The Cold Moon (Lincoln Rhyme 7)

Amelia Sachs walked up to him.

Snyder acknowledged her with only a brief glance and, after looking around the streets, turned and started walking west, away from bustling Times Square.

"Thanks for the call."

Snyder shrugged.

"Where're we going?" she asked.

"I'm meeting a buddy of mine. We play pool up the street here every week. I didn't want to talk on the phone."

Spies . . .

An emaciated man with slicked-back yellow hair--not blond, but yellow--hit them up for some change. Snyder looked at him closely and then handed over a dollar. The man walked on, saying thanks, but grudgingly, as if he'd been expecting a five.

They were walking through a dim part of the street when Sachs felt something brush her thigh, twice, and she wondered for a moment if the retiree was coming on to her. Glancing down, though, she saw a folded piece of paper that he was subtly passing to her.

She took it and when they were under a streetlight, she looked it over.

The sheet was a photocopy of a page from a binder or book.

Snyder leaned close, whispered, "This's a page from the file log. At the One Three One."

She looked it over. In the middle was an entry:

File Number: 3453496, Sarkowski, Frank

Subject: Homicide

Sent to: 158 Precinct.

Requested by:

Date Sent: November 28.

Date Returned:

"The patrolman I'm working with," Sachs said, "said there was no reference in the log to it's being checked out."

"He must've only looked in the computer. I looked there too. It probably was entered but then it got erased. This is the manual backup."

"Why'd it go to the One Five Eight?"

"Don't know. There's no reason for it to've."

"Where'd you get this?"

"A friend found it. Cop I worked with. Stand-up guy. Already forgot I asked."

"Where would it've gone in the One Five Eight? The file room?"

Snyder shrugged. "No idea."

"I'll check it out."

He clapped his hands together. "Fucking cold." He looked behind them. Sachs did too. Was that a black car pausing at the intersection?

Snyder stopped walking. He nodded toward a run-down storefront. Flannagan's Pool and Billiards. Est. 1954. "Where I'm going."