Snyder was troubled. “I didn’t know that. No.”

“Well, he did. Funny that a guy who lived on the West Side and worked in Midtown would hang out in a dive way over there. You know anything about that?”

“Naw. Not a single thing.” He looked around the room sullenly. “But if you’re asking me if anybody at the One One Eight came to me and said bury the Sarkowski case, they didn’t. We ran it by the book and got on to other shit.”

She looked him in the eye. “What do you know about the One One Eight?”

He picked up one of the remotes, played with it, put it back down.

“Did I mention something?” Sachs said.

“What?” he asked glumly. She noticed his eyes flick to an empty breakfront. She could see rings on the wood, where the bottles had been.

“I’ve got a shitty memory,” she told him.

“Memory?”

“I can hardly remember my name.”

Snyder was confused. “A kid like you?”

“Oh, you bet,” she said with a laugh. “The minute I walk out your front door I’ll forget I was even here. Forget your name, your face. Gone completely. Funny how that works.”

He got the message. Still, he shook his head. “Why’re you doing this?” he asked in a whisper. “You’re young. You gotta learn—about some things it’s better just to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“But what if they’re not sleeping?” she asked, leaning forward. “I got two widows and I got kids without their dads.”

“Two?”

“Creeley, that guy I mentioned. Went to the same bar as Sarkowski. Looks like they knew people from the One One Eight. And they’re both dead.”

Snyder stared at the flatscreen TV. It was impressive.

She asked, “So what do you hear?”

He was studying the floor, seemed to notice some stains. Maybe he’d add replacing the carpet to his list of household projects. Finally: “Rumors. But that’s it. I’m being straight with you. I don’t know names. I don’t know anything specific.”

Sachs nodded reassuringly. “Rumors’ll do.”

“Some scratch was floating around. That’s all.”

“Money? How much?”

“Could be tall paper. I mean, serious. Or could be walking-around change.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t know any details. It’s like you’re on the street doing your job and somebody says something to a guy you’re standing next to and it doesn’t quite, you know, register but then you get the idea.”

“You remember names?”

“No, no. This was a while ago. Just, there might be some money. I don’t know how it got paid. Or how much. Or to who. All’s I heard was the person putting it together, they had something to do with Maryland. That’s where all the money goes.”

“Anywhere specific? Baltimore? The Shore?”

“Nope.”

Sachs considered this, wondering what the scenario might’ve been. Did Creeley or Sarkowski have a house in Maryland, maybe on the water—Ocean City or Rehobeth? Did some of the cops at the One One Eight? Or was it the Baltimore syndicate? That made sense; it explained why they couldn’t find any leads to a Manhattan, Brooklyn or Jersey crew.