Art Snyder shifted groggily. “Leave me alone.” His eyes closed.

She glanced at Coyle. “I’ll take over from here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Only, could you flag down a cab, send it over here?”

“Sure.”

The cop climbed out of the van and walked away. Sachs crouched down, touched his arm. “Art?”

He opened his eyes, squinting as he recognized her. “You . . .”

“Art, we’re going to get you home.”

“Leave me alone. Leave me the fuck alone.”

There was a cut on his forehead and his sleeve was torn from a fall. He’d vomited not long ago.

He snapped, “Haven’t you done enough? Haven’t you fucking done enough to me?” His eyes bulged. “Go away. I want to be alone. Leave me alone!” He rolled to his knees, tried crawling to the driver’s seat. “Go . . . away!”

Sachs pulled him back. He wasn’t a small man but the alcohol had weakened him. He tried to stand but fell back on the seat.

“You were doing great.” She nodded at a pint bottle on the floor. It was empty.

“What’s it to you? What the fuck is it to you?”

“What happened?” she persisted.

“Don’t you get it? You happened. You.”

“Me?”

“Why did I think it’d keep quiet? There’re no fucking secrets in the department. I ask a few questions for you, where’s the fucking file, what happened to it . . . next thing, my buddy I was meeting to play pool I told you about? He never shows. And doesn’t return my calls . . .” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Then I get a call—this guy was my partner for three years, him and me and our wives were going on a cruise. Guess who can’t fucking make it? . . . All because I was asking questions. A retired cop asking questions . . . I should’ve told you to go fuck yourself the minute you walked through the door.”

“Art, I—”

“Oh, don’t worry, lady. I didn’t mention your name. Didn’t mention anything.” He groped for the bottle. He saw it was empty. And flung it to the floor.

“Look, I know a good counselor. You can—”

“Counselor? What’s he gonna counsel me on? How I fucked up my life?”

She glanced toward the bottle. “You stumbled. Everybody stumbles.”

“Not what I’m talking about. This’s because I fucked everything up.”

“What do you mean, Art?”

“Because I was a cop. I wasted everything. I wasted my life.”

She felt a chill; his words echoed her feelings. He was expressing exactly the reason she wanted to leave the force. She said, “Art, how ’bout we get you home?”

“I could’ve done a hundred other things. My brother’s a plumber. My sister went to grad school and works for an ad agency now. She did that butterfly commercial for those feminine things. She’s famous. I could’ve done something.”

“You’re just feeling—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, pointing a finger at her. “You don’t know me good enough to talk to me that way. You got no right.”