Sachs fell silent. True. She didn’t have the right.

“Whatever happens ’causa what you’re looking into, I’m fucked. Good or bad, I’m fucked.”

Her heart chilled to see his anger and pain; she put her arm around him, “Art, listen—”

“Get your hands off me.” His head lolled against the window.

Coyle walked up a moment later, directing a Yellow Cab toward the van. Together Coyle and Sachs helped Snyder to the cab and got him inside. She gave the driver Snyder’s address, then emptied her wallet, handing him close to fifty dollars and the detective’s car keys. “I’ll call his wife, let her know he’s coming,” she told the cabbie. The taxi eased into thick Midtown traffic.

“Thanks,” she said to Coyle, who nodded and walked off. She was grateful he didn’t ask any questions.

After he was gone, Sachs reached into her pocket and extracted Snyder’s pistol, which she’d lifted from his rear belt holster when she’d put her arm around him. Maybe he had another piece at home but at least he wouldn’t be using this one to kill himself. She unloaded it, kept the bullets and hid the weapon in the springs under the front passenger seat. She then locked the door and returned to her car.

Her index finger dug into her thumb. Her skin itched. Her anger steamed as she realized that apart from the extortion and the stolen evidence there was a broader crime that her father—and all crooked cops—committed. Her simple effort to get to the truth had turned into something flinty and dangerous, affecting even the innocent. Snyder’s future life as a retiree, which he’d looked forward to for years, was dissolving. All because of whatever happened at the 118th Precinct.

Just like the families of the convicted cops in the Sixteenth Avenue Club had their lives changed forever by what her father and his buddies had done. Wives and children had been forced to give up their homes to banks and quit school to get jobs; they’d been ostracized, forever tainted by the scandal.

She still had time to get out—leave police work, and get out. Get into Argyle, get away from the bullshit and the politics, make a new life for herself. She still had time. But for Art Snyder, it was too late.

Why, Dad? Why’d you do it?

Amelia Sachs would never know.

Time had passed on and taken with it any chance she might find answers to that question.

All she could do was speculate, which does nothing but leave a wound in the soul that feels like it will never heal.

Turning back the clock was the only answer and that, of course, was no answer at all.

Tony Parsons was sitting across from Kathryn Dance in a coffee shop, his shopping cart of groceries beside them.

He squinted and shook his head. “I’ve been trying to remember but I really can’t think of anything else.” He grinned. “Think you wasted your money.” He lifted his coffee cup.