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The front door opened a few seconds later and a solid man in his late fifties squinted up at her. He was in a green velour running suit.
"Detective Snyder?" Sachs was careful to use his former title. Being polite gets you further than a gun, her father used to say.
"Yeah, come on in. You're Amelia, right?"
Last name versus first name. You always choose which battles you want to fight. She smiled, shook his hand and followed him inside. Cold streetlight bled inside and the living room was unfriendly and chill. Sachs smelled damp smoke from the fireplace, as well as the scent of cat. She pulled off her jacket and sat on a wheezing sofa. It was clear that the Barcalounger, beside which were three remote controls, was the king's throne.
"The wife's out," he announced. A squint. "You Herman Sachs's girl?"
Girl . . .
"That's right. Did you work with him?"
"Some, yeah. BK and a couple assignments in Manhattan. Good guy. Heard the retirement party was a blast. Went on all night. You want a soda or water or anything? No booze, sorry." He said this with a certain tone in his voice, which--along with the cluster of veins in his nose--told her that, like a lot of cops of a certain age, he'd had a problem with the bottle. And was now in recovery. Good for him.
"Nothing for me, thanks . . . just have a few questions. You were case detective on a robbery/homicide just before you retired. Name was Frank Sarkowski."
Eyes sweeping the carpet. "Yeah, remember him. Some businessman. Got shot in a mugging or something."
"I wanted to see the file. But it's gone. The evidence too."
"No file?" Snyder shrugged, a little surprised. Not too much. "Records room at the house . . . always a mess."
"I need to find out what happened."
"Geez, I don't remember much." Snyder scratched the back of his muscular hand, flaking with eczema. "You know, one of those cases. No leads at all . . . I mean zip. After a week you kind of forget about 'em. You musta run some of those."
The question was almost a taunt, a comment on the fact that she obviously hadn't been a detective for long and probably hadn't run many of those sorts of cases. Or any other, for that matter.
She didn't respond. "Tell me what you remember."
"Found him in this vacant lot, lying by his car. No money, no wallet. The piece was nearby."
"What was it?"
"A cold Smittie knockoff. Was wiped clean--no prints."
Interesting. Cold meant no serial numbers. The bad guys bought them on the street when they wanted an untraceable weapon. You could never completely obliterate the numbers of a stamped gun--which was a requirement for all U.S. manufacturers--but some foreign weapon companies didn't put serial numbers on their products. They were what professional killers used and often left behind at crime scenes.
"Snitches hear anything afterward?"
Many homicides were solved because the killer made the mistake of bragging about his prowess at a robbery and exaggerating what he'd stolen. Word often got back to snitches, who'd dime the guy out for a favor from the cops.
"Nothing."
"Where was the vacant lot?"
"By the canal. You know those big tanks?"
"The natural gas tanks?"
"Yeah."
"What was he doing there?"
Snyder shrugged. "No idea. He had this maintenance company. I think one of his clients was out there, and he was checking on them or something."
"Crime Scene find anything solid? Trace? Fingerprints? Footprints?"
