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"And the Watchmaker's probably targeting somebody else right now too. He could be killing somebody else right now. . . . And, believe me, if there's another murder and we drop the ball there'll be hell to pay. Baker told me the request for us came from the top floor."
Insisted . . .
"I won't drop the ball. You get another scene, I'll run it. If Bo Haumann stages a tactical op, I'll be there."
Rhyme gave an exaggerated frown. "Tactical? You don't get dessert until you finish your vegetables."
She laughed, and now he felt the pressure of her hand. "Come on, Rhyme, we're in cop land. Nobody runs just one case at a time. Most Major Cases desks're littered with a dozen files. I can handle two."
Troubled by a foreboding he couldn't articulate, Rhyme hesitated then said, "Let's hope, Sachs. Let's hope."
It was the best blessing he could give.
Chapter 8
He came here?
Amelia Sachs, standing beside a planter that smelled of urine and sported a dead yellow stalk, glanced through the grimy window.
She suspected the place would be bad, knowing the address, but not this bad. Sachs was standing outside the St. James Tavern, on a wedge of broken concrete rising from the sidewalk. The bar was on East Ninth Street, in Alphabet City, the nickname referring to the north-south avenues that ran through it: A, B, C and D. The place had been a terror some years ago, a remnant of the gang wastelands on the Lower East Side. It had improved somewhat (crack houses were morphing into expensive fix-'em-uppers w/ vu) but it was still a rough-and-tumble 'hood; sitting in the snow at Sachs's feet was a discarded hypodermic needle, and a spent 9-millimeter shell casing rested on the window ledge six inches from her face.
What the hell had accountant/venture capitalist, two-home-owning, Beemer-driving Benjamin Creeley been doing in a place like this the day before he died?
At the moment, the large, shabby tavern wasn't too crowded. Through the greasy window she spotted aging locals at the bar or tables: spongy women and scrawny men who'd get a lot, or most, of their daily calories from the bottle. In a small room in the back were some white men in jeans, dungarees, work shirts. Four of them, all loud--even through the window she could hear their crude voices and laughter. She thought immediately of the punks who'd spend hour after hour in the Mafia social clubs, some slow, some lazy--but all of them dangerous. One glance told her these were men who'd hurt people.
Entering the place, Sachs found a stool at the small end of the bar's L, where she was less visible. The bartender was a woman of around fifty, with a narrow face, red fingers, hair teased up like a country-western singer's. There was a weariness about her. Sachs thought, It's not that she's seen it all; it's that everything she has seen has been in places just like this.
The detective ordered a Diet Coke.
"Hey, Sonja," called a voice from the back room. In the filthy mirror behind the bar Sachs could see it belonged to a blond man in extremely tight blue jeans and a leather jacket. He had a weasely face and appeared to have been drinking for some time. "Dickey here wants you. He's a shy boy. Come on over here. Come on and visit the shy boy."
"Fuck you," somebody else shouted. Presumably Dickey.
"Come 'ere, Sonja, sweetheart! Sit on shy boy's lap. It'll be comfy. Real smooth. No bumps."
Some guffaws.
Sonja knew that she too was the butt of their mean humor but she called back gamely, "Dickey? He's younger'n my son."
"That's okay--everybody knows he's a motherfucker!"
Huge laughter.
Sonja's eyes met Sachs's and then looked away quickly, as if she'd been caught aiding and abetting the enemy. But one advantage of drunks is that they can't sustain anything--cruelty or euphoria--for very long and soon they were on to sports and rude jokes. Sachs sipped her soda, asked Sonja, "So. How's it going?"
The woman offered an unbreakable smile. "Just fine." She had no interest in sympathy, especially from a woman who was younger and prettier and didn't tend bar in a place like this.
Fair enough. Sachs got down to business. She flashed her badge, subtly, and then showed her a picture of Benjamin Creeley. "Do you remember seeing him in here?"
"Him? Yeah, a few times. What's this about?"
"Did you know him?"
"Not really. Just sold him some drinks. Wine, I remember. He wanted red wine. We got shitty wine but he drank it. He was pretty decent. Not like some people." No need to glance into the back room to indicate whom she meant. "But I haven't seen him for a while. Maybe a month. Last time he came in he got into a big argument. So I figured he wouldn't be coming back."
"What happened?"
"I don't know. Just heard some shouting and then he was storming out the door."
