• Art Snyder was case detective.

• No suspects.

• Murder/robbery?

• Business deal went bad?

• Killed in Queens—not sure why he was there.

• File and evidence missing.

• No known connection with Creeley.

• No criminal record—Sarkowski or company.

Chapter 15

The bungalow was in Long Island City, that portion of Queens just over the East River from Manhattan and Roosevelt Island.

Christmas decorations—plenty of them—were perfectly arranged in the yard, the sidewalk perfectly cleared of ice and snow, the Camry in the driveway perfectly clean, despite the recent snow. Window frames were being scraped for a new coat of paint, and a stack of bricks sat destined for a new path or patio.

This was the house of a man with newly acquired free time.

Amelia Sachs hit the doorbell.

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.”