"But you knew him."
A hesitation. "Yeah."
"Just tell me: What was the story on that commander . . . the crazy one? I always wanted to know the scoop."
"Which crazy one?" Snyder scoffed. "There were plenty."
"The one who sent the tactical team to the wrong apartment?"
"Oh. Caruthers?"
"I think that was him. Dad was one of the portables holding off the hostage-taker until ESU found the right place."
"Yeah, yeah. I was on that. What an asshole, Caruthers. The putz . . . Thank God nobody was hurt. Oh, and that was the same day he forgot the batteries in his bullhorn. . . . One other thing about him: He'd send his boots out to be polished. He'd have the rookies do it, you know. And he'd tip 'em, like, a nickel. I mean, tipping uniforms is weird to start. But then five goddamn cents?"
The TV volume came down a few bars. Snyder laughed. "Hey, you wanta hear one story?"
"You bet."
"Well, your dad and me and a bunch of us, off duty, were going to the Garden, see a fight or game or something. And this kid comes up with a zip gun--you know what that is?"
She did. She said she didn't.
"Like a homemade gun. Holds a single twenty-two shell. And this poor fuck mugs us, you can believe it. He sticks us up right in the middle of Three-four Street. We're handing over wallets. Then your dad drops his billfold, accidental on purpose, you know what I'm saying? And the kid bends down to pick it up. When he stands up he shits--he's staring right into the muzzles of our pieces, four Smitties, cocked and ready to unload. The look on that kid's face . . . He said, 'Guess it ain't my day.' Is that classic or what? 'Guess it ain't my day.' Man, we laughed all night about that. . . ." His face broke into a smile. "Oh, and one other thing . . ."
As he talked, Sachs nodded and encouraged him. In reality she knew many of these stories. Herman Sachs wasn't the least reluctant to talk to his daughter about his job. They'd spend hours in the garage, working on a transmission or fuel pump, while stories of a cop's life on the streets reeled past--planting the seeds for her own future.
But of course she wasn't here to learn family history. No, this was simply an officer-needs-assistance call, a 10-13 of the heart. Sachs had decided that former detective Art Snyder wasn't going down. If his supposed friends didn't want to see him because he'd helped nail the St. James crew, then she'd set him up with plenty of cops who would: herself, Sellitto, Rhyme and Ron Pulaski, Fred Dellray, Roland Bell, Nancy Simpson, Frank Rettig, a dozen others.
She asked him more questions and he replied--sometimes eagerly, sometimes with irritation, sometimes distracted, but always giving her something. A couple of times Snyder rose and refilled his mug with liquor and frequently he'd glance at his watch and then at her, his meaning clear: Don't you have someplace else to be?
But she just sat back comfortably in the Barcalounger, asked her questions and even told a few war stories of her own. Amelia Sachs wasn't going anywhere; she had all the time in the world.