Within Amelia Sachs's soul was an edgy force, something that made her doubt and made her question and compelled her to take risks, however great. She suffered for this. But the reward was the exhilaration when an innocent life was saved or a dangerous perp collared.

That fire drove her in one direction; it had apparently pushed her father in another.

The Chevy fishtailed. She easily brought the skid under control.

Over the Brooklyn Bridge, a skidding turn off the highway. A dozen more turns, this way, that way, heading south.

Finally she found the pier she was looking for and hit the brakes, coming to a stop at the end of ten-foot skid marks. She got out of the car, slamming the door hard. Making her way through a small park, over a concrete barricade. Sachs ignored the warning sign and walked out onto the pier, through a steady, hissing wind.

Man, it was cold.

She stopped at a low wooden railing, gripped it in her gloved hands. Memories assaulted her:

At age ten, a warm summer night, her father boosting her up onto the pylon halfway out on the pier-it was still there-holding her tight. She wasn't afraid because he'd taught her to swim at the community pool and, even if a gust of wind had blown them off the pier into the East River, they'd simply swim back to the ladder, laughing and racing, climb back up-and maybe they'd even jump off again together, holding hands as they plummeted ten feet into the murky, warm water.

At age fourteen, her father with his coffee and she with a soda, looking at the water as he spoke about Rose. "Your mother, she has her moods, Amie. It doesn't mean she doesn't love you. Remember that. She's just that way. But she's proud of you. Know what she just told me the other day?"

And later, after she'd become a cop, standing here, beside the very same Camaro she'd driven tonight (though painted yellow at the time, a beautiful shade for a muscle car). Sachs in her uniform, Herman in his tweed jacket and cords.

"I've got a problem, Amie."

"Problem?"

"Sort of a physical thing."

She'd waited, feeling her fingernail dig into her thumb.

"It's a bit of cancer. Nothing serious. I'll be going through the treatment." He gave her the details-he'd always talked straight to his daughter-and then he grew uncharacteristically grave, shaking his head. "But the big problem…I just paid five bucks for a haircut and now I'm going to lose it all." Rubbing his scalp. "Wish I'd saved the money."

The tears now rolled down her cheeks. "Goddamn it," Sachs muttered to herself. Stop.

But she couldn't. The tears continued and the icy moisture stung her face.

Returning to the car, she fired up the big engine and returned to Rhyme's. When she got home he was upstairs in bed, asleep.

Sachs stepped into the exercise room, where Pulaski had written up the evidence charts on the Creeley/Sarkowski cases. She couldn't help but smile. The diligent rookie had not only stashed the whiteboard here but he'd covered it with a sheet. She pulled the cloth off and looked over his careful writing then added a few notations of her own.

BENJAMIN CREELEY HOMICIDE

56-year-old Creeley, apparently suicide by hanging. Clothesline. But had broken thumb, couldn't tie noose.

Computer-written suicide note about depression. But appeared not to be suicidally depressed, no history of mental/emotional problems.

Around Thanksgiving two men broke into his house and possibly burned evidence. White men, but faces not observed. One bigger than other. They were inside for about an hour.

Evidence in Westchester house:

Broke through lock; skillful job.

Leather texture marks on fireplace tools and Creeley's desk.

Soil in front of fireplace has higher acid content than soil around house and contains pollutants. From industrial site?

Traces of burned cocaine in fireplace.

Ash in fireplace.

Financial records, spreadsheet, references to millions of dollars.

Checking logo on documents, sending entries to forensic accountant.

Diary re: getting oil changed, haircut appointment and going to St. James Tavern.

Analysis of ash from Queens CS lab:

Logo of software used in corporate accounting.

Forensic accountant: standard executive compensation figures.

Burned because of what they revealed, or to lead investigators off?

St. James Tavern

Creeley came here several times.

Apparently didn't use drugs while here.

Not sure whom he met with, but maybe cops from the nearby 118th Precinct of the NYPD.

Last time he was here-just before his death-he got into an argument with persons unknown.

Checked money from officers at St.

James-serial numbers are clean, but found coke and heroin. Stolen from precinct?

Not much drugs missing, only 6 or 7 oz. of pot, 4 of coke.

Unusually few organized crime cases at the 118th Precinct but no evidence of intentional stalling by officers.

Two gangs in the East Village possible but not likely suspects.

Interview with Jordan Kessler, Creeley's partner, and follow-up with wife.

Confirmed no obvious drug use.

Didn't appear to associate with criminals.

Drinking more than usual, taken up gambling; trips to Vegas and Atlantic City. Losses were large, but not significant to Creeley.

Not clear why he was depressed.

Kessler didn't recognize burned records.

Awaiting list of clients.

Kessler doesn't appear to gain by Creeley's death.

Sachs and Pulaski followed by AMG

Sarkowski was 57 years old, no police record, murdered on November 4 of this year, survived by wife and two teenage children.

Victim owned building and business in Manhattan. Business was doing maintenance for other companies and utilities.

Art Snyder was case detective.

No suspects.

Murder/robbery?

Was shot to death as part of apparent robbery. Weapon recovered on scene-Smith amp; Wesson knockoff,.38 Special, no prints, cold gun. Case detective believes it could have been a professional hit.

Business deal went bad?

Killed in Queens-not sure why he was there.

Deserted part of borough, near natural gas tanks.

File and evidence missing.

File went to 158th Precinct on/around November 28. Never returned. No indication of requesting officer.

No indication where it went in the 158th.

DI Jefferies not cooperative.

No known connection with Creeley.

No criminal record-Sarkowski or company.

Rumors-money going to cops at the 118th Precinct. Ended up someplace/someone with a Maryland connection. Baltimore mob involved?

No leads.

Sachs stared at the chart for a half hour until her head began to nod. She returned upstairs, stripped, stepped into the shower and let the hot water pulse down on her, hard, stinging, for a long time. She dried off, pulled on a T-shirt and silk boxers, and returned to the bedroom.

She climbed into bed beside Rhyme and rested her head on his chest.

"You all right?" he asked groggily.

She said nothing but reached up and kissed his cheek. Then she lay back and stared at the bedside clock as the digital numbers flipped forward. The minutes passed slowly, slowly, each one an entire long day passing, until finally, close to 3 A.M., she slept.