The Cold Moon

"'Accordingly, I, the Mayor of the City of New York, hereby bestow upon the following officers the Medal for Valor for their efforts in bringing these criminals to justice: Patrolman Vincent Pazzini, Patrolman Herman Sachs and Detective Third-Grade Lawrence Koepel.'"

"What?" Sachs whispered.

Rhyme continued reading. "Each of these officers risked his life on a number of occasions by working undercover to provide information instrumental in identifying the perpetrators and gathering evidence to be used in their trials. Because of the dangerous nature of this assignment, these commendations are being presented in a closed proceeding, and this record will be sealed, for the safety of these three courageous officers and their families. But they should rest assured that, although the praises for their efforts are not being sung in public, the gratitude of the city is no less.'"

Amelia Sachs was staring at him. "He-?"

Rhyme nodded at the file. "Your father was one of the good guys, Sachs. He wasone of the three who got away. Only they weren't perps; they were working for Internal Affairs. He was to the Sixteenth Avenue Club just what you were to the St. James crew, only he was undercover."

"How did you know?"

"I didn't know. I remembered something about the Luponte report and the corruption trials but I didn't know your father was involved. That's why I wanted to see it."

"How 'bout that," Sellitto said through a mouthful of coffee cake.

"Keep looking, Lon. There's something else."

The detective dug through the folder and found a certificate and a medal. It was an NYPD Medal for Valor, one of the highest commendations given by the department. Sellitto handed it to Sachs. Her full lips parted, eyes squinting, as she read the unframed parchment document, which bore her father's name. The decoration swung from her unsteady fingers.

"Hey, that's sweet," said Pulaski, pointing at the certificate. "Look at all those scrolls and things."

Rhyme nodded toward the folder on the turning frame. "It's all in there, Sachs. His handler at Internal Affairs had to make sure that the other cops believed him. He gave your dad a couple thousand a month to spread around, make it seem like he was on the take too. He had to be credible-if anybody thought he was an informant, he could've been killed, especially with Tony Gallante involved. IAD started a fake investigation on him so it'd look believable. That's the case they dropped for insufficient evidence. They worked out a deal with Crime Scene so that the chain-of-custody cards were lost."

Sachs lowered her head. Then she gave a soft laugh. "Dad was always the modest one. It was just like him-the highest commendation he ever got was secret. He never said a thing about it."

"You can read all the details. Your father said he'd wear a wire, he'd give all the information they needed about Gallante and the other capos involved. But he'd never testify in open court. He wasn't going to jeopardize you and your mother."

She was staring at the medal, which swung back and forth-like a pendulum of a clock, Rhyme thought wryly.

Finally Lon Sellitto rubbed his hands together. "Listen, glad for the happy news," he grumbled. "But how 'bout we get the hell out of here and go over to Ma

"I'd love to," Rhyme said, with a sincerity that he believed masked his absolute lack of desire to be outside, negotiating the icy streets in his wheelchair. "But I'm writing an op ed piece for the Times." He nodded at his computer. "Besides, I have to wait here for the repairman." He shook his head. "One to five."

Thom started to say something-undoubtedly to urge Rhyme to go anyway-but it was Sachs who said, "Sorry. Other plans."

Rhyme said, "If it involves ice and snow, I'm not interested." He supposed she and the girl, Pammy Willoughby, were pla

But Amelia Sachs apparently had a different agenda. "It does," she said. "Involve snow and ice, I mean." She laughed and kissed him on the mouth. "But what it doesn't involve is you."

"Thank God," Lincoln Rhyme said, blowing a stream of wispy breath toward the ceiling and turning back to the computer screen.

"You."

"Hey, Detective, how you doing?" Amelia Sachs asked.

Art Snyder gazed at her from the doorway of his bungalow. He looked better than when she'd seen him last-when he was lying in the backseat of his van. He wasn't any less angry, though. His red eyes were fixed on hers.

But when your profession involves getting shot at from time to time, a few glares mean nothing. Sachs gave a smile. "I just came by to say thanks."

"Yeah, for what?" He held a coffee mug that clearly didn't contain coffee. She saw that a number of bottles had reappeared on the sideboard. She noted too that none of the Home Depot projects had progressed.

"We closed the St. James case."

"Yeah, I heard."

"Kind of cold out here, Detective," she said.

"Honey?" A stocky woman with short brown hair and a cheerful, resilient face called from the kitchen doorway.

"Just somebody from department."

"Well, invite her in. I'll make coffee."

"She's a busy lady," Snyder said sourly. "Ru

"I'm freezing my ass off out here."

"Art! Let her in."

He sighed, turned and walked inside, leaving Sachs to follow him and close the door herself. She dropped her coat on a chair.

Snyder's wife joined them. The women shook hands. "Give her the comfy chair, Art," she scolded.

Sachs sat in the well-worn Barcalounger, Snyder on the couch, which sighed under his weight. He left the volume up on the TV, which displayed a frantic, high-definition basketball game.

His wife brought two cups of coffee.

"None for me," Snyder said, looking at the mug.

"I've already poured it. You want me to throw it out? Waste good coffee?" She left it on the table beside him and returned to the kitchen, where garlic was frying.

Sachs sipped the strong coffee in silence, Snyder staring at ESPN. His eyes followed a basketball from its launchpad outside the three-point line; his fist clenched minutely when it swished in.

A commercial came on. He changed cha

Sachs remembered that Kathryn Dance had mentioned the power of silence in getting somebody to talk. She sat, sipping, looking at him, not saying a word.

Finally, irritated, Snyder asked, "The St. James thing?"

"Uh-huh."

"I read it was De

"Yep."

"I met Baker a few times. Seemed okay. Him being on the bag surprised me." Concern crossed Snyder's face. "Homicides too? Sarkowski and that other guy?"

She nodded. "And an attempt." She didn't share that she herself had been the potential victim.

He shook his head. "Money's one thing. But offing people…that's a whole different ball game."

Amen.

Snyder asked, "Was one of perps that guy I told you about? Had a place in Maryland or something?"

She figured that he deserved some credit. "That was Wallace. But it wasn't a place. It was a thing." Sachs explained about Wallace's boat.

He gave a sour laugh. "No kidding. The Maryland Monroe? That's a pisser."

Sachs said, "Might not've broken the case if you hadn't helped."

Snyder had a millisecond of satisfaction. Then he remembered he was mad. He made a point of rising, with a sigh, and filling his mug with more whiskey. He sat down again. His coffee remained untouched. He cha

"Can I ask you something?"

"I can stop you?" he muttered.