"All I'm saying is she didn't take the case away from you, right? Which she could've done in, like, five seconds."
Sachs's nail dug absently into her scalp. Her gut twisted at the idea of department politics at this high level--largely uncharted territory for her.
"Now, my point is, I wish you weren't lead on a case like this, not now in your career. But you are. So you have to remember--keep your head down. I mean stay fucking invisible."
"I--"
"Lemme finish. Invisible for two reasons. One, people find out you're after bad cops, rumors're going start--about this shield taking cash or that shield losing evidence, whatever. Fact they're not doesn't mean shit. Rumors're like the flu. You can't wish 'em away. They run their course and they take people's careers with 'em."
She nodded. "What's the second reason?"
"Just because you got a shield, don't think you're immune. A bad uniform in the One One Eight, yeah, he's not going to clip you. That doesn't happen. But the civilians he's dealing with won't want to hear his opinion. They won't think twice about tossing your body into the trunk of a car at JFK long-term parking. . . . God bless you, kid. Go get 'em. But be careful. I don't want to have to go breaking any bad news to Lincoln. He'd never forgive me."
Ron Pulaski returned to Rhyme's, and Sachs met him in the front hallway, as she stood, looking into the kitchen, and thinking about what Sellitto had told her.
She briefed him about the latest in the Watchmaker case then asked, "What's the Sarkowski situation?"
He flipped through his notes. "I located his spouse and proceeded to interview her. Now, the decedent was a fifty-seven-year-old white male who owned a business in Manhattan. He had no criminal record. He was murdered on November four of this year and was survived by said wife and two teenage children, one male, one female. Death occurred by gunshot. He--"
"Ron?" she asked in a certain tone.
He winced. "Oh, sorry. Streamline, sure."
His copspeak was a habit Sachs was determined to break.
Relaxing, the rookie continued. "He was the owner of a building on the West Side, Manhattan. Lived there too. He also owned a company that did maintenance and trash disposal work for big companies and utilities around the city." His business had a clean record--federal, city and state. No organized crime connections, no investigations ongoing. He himself had no warrants or arrests, except a speeding ticket last year."
"Any suspects in his death?"
"No."
"What house ran the case?"
"The One Three One."
"He was in Queens when he died, not Manhattan?"
"That's right."
"What happened?"
"The perp got his wallet and cash then shot him three times in the chest."
"The St. James? Did she ever hear him say anything about it?"
"Nope."
"Did he know Creeley?"
"The wife wasn't sure, didn't think so. I showed her the picture and she didn't recognize him." He grew quiet for a moment and then added, "One thing. I think I saw it again, the Mercedes."
"You did?"
"After you dropped me off I crossed the street fast to beat a light and I looked behind me to see if there was traffic. I couldn't get a good look but I thought I saw the Merc. Couldn't see the tag. Just thought I'd mention it."
Sachs shook her head. "I had a visitor too." She told him about the breakin to her car. And added that she believed she'd seen the Mercedes as well. "That driver's been a busy boy." She then looked at his hands, which held only his thick notebook. "Where's the Sarkowski file?"
"Okay, that's the problem. No file, no evidence. I went through the entire evidence locker i