The Twelfth Card

by Jeffery Deaver

  Sellitto could see that the captain knew she was being cool about the incident, making light of it. Her protecting him made the big detective even more miserable.

  "You were in the line of fire, though," the captain said.

  "It wasn't any--"

  "You were in the line of fire?"

  "Yes, sir," Sachs said.

  The 38-caliber slug had missed her by three feet. Sellitto knew it. She knew it.

  Nowhere near me . . .

  The captain looked over the warehouse. "This hadn't happened, the perp would still've gotten away?"

  "Yep," Bo Haumann said.

  "You sure it had nothing to do with his escape? It's going to come up."

  The ESU commander nodded. "It's looking now like the unsub got onto the roof of the warehouse and headed north or south--probably south. The shot"--He nodded toward Sellitto's revolver--"was after we'd secured the adjacent buildings."

  Sellitto again thought, What's happening to me?

  Tap, tap, tap . . .

  The captain asked, "Why'd you draw your weapon?"

  "I wasn't expecting anybody to come through the basement door."

  "Didn't you hear any transmissions about the building being cleared?"

  A hesitation. "I missed that." The last time Lon Sellitto had lied to brass had been to protect a rookie who'd failed to follow procedure when trying to save a kidnap victim, which he'd managed to do. That had been a good lie. This was a cover-your-own-ass lie, and it hurt like a broken bone to utter it.

  The captain looked around the scene. Several ESU cops milled about. None of them was looking at Sellitto. They seemed embarrassed for him. The brass finally said, "No injury, no serious property damage. I'll do a report, but a shooting review board's optional. I won't recommend it."

  The relief flooded through Sellitto. An SRB for an accidental discharge was a short step away from an Internal Affairs investigation as far as what it did to your reputation. Even if you were cleared, grime stuck to you for a long, long time. Sometimes forever.

  "Want some time off?" the captain asked.

  "No, sir," Sellitto said firmly.

  The worst thing in the world for him--for any cop--was downtime after a thing like this. He'd brood, he'd eat himself drunk on junk food, he'd be in a shitty mood to everybody around him. And he'd get even more spooked than he was now. (He still recalled with shame how he'd jumped like a schoolgirl at the truck backfire earlier.)

  "I don't know." The captain had the power to order a mandatory leave of absence. He wanted to ask Sachs's opinion but that would be out of line. She was a new, junior detective. Still, the captain's hesitation in deciding was meant to give her the chance to pipe up. To say, maybe, Hey, Lon, yeah, it'd be a good idea. Or: It's okay. We'll manage without you.

  Instead she said nothing. Which they all knew was a vote in his favor. The captain asked, "I understand some wit got killed right in front of you today, right? That have anything to do with this?"

  Fuck yes, fuck no . . .

  "Couldn't say."

  Another long debate. But say what you will about brass, they don't rise through the ranks in the NYPD without knowing all about life on the street and what it does to cops. "All right, I'll keep you active. But go see a counselor."

  His face burned. A shrink. But he said, "Sure. I'll make an appointment right away."

  "Good. And keep me in the loop on how it goes."

  "Yes, sir. Thanks."

  The captain returned his weapon and walked back to the CP with Bo Haumann. Sellitto and Sachs headed for the Crime Scene Unit rapid response vehicle, which had just arrived.

  "Amelia . . . "

  "Forget it, Lon. It happened. It's over with. Friendly fire happens all the time." Statistically cops had a much higher chance of being shot by their own or fellow cops' bullets than by a perp's.

  The heavyset detective shook his head. "I just . . . " He didn't know where to go from there.

  Silence for a long moment as they walked to the bus. Finally Sachs said, "One thing, Lon. Word'll go around. You know how that is. But nobody civilian'll hear. Not from me." Not being hooked into the wire--the network of police scuttlebutt--Lincoln Rhyme would only learn about the incident from one of them.

  "I wasn't going to ask that."

  "I know," she said. "Just telling you how I'm going to handle it." She started unloading crime scene equipment.

  "Thanks," he said in a thick voice. And realized that the fingers of his left hand had returned to the stigmata of blood on his cheek.

  Tap, tap, tap . . .

  *

  "It's a lean one, Rhyme."

  "Go ahead," he said through the headset.

  In her white Tyvek suit, she was walking the grid in the small apartment--a safe house, they knew, because of its sparseness. Most pro killers had a place like this. They kept weapons and supplies there and used it as a staging spot for nearby hits and a hidey-hole if a gig went bad.

  "What's inside?" he asked.

  "A cot, bare desk and chair. Lamp. A TV hooked up to a security camera mounted in the hall outside. It's a Video-Tect system but he's removed the serial number stickers so we don't know when and where it was bought. I found wires and some relays for the electric charge he rigged on the door. The electrostatics match the Bass walking shoes. I've dusted everywhere and can't find a single print. Wearing gloves inside his hidey-hole--what's up with that?"

  Rhyme speculated, "Aside from the fact he's goddamn smart? Probably he wasn't guarding the place very carefully and knew it'd get tossed at some point. I'd just love to get a print. He's definitely on file someplace. Maybe a lot of places."

  "I found the rest of the tarot card deck, but there're no store labels on it. And the only card missing is number twelve, the one he left at the scene. Okay, I'm going to keep searching."

  She continued walking the grid carefully--even though the apartment was small and you could see most of it simply by standing in the center and turning three-sixty. Sachs found one piece of hidden evidence: As she passed the cot she noticed a small sliver of white protruding from under the pillow. She lifted it out, opened the folded sheet carefully.

  "Got something here, Rhyme. A map of the street the African-American museum's on. There're a lot details of the alleys and entrances and exits for all the buildings around it, loading zones, parking spaces, hydrants, manholes, pay phones. Man's a perfectionist."

  Not many killers would go to this much trouble for a hired clip. "Stains on it too. And some crumbs. Brownish." Sachs sniffed. "Garlic. Crumbs look like food." She slipped the map into a plastic envelope and continued the search.

  "I've got some more fibers, like the other ones--cotton rope, I'd guess. A bit of dust and dirt. That's it, though."

  "Wish I could see the place." His voice trailed to silence.

  "Rhyme?"

  "I'm picturing it," he whispered. Another pause. Then: "What's on the surface of the desk?"

  "There's nothing. I told--"

  "I don't mean what's sitting on it. I mean, is it stained with ink? Doodles? Knife marks? Coffee cup rings?" He added acerbically, "When perps are rude enough not to leave their electric bill lying around, we take what we can get."

  Yep, the good mood was officially deceased.

  She examined the wooden top. "It's stained, yes. Scratched and scarred."

  "It's wood?"

  "Yes."

  "Take some samples. Use a knife and scrape the surface."

  Sachs found a scalpel in the examination kit. Just like the ones used in surgery it was sterilized and sealed in paper and plastic. She carefully scraped the surface and placed the results in small plastic bags.

  As she glanced down she noticed a flash of light from the edge of the table. She looked.

  "Rhyme, found some drops. Clear liquid."

  "Before you sample them, hit one with some Mirage. Go with Exspray Two. This guy likes deadly toys way too much."

  Mirage Technologies makes a convenient
explosives detection system. Exspray No. 2 would detect Group B explosives, which include the highly unstable, clear liquid nitroglycerine, even a drop of which could blow off a hand.

  Sachs tested the sample. Had the substance been explosive, its color would have turned pink. There was no change. She hit the same sample with Spray No. 3, just to be sure--this would show the presence of any nitrates, the key element in most explosives, not just nitroglycerine.

  "Negative, Rhyme." She collected a second dot of the liquid and transferred the sample to a glass tube, then sealed it.

  "Think that's about it, Rhyme."

  "Bring it all back, Sachs. We need to get a jump on this guy. If he can get away from an ESU team that easily, it means he can get close to Geneva just as fast."

  Chapter Fifteen

  She'd aced it.

  Cold.

  Twenty-four multiple choices--all correct, Geneva Settle knew. And she'd written a seven-page answer to an essay question that called for only four.

  Phat . . .

  She was chatting with Detective Bell about how she'd done and he was nodding--which told her he wasn't listening, just checking out the halls----but at least he kept a smile on his face and so she pretended he was. And it was wack, she felt good rambling like this. Just telling him about the curveball the teacher'd thrown them in the essay, the way Lynette Tompkins had whispered, "Jesus, save me," when she realized she'd studied for the wrong subject. Nobody else except Keesh'd be interested in listening to her go on and on like this.

  Now, she had the math test to tackle. She didn't enjoy calc much but she knew the material, she'd studied, she had the equations nailed cold.

  "Girlfriend!" Lakeesha fell into step beside her. "Damn, you still here?" Her eyes were wide. "You nearly got your own ass killed this morning and you don't stress it none. That some mad shit, girl."

  "Gum. You sound like you're cracking a whip."

  Keesh kept right on snapping, which Geneva knew she would.

  "You got a A already. Why you need to take them tests?"

  "If I don't take those tests, it won't be an A."

  The big girl glanced at Detective Bell with a frown. "You ask me, you oughta be out looking for that prick done attack my girlfriend here."

  "We've got plenty of people doing that."

  "How many? And where they be?"

  "Keesh!" Geneva whispered.

  But Mr. Bell gave a faint smile. "Plenty of 'em."

  Snap, snap.

  Geneva asked her friend, "So, how'd the WC test go?"

  "The world ain't civilized. The world fucked up."

  "But you didn't skip?"

  "Told you I'd go. Was def, girl. I was all on it. Pretty sure I got myself an C. Least that. Maybe even an B."

  "Funny."

  They came to an intersection of hallways and Lakeesha turned to the left. "Later, girl. Call me in the p.m."

  "You got it."

  Geneva laughed to herself as she watched her friend steam through the halls. Keesh seemed like any other fine, hooked-up, off-the-rack homegirl, with her flashy skintight outfits, scary nails, taut braids, cheap bling. Dancing like a freak to L.L. Cool J, Twista and Beyonce. Ready to jump into fights--even going right in the face of gangsta girls (she sometimes carried a box cutter or a flick knife). She was an occasional DJ who called herself Def Mistress K when she spun vinyl at school dances--and at clubs too, where the bouncers chose to let her pass for twenty-one.

  But the girl wasn't quite as ghetto as she fronted. She'd wear the image the way she'd put on her crazy nails and three-dollar extensions. The clues were obvious to Gen: If you listened closely you could tell that standard English was her first language. She was like those black stand-up comics who sound like homies in their act but they get the patter wrong. The girl might say, "I be at Sammy's last night." But somebody really talking ebonics--the new politically correct phrase was "African-American vernacular English"--wouldn't say that; they'd say "I was at Sammy's." "Be" was only used for ongoing or future activity, like "I be working at Blockbuster every weekend." Or: "I be going to Houston with my aunt next month."

  Or Keesh would say, "I the first one to sign up." But that wasn't AAVE, where you never dropped the verb "to be" in the first person, only the second or third: "He the first one to sign up" was right. But to the casual listener, the girl sounded bred in the hood.

  Other things too: A lot of project girls bragged about perping merch from stores. But Keesh'd never lifted so much as a bottle of fingernail polish or pack of braids. She didn't even buy street jewelry from anybody who might've fiended it from a tourist, and the big girl was fast to whip out her cell phone and 911 suspicious kids hanging around apartment lobbies during "hunting season"--the times of the month when the welfare, ADC or social security checks started hitting the mailboxes.

  Keesh paid her way. She had two jobs--doing extensions and braids on her own and working the counter in a restaurant four days a week (the place was in Manhattan, but miles south of Harlem, to make sure she wouldn't run into people from the neighborhood, which would blow her cover as the DJing bling-diva of 124th Street). She spent carefully and socked away her earnings to help her family.

  There was yet one other aspect of Keesh that set her apart from many girls in Harlem. She and Geneva were both in what was sometimes called the "Sistahood of None." Meaning, no sex. (Well, fooling around was okay, but, as one of Geneva's friends said, "Ain't no boy putting his ugly in me, and that's word.") The girls had kept the virgin pact she and Geneva had made in middle school. This made them a rarity. A huge percentage of the girls at Langston Hughes had been sleeping with boys for a couple of years.

  Teenage girls in Harlem fell into two categories and the difference was defined by one image: a baby carriage. There were those who pushed buggies through the streets and those who didn't. And it didn't matter if you read Ntozake Shange or Sylvia Plath or were illiterate, didn't matter if you wore orange tank tops and store-bought braids or white blouses and pleated skirts . . . if you ended up on the baby carriage side, then your life was headed in a way different direction from that of girls in the other category. A baby wasn't automatically the end of school and a profession but it often was. And even if not, a carriage girl could look forward to a heartbreakingly tough time of it.

  Geneva Settle's inflexible goal was to flee Harlem at the very first opportunity, with stops in Boston or New Haven for a degree or two and then on to England, France or Italy. Even the slightest risk that something like a baby might derail her plan was unacceptable. Lakeesha was lukewarm about higher education but she too had her ambitions. She was going to some four-year college and, as a coal-savvy businesswoman, take Harlem by storm. The girl was going to be the Frederick Douglass or Malcolm X of Uptown business.

  It was these common views that made sistas of these otherwise opposite girls. And like most deep friendships the connection ultimately defied definition. Keesh put it best once by waving her bracelet-encrusted hand, tipped in polka-dotted nails, and offering, in a proper use of AAVE's third-person-singular nonagreement rule, "Wha-ever, girlfriend. It work, don't it?"

  And, yeah, it did.

  Geneva and Detective Bell now arrived at math class. He stationed himself outside the door. "I'll be here. After the test, wait inside. I'll have the car brought 'round front."

  The girl nodded then turned to go inside. She hesitated, glanced back. "I wanted to say something, Detective."

  "What's that?"

  "I know I'm not too agreeable sometimes. Pigheaded, people say. Well, mostly they say I'm a pain in the ass. But, thanks for what you're doing."

  "Just my job, miss. 'Sides, half the witnesses and folk I protect aren't worth the concrete they walk on. I'm happy to be looking after somebody decent. Now, go for another twenty-four multiple choice in a row."

  She blinked. "You were listening? I thought you weren't paying attention."

  "I was listening, yes'm. And looking out for you. Though I'll fess up, doing tw
o things at once's pretty much my limit. Don't go expecting more than that. Okay, now--I'll be here when you get out."

  "And I am going to pay you back for lunch."

  "I told you that's on the mayor."

  "Only, you paid for it yourself--you didn't get a receipt."

  "Well, now, lookit that. You notice stuff too."

  Inside the classroom she saw Kevin Cheaney standing in the back, talking to a few of his crew. He lifted his head, acknowledging her with a big smile, and strode over to her. Nearly every girl in class--whether pretty or plain--followed his stroll. Surprise--then shock--flashed in their eyes when they saw where he was headed.

  Hey, she thought to them triumphantly, wrap your minds round that.

  I'm in heaven. Geneva Settle looked down, face hot with pumping blood.

  "Yo, girl," he said, walking up close. She smelled his aftershave. Wondered what it was. Maybe she'd find out his birthday and buy him some.

  "Hi," she said, voice trembling. She cleared her throat. "Hi."

  Okay, she'd had her moment of glory in front of the class--which would last forever. But now, once again, all she could think of was keeping him at a distance, making sure he didn't get hurt because of her. She'd tell him how dangerous it was to be around her. Forget snapping, forget yo' momma jokes. Get serious. Tell him what you really feel: that you're worried about him.

  But before she could say anything he gestured her to the back of the classroom. "Come on over here. Got something for you."

  For me? she thought. A deep breath and she walked after him to the corner of the room.

  "Here. Got you a present." He slipped something into her hand. Black plastic. What was it? A cell phone? Pager? You weren't allowed to have them in school. Still, Geneva's heart pounded hard, wondering about the purpose of the gift. Was it to call him if she was in danger? Or could it be so that he could get in touch with her whenever he wanted to?

  "This's phat," she said, looking it over. She realized that it wasn't a phone or beeper, but one of those organizer things. Like a Palm Pilot.

  "Got games, Internet, email. All wireless. Wack how those things work."

  "Thanks. Only . . . well, it looks expensive, Kevin. I don't know about this . . . "

  "Oh, it's cool, girl. You'll earn it."

  She looked up at him. "Earn it?"

  "Listen up. Nothing to it. My boys and me tried it out. It's already hooked up to mine." He tapped his shirt pocket. "What you do is, first thing to remember, keep it 'tween yo' legs. Better if you wear a skirt. Teachers don't go lookin' there, or they get their ass sued, you know? Now, the first question on the test, you push the one button there. See it? Then push that space button and then type in the answer. You down with that?"