened?”
    “I told you I’d do what I could. I did. I mean, let’s face it—there was no way I was letting you go on suspension. Can’t afford to lose you.” He hesitated, looked at the tide of files. “Not to mention, it would’ve been a nightmare to go up against you in a PBA suit or arbitration. Would’ve been ugly.”
    Thinking: Oh, yessir, it would’ve been. Real ugly. “But the year? You mentioned something about year.”
    “That’s the sergeant’s exam I was talking about. You can’t take it again until next April. It’s civil service and there was