The Twelfth Card

by Jeffery Deaver

  Rhyme was scowling at this news when a computer chimed and Cooper announced, "We've got a response from VICAP."

  He hit a button and sent the email to all the monitors in Rhyme's lab. Sellitto and Sachs huddled around one, Rhyme looked at his own flatscreen. It was a secure email from a detective in the crime scene lab in Queens.

  Detective Cooper:

  Per your request we ran the crime profile you provided through both VICAP and HITS, and have two matches.

  Incident One: Homicide in Amarillo, Texas. Case No. 3451-01 (Texas Rangers): Five years ago, sixty-seven-year-old Charles T. Tucker, a retired state worker, was found dead behind a strip mall near his home. He had been struck in the back of the head with a blunt object, presumably to subdue him, then lynched. A cotton-fiber rope with a slipknot was placed around his neck and thrown over a tree limb then pulled tight by the assailant. Scratch marks at the neck indicated victim was conscious for some minutes before death occurred.

  Elements of similarity with Unsub 109 case:

  * Victim was subdued with a single blow to the back of the head.

  * Suspect was wearing size-11 walking shoes, most likely Bass brand. Uneven wear on right one, suggesting outturned foot.

  * Cotton-fiber rope with bloodstains was murder weapon; fibers similar to those found at present scene.

  * Motive was staged. The murder appeared to have been ritualistic. Candles were set on the ground at his feet and a pentacle was drawn in the dirt. But investigation into the victim's life and profiling of the offense led investigators to conclude that this evidence was planted to lead the police off. No other motive was established.

  * No fingerprints were recovered; suspect wore latex gloves.

  Status: Active.

  "What's the next case?" Rhyme asked.

  Cooper scrolled down.

  Incident Two: Homicide in Cleveland, Ohio. Case 2002-34554F (Ohio State Police): Three years ago, a forty-five-year-old businessman, Gregory Tallis, was found dead in his apartment, shot to death.

  Elements of similarity with Unsub 109 case:

  * Victim was subdued with blows to the back of the head with a blunt object.

  * Shoe prints of suspect identical to Bass-brand walking shoes, with outward-pointing right foot.

  * Cause of death was three gunshots to the heart. Small caliber, probably .22 or .25, similar to present case.

  * No relevant fingerprints were recovered; suspect wore latex gloves.

  * Victim's pants were removed and a bottle inserted into his rectum, with apparent intent to suggest he was the victim of a homosexual rape. The Ohio State Police profiler concluded that the scene was staged. The victim was scheduled to testify in a forthcoming organized crime trial. Bank records indicate that the defendant withdrew fifty thousand in cash one week prior to the killing. However, the money could not be traced. Authorities presume that this was the fee paid to a hired killer to murder Tallis.

  Status: Open but inactive due to misplaced evidence.

  Misplaced evidence, Rhyme thought . . . Jesus. He looked over the screen. "Staging evidence to set up a phoney motive--and another fake ritualistic assault." He nodded at The Hanged Man tarot card. "Subduing with the club, then strangulation or shooting, latex gloves, the Bass shoes, the right foot . . . Sure, it could be our boy. And it looks like he's a hired gun. If so, we've probably got two perps: the unsub and whoever hired him. All right, I want everything Texas and Ohio have on both those cases."

  Cooper made some calls. He learned that the Texas authorities would check the file and get back to them as soon as possible. In Ohio, though, a detective confirmed that the file was among those for dozens of cold cases misplaced in a move to a new facility two years ago. They'd look for it. "But," the man added, "don't hold your breath." Rhyme grimaced at this news and told Cooper to urge them to track it down if at all possible.

  A moment later Cooper's cell phone rang and he took the call. "Hello? . . . Go ahead." He took some notes, thanked the caller then hung up. "That was Traffic. They finally tracked down outstanding permits for carnivals or fairs big enough to close streets in the past few days. Two in Queens--one neighborhood association and one Greek fraternal order. A Columbus Day festival in Brooklyn and another one in Little Italy. That was the big one. Mulberry Street."

  "We should get some teams out to all four neighborhoods," Rhyme said. "Canvass all the discount variety store and drugstores that use smiley-face bags, that sell condoms, duct tape and box cutters and use a cheap cash register or adding machine. Give the teams a description of the unsub and see if any clerks can remember him."

  Rhyme was watching Sellitto stare at a small dark dot on his suit coat sleeve. Another bloodstain from the shooting that morning, he assumed. The big detective didn't move. Since he was the senior cop here, he was the one to call ESU and Patrol and arrange for the search teams. It seemed that he hadn't heard the criminalist, though.

  Rhyme glanced at Sachs, who nodded and called downtown to arrange for the officers to set up the teams. When she hung up, she noticed Rhyme was staring at the evidence board, frowning. "What's wrong?"

  He didn't answer right away, mulling over what exactly was wrong. Then he realized. Fish out of water . . .

  "Think we need some help here."

  One of the most difficult problems criminalists face is not knowing their territory. A crime scene analyst is only as good as his knowledge of the area suspects inhabit--the geology, sociology, history, pop culture, employment . . . everything.

  Lincoln Rhyme was thinking how little he knew about the world that Geneva Settle lived in: Harlem. Oh, he'd read the stats, of course: The majority of the population were an equal mix of African black (both longtime and recent immigrants) and black and nonblack Hispanic (mostly Puerto Rican, Dominican, Salvadoran and Mexican) followed by white and some Asian. There was poverty and there were gangs and drugs and violence--largely centered around the projects--but much of the neighborhood was generally safe, far better than many parts of Brooklyn, the Bronx or Newark. Harlem had more churches, mosques, community organizations and concerned-parents groups than any other neighborhood in the city. The place had been a mecca for black civil rights, and for black and Hispanic culture and art. It was now the center of a new movement: for fiscal equality. There were dozens of economic redevelopment projects currently under way and investors of all races and nationalities were speeding to sink money into Harlem, taking particular advantage of the hot real estate market.

  But these were New York Times facts, NYPD facts. They didn't help Rhyme one bit in his understanding of why a professional killer wanted to murder a teenage girl from this neighborhood. His search for Unsub 109 was severely hampered by this limitation. He ordered his phone to make a call, and the software obediently connected him to a number at the FBI's office downtown.

  "Dellray here."

  "Fred, it's Lincoln. I need some help again."

  "My friendly fella down in the District help you out?"

  "Yep, sure did. Maryland too."

  "Glad to hear it. Hold on. Lemme shoo somebody on outa here."

  Rhyme had been to Dellray's office several times. The tall, lanky black agent's digs in the federal building were filled with books of literature and esoteric philosophy, as well as coatracks of the various clothes he'd wear while working undercover, though he didn't do much fieldwork anymore. Ironically, it was on those costume racks that you'd find FBI Brooks Brothers suits and white shirts and striped ties. Dellray's regular dress was--to put it kindly--bizarre. Jogging outfits and sweats with sports jackets, and he favored green, blue and yellow for his suits. At least he avoided hats, which could make him look like a pimp out of a seventies blaxploitation film.

  The agent returned to the phone and Rhyme asked, "How's the bomb thing going?"

  "Another anonymous call this morning, about the Israeli consulate. Just like last week. Only my snitches--even the golden boys--can't tell me one solid little thing. Pisses me off. Anyways,
what else you got cookin'?"

  "The case is taking us to Harlem. You work it much?"

  "I stroll through the place some. But I'm no encyclopedia. BK born and bred."

  "BK?"

  "Brooklyn, originally the Village of Breuckelen, brought to us courtesy of the Dutch West India Company in the 1640s. First official city in the state of New York, if you care. Home of Walt Whitman. But you ain't spending a quarter to talk trivia."

  "Can you get away and do a little scrounging on the streets?"

  "I'll fitcha in. But I can't promise I'll be much help."

  "Well, Fred, you've got one advantage over me, as far as blending in Uptown."

  "Right, right, right--my ass ain't sitting in any bright red wheelchair."

  "Make that two advantages," replied Rhyme, whose complexion was as pale as the rookie Pulaski's blond hair.

  *

  Charles Singleton's other letters arrived from Geneva's.

  They hadn't been stored very well over the years and were faded and fragile. Mel Cooper carefully mounted them between two thin sheets of acrylic, after chemically treating the creases to make sure the paper didn't crack.

  Sellitto walked over to Cooper. "Whatta we got?"

  The tech focused the optical scanner on the first letter, hit a button. The image appeared on several of the computer monitors throughout the room.

  My most darling Violet:

  I have but a moment to set down a few words to you in the heat and calm of this early Sunday morning. Our regiment, the 31st New York, has come such a long way since we were unseasoned recruits assembling on Hart's Island. Indeed, we now are engaged in the momentous task of pursuing Gen. Robert E. Lee himself, whose army has been in retreat after its defeat at Petersburg, Virginia, on April 2.

  He has now taken a stand with his thirty-thousand troops, in the heart of the Confederacy, and it has fallen to our regiment, among others, to hold the line to the west, when he attempts to escape, which surely he must, for both General Grant and General Sherman are bearing down upon him with superior numbers.

  The moment now is the quiet before the storm and we are assembled on a large farm. Bare-foot slaves stand about, watching us, wearing Negro cottons. Some of them say nothing, but regard us blankly. Others cheer mightily.

  Not long ago our commander rode up to us, dismounted and told of the battle plan for the day. He then spoke--from memory,--words from Mr. Frederick Douglass, words that I recall to be these: "Once let the black man get upon his person the letters, 'U.S.,' an eagle on his buttons, a musket on his shoulder and bullets in his pockets, and no one on earth can deny that he has earned the right to citizenship in the United States."

  He then saluted us and said it was his privilege to have served with us in this God-sanctioned campaign to reunite our nation.

  A hu-rah went up from the 31st the likes of which I have never heard.

  And now, darling, I hear drums in the distance and the crack of the four-and eight-pounders, signaling the beginning of battle. Should these be the last words I am able to impart to you from this side of the River of Jordan, know that I love you and our son beyond words' telling. Hold fast to our farm, keep to our fabrication of being caretakers of the land, not owners, and deflect all offers to sell. I wish the land to pass intact to our son and his issue; professions and trades ebb and flow, the financial markets are fickle, but the earth is God's great constant--and our farm will ultimately bring to our family respectability in the eyes of those who do not respect us now. It will be our children's salvation, and that of the generations that will follow. Now, my dear, I must once again take up my rifle and do as God has bid, to secure our freedom and preserve our sacred country.

  Yours in eternal love,

  Charles

  April 9, 1865

  Appomattox, Virginia

  Sachs looked up. "Phew. That's a cliff-hanger."

  "Not really," Thom said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, we know they held the line."

  "How?"

  "Because April ninth's the day the South surrendered."

  "Not really concerned about History 101 here," Rhyme said. "I want to know about this secret."

  "That's in this one," Cooper said, scanning the second letter. He mounted it on the scanner.

  My dearest Violet:

  I miss you, my dear, and our young Joshua too. I am heartened by the news that your sister has weathered well the illness following the birth of your nephew and thankful to our Lord Jesus Christ that you were present to see her through this difficult time. However, I think it best that you remain in Harrisburg for the time-being. These are critical times and more perilous, I feel, than what transpired during the War of Secession.

  So much has happened in the month you have been away. How my life has changed from simple farmer and school teacher to my present situation! I am engaged in matters that are difficult and dangerous and--dare I say,--vital for the sake of our people.

  Tonight, my colleagues and I meet again at Gallows Heights, which has taken on the aspects of a castle under siege. The days seem endless, the travel exhausting. My life consists of arduous hours and coming and going under cover of darkness, and avoiding too those who would do us harm, for they are many--and not just former Rebels; many in the North are hostile to our cause as well. I receive frequent threats, some veiled, some explicit.

  Another night-mare awakened me early this morning. I don't recall the images that plagued my sleep, but after I awoke, I could not return to my slumbers. I lay awake till dawn, thinking how difficult it is to bear this secret within me. I so desire to share it with the world, but I know I cannot. I have no doubt the consequences of its revelation would be tragic.

  Forgive my somber tone. I miss you and our son, and I am terribly weary. Tomorrow may see a rebirth of hope. I pray that such is the case.

  Yours in loving

  affection, Charles

  May 3, 1867

  "Well," Rhyme mused, "he talks about the secret. But what is it? Must have something to do with those meetings in Gallows Heights. 'Sake of our people.' Civil rights or politics. He mentioned that in his first letter too . . . What the hell is Gallows Heights?"

  His eyes went to the tarot card of The Hanged Man, suspended from a gallows by his foot.

  "I'll look it up," Cooper said and went online. A moment later he said, "It was a neighborhood in nineteenth-century Manhattan, Upper West Side, centered around Bloomingdale Road and Eightieth Street. Bloomingdale became the Boulevard and then Broadway." He glanced up with a raised eyebrow. "Not far from here."

  "Gallows with an apostrophe?"

  "No apostrophe. At least in the hits I found."

  "Anything else about it?"

  Cooper looked over the historical society website. "A couple things. A map from 1872." He swung the monitor toward Rhyme, who looked it over, noting that the neighborhood encompassed a large area. There were some big estates owned by old-family New York magnates and financiers as well as hundreds of smaller apartments and homes.

  "Hey, look, Lincoln," Cooper said, touching part of the map near Central Park. "That's your place. Where we are now. It was a swamp back then."

  "Interesting," Rhyme muttered sarcastically.

  "The only other reference is a Times story last month about the rededication of a new archive at the Sanford Foundation--that's the old mansion on Eighty-first."

  Rhyme recalled a big Victorian building next to the Sanford Hotel--a Gothic, spooky apartment that resembled the nearby Dakota, where John Lennon had been killed.

  Cooper continued, "The head of the foundation, William Ashberry, gave a speech at the ceremony. He mentioned how much the Upper West Side has changed in the years since it was known as Gallows Heights. But that's all. Nothing specific."

  Too many unconnected dots, Rhyme reflected. It was then that Cooper's computer binged, signaling an incoming email. The tech read it and glanced at the team. "Listen to this. It's about Coloreds' Wee
kly Illustrated. The curator of Booker T. Washington College down in Philly just sent me this. The library had the only complete collection of the magazine in the country. And--"

  " 'Had'?" Rhyme snapped. "Fucking 'had'?"

  "Last week, a fire destroyed the room where it was stored."

  "What'd the arson report say?" Sachs asked.

  "Wasn't considered arson. It looks like a lightbulb broke, ignited some papers. Nobody was hurt."

  "Bullshit it wasn't arson. Somebody started it. So, does the curator have any other suggestions where we can find--?"

  "I was about to continue."

  "Well, continue!"

  "The school has a policy of scanning everything in their archives and storing them in Adobe .pdf files."

  "Are we approaching good news, Mel? Or are you just flirting?"

  Cooper punched more buttons. He gestured toward the screen. "Voila--July twenty-third, 1868, Coloreds' Weekly Illustrated."

  "You don't say. Well, read to us, Mel. First of all: Did Mr. Singleton drown in the Hudson, or not?"

  Cooper typed and a moment later shoved his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, leaned forward and said, "Here we go. The headline is 'Shame, the Account of a Freedman's Crime. Charles Singleton, a Veteran of the War Between the States, Betrays the Cause of Our People in a Notorious Incident.' "

  Continuing with the text, he read, " 'On Tuesday, July fourteenth, a warrant for the arrest of one Charles Singleton, a freedman who was a veteran of the War of Secession, was issued by the New York criminal court, on charges that he feloniously stole a large sum of gold and other monies from the National Education Trust for Freedmen's Assistance on Twenty-third Street in Manhattan, New York.

  " 'Mr. Singleton eluded a drag-net by officers throughout the City and was thought to have escaped, possibly to Pennsylvania, where his wife's sister and her family lived.