The Cold Moon (Lincoln Rhyme 7)

* 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.

To observe that she'd succeeded, you had only to glance at the wall and take note of the framed pictures of friends: city officials, union bosses and wealthy real estate developers and businessmen. One depicted her and a stately bald man sitting on the porch of a big beach house. Another showed her at the Metropolitan Opera, on the arm of a man Sachs recognized--a businessman as rich as Donald Trump. Another indicator of her success was the size of the One Police Plaza office in which they now sat; Flaherty somehow had landed a massive corner model with a view of the harbor, while all the command inspectors Sachs knew didn't have such nice digs.

Sachs was sitting opposite Flaherty, the inspector's expansive and polished desk between them. The other person present in the room was Robert Wallace, a deputy mayor. He sported a jowly, self-confident face and a head of silver hair sprayed into a politician's perfect coif.

"You're Herman Sachs's daughter," Flaherty said. Without waiting for a response she looked at Wallace. "Patrolman. Good man. I was at the ceremony where they gave him that commendation."

Sachs's father had been given a number of commendations over the years. She wondered which one this had been for. The time he talked a drunken husband into giving up the knife he was holding to his wife's throat? The time he went through a plate-glass window, disarming a robber in a convenience store while he was off duty? The time he delivered a baby in the Rialto theater, with Steve McQueen fighting bad guys up on the silver screen while the Latina mother lay on the popcorn-littered floor, grunting in her rigorous labor?

Wallace asked, "What's this all about? We understand there might be some crimes police officers're involved in?"

Flaherty turned her steel gray eyes to Sachs and nodded.

Go.

"It's possible. . . . We have a drug situation. And a suspicious death."

"Okay," Wallace said, stretching the syllables out with a sigh and wincing. The former Long Island businessman, now on the mayor's senior staff, served as special commissioner to root out corruption in city government. He'd been ruthlessly efficient at the job; in the past year alone he'd closed up major fraud schemes among building inspectors and teachers' union officials. He was clearly troubled at the thought of crooked cops.

Flaherty's creased face, though, unlike Wallace's, gave nothing away.

Under the inspector's gaze, Sachs explained about the suicide of Benjamin Creeley, suspicious because of the broken thumb, as well as the burned evidence at his house, traces of cocaine and the possible connection to some cops who frequented the St. James.

"The officers're from the One One Eight."

Meaning the 118th Precinct, located in the East Village. The St. James, she'd learned, was the watering hole for the station house.

"There were four of them in the bar when I was there, but others hang out there too from time to time. I have no idea who Creeley met with. Whether it was one or two or a half dozen."

Wallace asked, "You get their names?"

"No. I didn't want to ask too many questions at this point. And I didn't even get a confirmation that Creeley actually met with anyone from the house. It's likely, though."

Flaherty touched a diamond ring on her right middle finger. It was huge. Other than this, and a thick gold bracelet, she wore no jewelry. The inspector remained emotionless but Sachs knew this particular news would trouble her a great deal. Even the hint of dirty cops sent a chill throughout city government, but a problem at the 118 would be especially awkward. It was a showcase house, with a higher share of collars, as well as a higher rate of casualties among its officers, than other precincts. More senior cops moved from the 118 to positions in the Big Building than from anywhere else.

"After I found out there might be a connection between them and Creeley," Sachs said, "I hit an ATM and took out a couple of hundred bucks. I exchanged that for all the cash in the till at the St. James. Some of the bills had to come from the officers there."

"Good. And you ran the serial numbers." Flaherty rolled a Mont Blanc pen absently along the desk blotter.

"That's right. Negative on the numbers from Treasury and Justice. But nearly all the bills tested positive for cocaine. One for heroin."