M.O.:

• Dragged from vehicle to alley, where iron bar was suspended over him. Eventually crushed throat.

• Awaiting medical examiner’s report to confirm.

• No evidence of sexual activity.

• Time of death: approximately 10:15 P.M. to 11 P.M. Monday night. Medical examiner to confirm.

Evidence:

• Clock.

• No explosives, chemical- or bioagents.

• Identical to clock at pier.

• No fingerprints, minimal trace.

• Arnold Products, Framingham, MA. Calling to find distributors and retailers.

• Poem left by perp at both scenes.

• Computer printer, generic paper, HP LaserJet ink.

• Text:

The full Cold Moon is in the sky,

shining on the corpse of earth,

signifying the hour to die

and end the journey begun at birth.

—The Watchmaker

• Not in any poetry databases; probably his own.

• Cold Moon is lunar month, the month of death.

• $60 in pocket, no serial number leads; prints negative.

• Fine sand used as “obscuring agent.” Sand was generic. Because he’s returning to the scene?

• Metal bar, 81 pounds, is needle-eye span. Not being used in construction across from the alleyway. No other source found.

• Duct tape, generic, but cut precisely, unusual. Exactly the same lengths.

• Thallium sulfate (rodent poison) found in sand.

• Soil containing fish protein found inside victim’s jacket.

• Very little trace found.

• Brown fibers, probably automotive carpeting.

Other:

• Vehicle.

• Probably Ford Explorer, about three years old. Brown carpet.

• Review of license tags of cars in area Tuesday morning reveals no warrants. No tickets issued Monday night.

• Checking with Vice about prostitutes, re:witness.

There’s a good-old-boy network in urban government, a matrix of money, patronage and power extending like a steel cobweb everywhere, high and low, connecting politicos to civil servants to business associates to labor bosses to workers. . . . It’s endless.

New York City is no exception, of course, but the good-old-boy network Amelia Sachs found herself enmeshed in at the moment had one difference: a prime player was a good old girl.

The woman was in her midfifties, wearing a blue uniform with plenty of gingerbread on the front—commendations, ribbons, buttons, bars. An American flag pin, of course. (Like politicians, NYPD brass who appear in public have to wear the red, white and blue.) She had a pageboy cut of dull salt-and-pepper hair, framing a long, somber face.

Marilyn Flaherty was an inspector, one of the few women at this level in the department (the rank of inspector trumps captain). She was a senior officer in the Operations Division. This was a command that reported directly to the chief of department—the NYPD designation for police chief. Op Div had many functions, among them liaising with other organizations and agencies about major events in the city—planned ones, like dignitaries’ visits, and unexpected, like terrorist attacks. Flaherty’s most important role was being the police department’s contact with City Hall.

Flaherty had come up through the ranks, like Sachs (coincidentally, both women had also grown up in adjacent Brooklyn neighborhoods). The inspector had worked in Patrol Services—walking a beat—then the Detective Bureau, then she’d run a precinct. Stern and brittle, thick and broad, she was a formidable woman in all ways, with the wherewithal—okay, the balls—to maneuver through the minefield a woman in the upper ranks of law enforcement faces.