The Twelfth Card

Chapter Eight

The big man walked down the Harlem sidewalk, thinking about the phone conversation he’d had an hour ago. It’d made him happy, made him nervous, made him cautious. But mostly he was thinking: Maybe, at last, things are looking up.

Well, he deserved a boost, just something to help him get over.

Jax hadn’t had much luck lately. Sure, he’d been glad to get out of the system. But the two months since his release from prison had been coal hard: lonely and without a single lick of anything by way of righteous fortune falling into his lap. But today was different. The phone call about Geneva Settle could change his life forever.

He was walking along upper Fifth Avenue, heading toward St. Ambrose Park, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Enjoying the cold fall air, enjoying the sun. Enjoying the fact that people round here gave him a wide berth. Some of it was his unsmiling face. Some of it the prison tat. The limp too. (Though, truth be told, his wasn’t any hard-ass, playa limp, wasn’t a gimme-respect gangsta limp, it was an oh-fuck-I-been-shot limp. But nobody here knew that.)

Jax wore what he always wore: jeans and a tattered combat jacket and clunky leather work shoes nearly worn through. In his pocket he carried a good-size wad of benjamins, mostly twenties, as well as a horn-handled knife, a pack of cigarettes and on a single chain a single key to his small apartment on 136th Street. Its two rooms featured one bed, one table, two chairs, a second-hand computer and grocery-store two-for-one cookware. It was only a notch better than his recent residence in the New York State Department of Corrections.

He paused and looked around.

There he was, the skinny dude with dusty-brown skin – a man who could’ve been thirty-five or sixty. He leaned against an unsteady chain-link fence around this park in the heart of Harlem. The sun flared off the wet lip of a malt or wine bottle half-hidden in the yellow grass behind him.

“S’up, man?” Jax asked, lighting another cigarette as he strode up and stopped.

A blink from the skinny guy. He looked at the pack Jax offered. He wasn’t sure what this was about but he took a cigarette anyway. He put it in his pocket.

Jax continued, “You Ralph?”

“Who you?”

“Friend of DeLisle Marshall. Was on S block with him.”

“Lisle?” The skinny guy relaxed. Some. He looked away from the man who could break him in half and surveyed the world from his chain-link perch. “Lisle out?”

Jax laughed. “Lisle put four rounds into some sad motherfucker’s head. There’ll be a nigger in the White House ’fore Lisle gets out.”

“They do parole dudes,” Ralph said, his indignation unsuccessfully masking the fact he’d been caught testing Jax. “So what Lisle say?”

“Sends his word. Told me to look you up. He’ll speak for me.”

“Speak for you, speak for you. Okay. Tell me, what his tat look like?” Skinny little Ralph with a skinny little goatee was recovering some of his bravado. It was testing time again.

“Which one?” Jax responded. “The rose or the blade? And I understand he’s got another one near his dick. But I never got close enough to see it.”

Ralph nodded, unsmiling. “What yo’ name?”

“ Jackson. Alonzo Jackson. But I go by Jax.” The tag had a righteous reputation attached to it. He wondered if Ralph had heard about him. But apparently not – no raised eyebrows. This pissed Jax off. “You want to check me out with DeLisle, go right ahead, man, only don’t use my name over the phone, you know what I’m saying? Just tell him the Graffiti King came by to have a confab with you.”

“Graffiti King,” Ralph repeated, clearly wondering what that was about. Did it mean Jax spread motherfuckers’ blood around like spray paint? “Okay. Maybe I check. Depending. So you out.”

“I’m out.”

“What was you in fo’?”

“AR and weapons.” Then he added with a lowered voice, “They went after me for a twenty-five, twenty-five attempt. That got knocked down to assault.” A shorthand reference to the Penal Code provision for murder, Section 125.25.

“An’ now you a free man. That phat.”

Jax thought this was funny – here’s sad-ass Ralph nervous and all when Jax comes along with a cigarette and a s’up, man. But then starts relaxing when he finds out that he did hard time for armed robbery, illegal weapons possession and attempted murder, spraying blood like paint.

Harlem. Didn’t you just fucking love it?

Inside, just before he’d been released, he’d tapped DeLisle Marshall for some help and the brother had told him to hook up with Ralph. Lisle had explained why the little skel was a good man to know. “That man hang out ever’where. Like he be ownin’ the streets. Know ever’thing. Or can find it out.”

Now, the blood-painting Graffiti King sucked hard on the cigarette and got right down to it. “Need you to set me up, man,” Jax said in a soft voice.

“Yeah? Whatchu need?”

Which meant both whatchu need and what’m I going to make from it?

Fair enough.

A glance around. They were alone except for pigeons and two short, fine-looking Dominican girls striding past. Despite the cold they wore skimpy tops and tight shorts on their round, knock-me-down bodies. “Ay, papi,” one called to Jax with a smile and kept going. The girls crossed the street and turned east into their turf. Fifth Avenue had been the dividing line between black and Spanish Harlem – el barrio – for years. Once you were east of Fifth, that was the Other Side. Could still be down, could still be phat, but it wasn’t the same Harlem.

Jax watched them disappear. “Damn.” He’d been in prison a long time.

“Word,” Ralph said. He adjusted how he was leaning and crossed his arms like some Egyptian prince.

Jax waited a minute and bent down, whispered into the pharaoh’s ear, “I need a piece.”

“You fresh, man,” Ralph said after a moment. “Yo’ ass get caught with a piece, they violate you back in a minute. And you still gotta do a annual in Rikers fo’ the gun. Why you wanta take a chance like that?”

Jax asked patiently, “Can you do it or not?”

The scrawny dude adjusted the angle of his lean and looked up at Jax. “I think we phat, man. But I ain’t sure I know where to find anything fo’ you. A piece, I’m saying.”

“Then I ain’t sure I know who to give this to.” He pulled out a roll of benjamins, peeled off some twenties, held them out to Ralph. Being real careful, of course. One black man slipping another some money on the streets of Harlem could raise a cop’s eyebrow, even if the guy was just tithing to a minister from the nearby Baptist Ascension Pentecostal Church.

But the only eyebrow going up was Ralph’s as he pocketed the bills and looked at the rest of the roll. “You got yourself some tall paper there.”

“Word. And you’ve got yourself some of it now. And a chance for more. Happy day.” He put the wad away.

Ralph grunted. “What kinda piece?”

“Small. Something I can hide easy, you know what I’m saying?”

“Cost you five.”

“Cost me two, I could do it.”

“Cold?” Ralph asked.

As if Jax would want a gun with a registration number still stamped on the frame. “Whatta you think?”

“Then fuck two,” said the little Egyptian. He was ballsier now; you don’t kill people who can get you something you need.

“Three,” Jax offered.

“I could do three and hemi.”

Jax debated. He made a fist and tapped Ralph’s with it. Another look around. “Now, I need something else. You got connections at the schools?”

“Some. What schools you talkin’ ’bout? I ain’t know nothin’ ’bout Queens or BK or the Bronx. Only here in the hood.”

Jax scoffed to himself, thinking, “hood,” shit. He’d grown up in Harlem and never lived anywhere else on earth except for army barracks and prisons. You could call the place a “neighborhood,” if you had to, but it wasn’t “the hood.” In L.A., in Newark, they had hoods. In parts of BK too. But Harlem was a different universe, and Jax was pissed at Ralph for using the word, though he supposed the man wasn’t disrespecting the place; he probably just watched a lot of bad TV.

Jax said, “Just here.”

“I can ask round.” He was sounding a little uneasy – not surprising, considering that an ex-con with a 25-25 arrest was interested in both a gun and a high school. Jax slipped him another forty. That seemed to ease the little man’s conscience considerably.

“Okay, tell me what I supposed to be lookin’ fo’?”

Jax pulled a sheet of paper out of his combat jacket packet. It was a story he’d downloaded from the online edition of the New York Daily News. He handed the article, labeled Breaking News Update, to Ralph.

Jax tapped the paper with a thick finger. “I need to find the girl. That they’re talking about.”

Ralph read the article under the headline, MUSEUM OFFICIAL SHOT TO DEATH IN MIDTOWN. He looked up. “It don’t say nothin’ ’bout her, where she live, ’bout her school, nothin’. Don’t even say what the fuck her name be.”

“Her name’s Geneva Settle. As for everything else” – Jax nodded at the little man’s pocket where the money had disappeared – “that’s what I’m paying you the benjamins for.”

“Why you want to find her?” asked Ralph, staring at the article.

Jax paused for a minute then leaned close to the man’s dusty ear. “Sometimes people ask questions, look around, and they find out more shit than they really ought to be knowing.”

Ralph started to ask something else but then must’ve figured that, even though Jax might’ve been talking about something the girl had done, the Graffiti King of blood could also mean that Ralph himself was being too fucking nosy. “Gimme a hour or two.” He gave Jax his phone number. The little pharaoh pushed off from the chain link, retrieved his bottle of malt liquor from the grass and started down the street.

Roland Bell eased his unmarked Crown Vic through central Harlem, a mix of residential and commercial buldings. The chains – Pathmark, Duane Reade, Popeyes, McDonald’s – existed side by side with the mom-and-pop outfits where you could cash checks, pay your bills and buy human-hair wigs and extensions or African arts or liquor or furniture. Many of the older buildings were run down and more than a few were boarded up or sealed with metal shutters covered with graffiti. Off the busier streets, ruined appliances awaited scavengers, trash was banked against buildings and gutters, and both weeds and impromptu gardens filled vacant lots. Graffitied billboards advertised acts at the Apollo and some other big uptown venues, while hundreds of handbills covered walls and plywood, hawking the acts of little-known MCs, DJs and comedians. Young men hung tight in clusters and some watched the squad car behind Bell’s with a mix of caution and disdain and, occasionally, raw contempt.

But as Bell, Geneva and Pulaski continued west, the ambiance changed. The deserted buildings were being torn down or renovated; posters in front of the job sites showed what sort of idyllic town houses would soon replace the old ones. Geneva ’s block, not far from steep, rocky Morningside Park and Columbia University, was beautiful and tree-lined, with clean sidewalks. The rows of old buildings were in good repair. The cars may have sported Clubs on the steering wheels but the vehicles the steel bars protected included Lexuses and Beemers.

Geneva pointed out a spotless four-story brownstone, decorated with carved facades, the ironwork glistening black in the late-morning sun. “That’s my place.”

Bell pulled his car two doors past it, double-parked.

“Uhm, Detective,” Ron Pulaski said, “I think she meant the one back there.”

“I know,” he said. “One thing I’m partial to is not advertising where the people we’re looking after live.”

The rookie nodded, as if memorizing this fact. So young, Bell thought. So much to learn.

“We’ll be inside for a few minutes. Keep an eye out.”

“Yes, sir. What for exactly?”

The detective hardly had time to educate the man in the finer points of bodyguard detail; his presence alone would be enough of a deterrent for this brief errand. “Bad guys,” he said.

The squad car that had accompanied them here pulled to a stop where Bell pointed, in front of the Crown Vic. The officer inside would speed back to Rhyme’s with the letters he wanted. Another car arrived a moment later, an unmarked Chevy. It contained two officers from Bell ’s SWAT witness protection team, who would remain in and around the town house. After learning that the unsub would target bystanders simply as a diversion, Bell had ordered some reinforcements. The team officers he’d picked for this assignment were Luis Martinez, a quiet, solid detective, and Barbe Lynch, a sharp, young plainclothes officer, who was new to protection detail but gifted with an intuitive radar for sensing threats.

The Carolinian now lifted his lean frame out of the car and looked around, buttoning his sports coat to hide the two pistols he wore on his hips. Bell had been a good small-town cop and he was a good big-city investigator but was truly in his element when it came to protecting witnesses. It was a talent, like the way he could sniff out game in the fields where he’d hunted growing up. Instinct. What he sensed was more than the obvious – like spotting flashes off telescopic sights or hearing the click of pistol receivers or noticing somebody checking out your witness in the reflection of a storefront window. He could tell when a man was walking with a purpose when by all logic he had none. Or when an apparently innocent bad parking job had placed a car in the perfect position to let a killer escape without having to saw the wheel back and forth. He’d see a configuration of building and street and window and think: Now, that’s where a man would hide to do some harm.

But at the moment he noted no threat and ushered Geneva Settle out of the car and inside the town house, motioning Martinez and Lynch to follow. He introduced Geneva to them, then the two officers returned outside to check the surrounding area. The girl unlocked the inside security door and they went in and climbed to the second floor, accompanied by the uniformed officer.

“Uncle Bill,” she called, rapping on the door. “It’s me.”

A heavyset man in his fifties with a dusting of birthmarks on his cheek opened the door. He smiled and nodded at Bell. “Nice to meet you. Name’s William.”

The detective identified himself and they shook hands.

“Honey, you all right? Terrible what happen to you.”

“I’m fine. Only the police are going to hang around for a while. They’re thinking that guy who attacked me might try again.”

The man’s round face wrinkled with concern. “Damn.” Then he gestured toward the TV. “You made the news, girl.”

“They mention her by name?” Bell asked, frowning, troubled at this news.

“No. ’Causa her age. And no pictures neither.”

“Well, that’s something…” Freedom of the press was all very well and good but there were times when Roland Bell wouldn’t mind a certain amount of censorship – when it came to revealing witnesses’ identities and addresses. “Now, y’all wait in the hall. I want to check out the inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bell stepped into the apartment and looked it over. The front door was secured by two deadbolts and a steel police lock rod. The front windows looked out on the town houses across the street. He pulled the shades down. The side windows opened onto an alley and the building across the way. The facing wall, though, was solid brick and there were no windows that presented a vantage point for a sniper. Still, he closed the windows and locked them, then pulled the blinds shut.

The place was large – there were two doors to the hallway, one in the front, at the living room, and a second in the back, off a laundry room. He made sure the locks were secured and returned to the hallway. “Okay,” he called. Geneva and her uncle returned. “It’s looking pretty good. Just keep the doors and windows locked and the blinds drawn.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said. “I be sure to do that.”

“I’ll get the letters,” Geneva said. She disappeared toward the bedrooms.

Now that Bell had examined the place for security, he looked at the room as a living space. It struck him as cold. Spotless white furniture, leather and linen, all covered with plastic protectors. Tons of books, African and Caribbean sculptures and paintings, a china cabinet filled with what seemed like expensive dishes and wineglasses. African masks. Very little that was sentimental, personal. Hardly any pictures of family.

Bell ’s own house was chockablock with snaps of kin – especially his two boys, as well as all their cousins back in North Carolina. Also a few pictures of his late wife, but out of deference to his new belle – Lucy Kerr, who was a sheriff down in the Tarheel State – there were none of his wife and Bell together, only of mother and sons. (Lucy, who was herself well represented on his walls, had seen the pictures of the late Mrs. Bell and her children and announced she respected him for keeping those up. And one thing about Lucy: She meant what she said.)

Bell asked Geneva’s uncle if he’d seen anybody he hadn’t recognized around the town house lately.

“No, sir. Not a soul.”

“When will her parents be back?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. Was Geneva talked to ’em.”

Five minutes later the girl returned. She handed Bell an envelope containing two yellow, crisp pieces of paper. “Here they are.” She hesitated. “Be careful with them. I don’t have copies.”

“Oh, you don’t know Mr. Rhyme, miss. He treats evidence like it was the holy grail.”

“I’ll be back after school,” Geneva said to her uncle. Then to Bell, “I’m ready to go.”

“Listen up, girl,” the man said. “I want you t’be polite, the way I told you. You say ‘sir’ when you talking to the police.”

She looked at her uncle and said evenly, “Don’t you remember what my father said? That people have to earn the right to be called ‘sir’? That’s what I believe.”

The uncle laughed. “That’s my niece fo’ you. Got a mind of her own. Why we love her. Give yo’ uncle a hug, girl.”

Embarrassed, like Bell’s sons when he’d put his arm around them in public, the girl stiffly tolerated the embrace.

In the hallway Bell handed the uniformed officer the letters. “Get these over to Lincoln’s town house ASAP.”

“Yes, sir.”

After he’d left, Bell called Martinez and Lynch on his radio. They reported that the street was clear. He hurried the girl downstairs and into the Crown Vic. Pulaski trotted up and jumped in after them.

As he started the engine Bell glanced at her. “Oh, say, miss, when you got a minute, how ’bout you look in that knapsack of yours and pick me out a book you won’t be needing today.”

“Book?”

“Like a schoolbook.”

She found one. “Social studies? It’s kind of boring.”

“Oh, it’s not for reading. It’s for pretending to be a substitute teacher.”

She nodded. “Fronting you’re a teacher. Hey, that’s def.”

“I thought so too. Now, you wanta slip that seat belt on? It’d be much appreciated. You too, rookie.”

Chapter Nine

Unsub 109 might or might not have been a sex offender but in any event his DNA sequence wasn’t in the CODIS file.

The negative result was typical of the absence of leads in the case, Rhyme reflected with frustration. They’d received the rest of the bullet fragments, recovered from Dr. Barry’s body by the medical examiner, but they were even more badly shattered than the one removed from the woman bystander and were of no better use in an IBIS or DRUGFIRE check than the earlier pieces.

They’d also heard from several people at the African-American museum. Dr. Barry hadn’t mentioned to any employees that another patron was interested in the 1868 Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated. Nor had the museum phone records revealed anything; all calls went into a main switchboard and were directed to extensions, with no details kept. The incoming and outgoing calls on his cell phone offered no leads either.

Cooper told them what he’d learned from the owner of Trenton Plastics, one of the country’s largest makers of plastic shopping bags. The tech related the history of the smiley-face icon, as told to him by the company’s owner. “They think the face was originally printed on buttons by a subsidiary of State Mutual Insurance in the sixties to boost company morale and as a promotional gimmick. In the seventies, two brothers drew a face like it with the slogan Be happy. Sort of an alternative to the peace symbol. By then it was being printed on fifty million items every year by dozens of companies.”

“The point of this pop culture lecture?” Rhyme murmured.

“That even if it’s copyrighted, which no one seems to know, there are dozens of companies making smiley-face bags. And it’d be impossible to trace.”

Dead end…

Of the dozens of museums and libraries that Cooper, Sachs and Sellitto had queried, two reported that a man had called in the past several weeks asking about an issue of Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated from July 1868. This was encouraging because it supported Rhyme’s theory that the magazine might be the reason Geneva was attacked. But neither of the institutions had the issue and no one could remember the name of the caller – if he’d even given it to them. Nobody else seemed to have a copy of the magazine for them to look at. The Museum of African-American Journalism in New Haven reported that they had had a full set on microfiche but it had disappeared.

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’ Weekly 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. “Voilà – 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.

“‘However, early on the morning of Thursday, the sixteenth, he was noticed by a police constable as he was making his way toward the Hudson river docks.

“‘The constable sounded the alarm and Mr. Singleton took flight. The police officer gave chase.

“‘The pursuit was soon joined by dozens of other law enforcers and Irish rag pickers and workers, doing their civic duty to apprehend the felon (and encouraged by the promise of five dollars in gold to stop the villain). The attempted route of escape was through the warren of disreputable shanties close by the River.

“‘At the Twenty-third Street paint works, Mr. Singleton stumbled. A mounted officer approached and it appeared he would be ensnared. Yet he regained his footing and, rather than own up to his mischief, as a courageous man would do, continued his cowardly flight.

“‘For a time he evaded his pursuers. But his escape was merely temporary. A Negro tradesman on a porch saw the freedman and implored him to stop, in the name of justice, asserting that he had heard of Mr. Singleton’s crime and recriminating him for bringing dishonor upon all colored people throughout the nation. The citizen, one Walker Loakes, thereupon flung a brick at Mr. Singleton with the intent of knocking him down. However, Mr. Singleton avoided the missile and, proclaiming his innocence, continued to flee.

“‘The freedman was strong of body from working an apple orchard, and ran as fast as greased lightning. But Mr. Loakes informed the constabulary of the freedman’s presence and, at the piers near Twenty-eighth Street, near the tow boat office, his path was confounded by another contingent of diligent police. There he paused, exhausted, clinging to the Swiftsure Express Company sign. He was urged to surrender by the man who had led his pursuit for the past two days, Detective Captain William P. Simms, who leveled his pistol at the thief.

“‘Yet, either seeking a desperate means of escape, or convinced that his evil deeds had caught up with him and wishing to end his life, Mr. Singleton, by most accounts, hesitated for but a moment then leapt into the River, calling out words that none could hear.’”

Rhyme interrupted, “That’s as far as Geneva got before she was attacked. Forget the Civil War, Sachs. This is the cliff-hanger. Keep going.”

“‘He disappeared from view under the waves and witnesses were sure he had perished. Three constables commandeered a skiff from a nearby dock and rowed along the piers to ascertain the Negro’s fate.

“‘They at last found him, half conscious from the fall, clutching a piece of driftwood to his breast and, with a pathos that many suggested was calculated, calling for his wife and son.’”

“At least he survived,” Sachs said. “ Geneva ’ll be glad about that.”

“‘He was tended to by a surgeon, taken away and bound over for trial, which was held on Tuesday last. In court it was proven that he stole the unimaginable sum of greenbacks and gold coin worth thirty thousand dollars.’”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Rhyme said. “That the motive here’s missing loot. Value today?”

Cooper minimized the window containing the article about Charles Singleton and did a web search, jotting numbers on a pad. He looked up from his calculations. “It’d be worth close to eight hundred thousand.”

Rhyme grunted. “‘Unimaginable.’ All right. Keep going.”

Cooper continued, “‘A porter across the street from the Freedmen’s Trust saw Mr. Singleton gain entry into the office by the back door and leave twenty minutes later, carrying two large satchels. When the manager of the Trust arrived soon after, summoned by the police, it was discovered that the Trust’s Exeter Strongbow safe had been broken open with a hammer and crowbar, identical to those owned by the defendant, which were later located in proximity to the building.

“‘Further, evidence was presented that Mr. Singleton had ingratiated himself, at a number of meetings in the Gallows Heights neighbor-hood of the city, with such luminaries as the Hons. Charles Sumner, Thaddeus Stevens and Frederick Douglass, and his son Lewis Douglass, on the pretense of assisting those noble men in the furtherance of the rights of our people before Congress.’”

“Ah, the meetings Charles referred to in his letter. They were about civil rights. And those must be the colleagues he mentioned. Pretty heavy hitters, sounds like. What else?”

“‘His motive in assisting these famed personages, according to the able prosecutor, was not, however, to assist the cause of Negroes but to gain knowledge of the Trust and other repositories he might plunder.’”

“Was that the secret?” Sachs wondered.

“‘At his trial Mr. Singleton remained silent regarding these charges, except to make a general disclaimer and to say that he loved his wife and son.

“‘Captain Simms was able to recover most of the ill-gotten gains. It is speculated that the Negro secreted the remaining several thousand in a hiding place and refused to divulge its whereabouts. None of it was ever found, excepting a hundred dollars in gold coin discovered on Mr. Singleton’s person when he was apprehended.’”

“There goes the buried treasure theory,” Rhyme muttered. “Too bad. I liked it.”

“‘The accused was convicted expeditiously. Upon sentencing, the judge exhorted the freedman to return the rest of the purloined funds, whose location he nonetheless refused to disclose, clinging still to his claim of innocence, and asserting the coin found on his person had been placed in his belongings after his apprehesion. Accordingly, the judge in his wisdom ordered that the felon’s possessions be confiscated and sold to make such restitution as could be had, and the criminal himself was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment.’”

Cooper looked up. “That’s it.”

“Why would somebody resort to murder just to keep the story under wraps?” Sachs asked.

“Yep, the big question…” Rhyme gazed at the ceiling. “So what do we know about Charles? He was a teacher and a Civil War veteran. He owned and worked a farm upstate. He was arrested and convicted for theft. He had a secret that would have tragic consequences if it was known. He went to hush-hush meetings in Gallows Heights. He was involved in the civil rights movement and hobnobbed with some of the big politicians and civil rights workers of the day.”

Rhyme wheeled close to the computer screen, looking over the article. He could see no connection between the events then and the Unsub 109 case.

Sellitto’s phone rang. He listened for a moment. His eyebrow lifted. “Okay, thanks.” He disconnected and looked at Rhyme. “Bingo.”

“What’s ‘bingo’?” Rhyme asked.

Sellitto said, “A canvass team in Little Italy – a half block from where they had the Columbus Day fair – just found a discount store on Mulberry Street. The clerk remembered a middle-aged white guy who bought everything in the unsub’s rape pack a few days ago. She remembered him because of the hat.”

“He wore a hat?”

“No, he bought a hat. A stocking cap. Only why she remembered him was because when he tried it on he pulled it down over his face. She saw him in a security mirror. She thought he was going to rob her. But then he took it off and put it in the basket with everything else and just paid and left.”

The missing $5.95 item on the receipt probably. Trying it on to make sure it would work as a mask. “It’s probably also what he rubbed his own prints off with. Does she know his name?”

“No. But she can describe him pretty good.”

Sachs said, “We’ll do a composite and hit the streets.” Grabbing her purse, she was at the door before she realized the big detective wasn’t with her. She stopped. Looked back. “Lon, you coming?”

Sellitto didn’t seem to hear. She repeated the question and the detective blinked. He lowered his hand from his reddened cheek. And grinned. “Sorry. You bet. Let’s go nail this bastard.”

AFRICAN-AMERICAN MUSEUM SCENE

Rape pack:

· Tarot card, twelfth card in deck, The Hanged Man, meaning spiritual searching.

· Smiley-face bag.

· Too generic to trace.

· Box cutter.

· Trojan condoms.

· Duct tape.

· Jasmine scent.

· Unknown item bought for $5.95. Probably a stocking cap.

· Receipt, indicating store was in New York City, discount variety store or drugstore.

· Most likely purchased in a store on Mulberry Street, Little Italy. Unsub identified by clerk.

· Fingerprints:

· Unsub wore latex or vinyl gloves.

· Prints on items in rape pack belonged to person with small hands, no IAFIS hits. Possibly clerk’s.

Trace:

· Cotton rope fibers, some with traces of human blood. Garrotte?

· No manufacturer.

· Sent to CODIS.

· No DNA match in CODIS.

· Popcorn and cotton candy with traces of canine urine.

· Connection with carnival or street fair? Checking with Traffic about recent permits. Officers presently canvassing street fairs, per info from Traffic.

· Confirm festival was in Little Italy.

Weapons:

· Billy club or martial arts weapon.

· Pistol is a North American Arms.22 rimfire magnum, Black Widow or Mini-Master.

· Makes own bullets, bored-out slugs filled with needles. No match in IBIS or DRUGFIRE.

Motive:

· Uncertain. Rape was probably staged.

· True motive may have been to steal microfiche containing July 23, 1868, issue of Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated magazine and kill G. Settle because of her interest in an article for reasons unknown. Article was about her ancestor Charles Singleton (see accompanying chart).

· Librarian victim reported that someone else wished to see article.

· Requesting librarian’s phone records to verify this.

· No leads.

· Requesting information from employees as to other person wishing to see story.

· No leads.

· Searching for copy of article.

· Several sources report man requested same article. No leads to identity. Most issues missing or destroyed. One located. (See accompanying chart.)

· Conclusion: G. Settle possibly still at risk.

Profile of incident sent to VICAP and NCIC.

· Murder in Amarillo, TX, five years ago. Similar M.O. – staged crime scene (apparently ritual killing, but real motive unknown).

· Murder in Ohio, three years ago. Similar M.O. – staged crime scene (apparently sexual assault, but real motive probably hired killing). Files missing.

PROFILE OF UNSUB 109

· White male.

· 6 feet tall, 180 lbs.

· Average voice.

· Used cell phone to get close to victim.

· Wears three-year-old, or older, size-11 Bass walkers, light brown. Right foot slightly outturned.

· Additional jasmine scent.

· Dark pants.

· Ski mask, dark.

· Will target innocents to help in killing victims and escaping.

· Most likely is a for-hire killer.

PROFILE OF PERSON HIRING UNSUB 109

· No information at this time.

PROFILE OF CHARLES SINGLETON

· Former slave, ancestor of G. Settle. Married, one son. Given orchard in New York state by master. Worked as teacher, as well. Instrumental in early civil rights movement.

· Charles allegedly committed theft in 1868, the subject of the article in stolen microfiche.

· Reportedly had a secret that could bear on case. Worried that tragedy would result if his secret was revealed.

· Attended meetings in Gallows Heights neighborhood of New York.

· Involved in some risky activities?

· The crime, as reported in Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated:

· Charles arrested by Det. William Simms for stealing large sum from Freedmen’s Trust in NY. Broke into the trust’s safe, witnesses saw him leave shortly after. His tools were found nearby. Most money was recovered. He was sentenced to five years in prison. No information about him after sentencing. Believed to have used his connections with early civil rights leaders to gain access to the trust.

· Charles’s correspondence:

· Letter 1, to wife: Re: Draft Riots in 1863, great anti-black sentiment throughout NY state, lynchings, arson. Risk to property owned by blacks.

· Letter 2, to wife: Charles at Battle of Appomattox at end of Civil War.

· Letter 3, to wife: Involved in civil rights movement. Threatened for this work. Troubled by his secret.

Chapter Ten

In the 1920s the New Negro Movement, later called the Harlem Renaissance, erupted in New York City.

It involved an astonishing group of thinkers, artists, musicians and – mostly – writers who approached their art by looking at black life not from the viewpoint of white America but from their own perspective. This groundbreaking movement included men and women like the intellectuals Marcus Garvey and W. E. B. DuBois, writers like Zora Neale Hurston, Claude McKay and Countee Cullen, painters like William H. Johnson and John T. Biggers, and, of course, the musicians who provided the timeless sound track to it all, people like Duke Ellington, Josephine Baker, W. C. Handy, Eubie Blake.

In such a pantheon of brilliance, it was hard for any single artist’s voice to stand out, but if anyone’s did, it would perhaps be that of poet and novelist Langston Hughes, whose voice and message were typified by his simple words: What happens to a dream deferred?/Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?…Or does it explode?

Many memorials to Hughes exist throughout the country, but certainly one of the biggest and most dynamic, and probably the one he’d have been most proud of, was an old, redbrick, four-story building in Harlem, located near Lennox Terrace on 135th Street.

Like all city schools, Langston Hughes High had its problems. It was continually overcrowded and underfunded and struggled desperately to get and retain good teachers – and to keep students in class as well. It suffered from low graduation rates, violence in the halls, drugs, gangs, teen pregnancy and truancy. Still, the school had produced graduates who’d gone on to become lawyers, successful businessmen and -women, doctors, scientists, writers, dancers and musicians, politicians, professors. It had winning varsity teams, dozens of scholastic societies and arts clubs.

But for Geneva Settle, Langston Hughes High was more than these stats. It was the hub of her salvation, an island of comfort. As she saw the dirty brick walls come into view now, the fear and anxiety that had swarmed around her since the terrible incident at the museum that morning diminished considerably.

Detective Bell parked his car and, after he’d looked around for threats, they climbed out. He nodded toward a street corner and said to that young officer, Mr. Pulaski, “You wait out here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Geneva added to the detective, “You can wait here too, you want.”

He chuckled. “I’ll just come hang out with you for a bit, you don’t mind. Well, okay, I can see you do mind. But I think I’ll come along anyway.” He buttoned his jacket to hide his guns. “Nobody’ll pay me any mind.” He held up the social studies book.

Not answering, Geneva grimaced and they proceeded to the school. At the metal detector the girl showed her ID and Detective Bell subtly flashed his wallet and was let around the side of the device. It was just before fifth period, which started at 11:37, and the halls were crowded, kids milling around, heading for the cafeteria or out to the school yard or onto the street for fast food. There was joking, dissing, flirting, making out. A fight or two. Chaos reigned.

“It’s my lunch period,” she called over the din. “I’ll go to the cafeteria and study. It’s this way.”

Three of her friends came up fast, Ramona, Challette, Janet. They fell into step beside her. They were smart girls, like her. Pleasant, never caused any trouble, on scholarship tracks. Yet – or maybe because of this – they weren’t particularly tight; none of them really just hung out. They’d go home after class, practice Suzuki violin or piano, volunteer for literacy groups or work on the spelling bee or Westinghouse science competitions, and, of course, study. Academics meant solitude. (Part of Geneva actually envied the school’s other cliques, like the gangsta girls, the blingstas, the jock-girls and the Angela Davis activist sistas.) But now these three were fluttering around her like best homegirls, huddling close, peppering her with questions. Did he touch you? You see his dick? Was he hard? D’you see the guy got capped? How close were you?

They’d all heard – from kids who came in late, or kids cutting class and watching TV. Even though the stories hadn’t mentioned Geneva by name, everybody knew she was at the center of the incident, thanks probably to Keesh.

Marella – a track star and fellow junior – walked by, saying, “What up, girlfriend? You down?”

“Yeah, I’m cool.”

The tall classmate squinted at Detective Bell and asked her, “Why’s a cop carrying yo’ book, Gen?”

“Ask him.”

The policeman laughed uneasily.

Fronting you’re a teacher. Hey, that’s def…

Keesha Scott, clustered with her sister and some of her blingsta homegirls, gave Geneva a theatrical double-take. “Girl, you wack bitch,” she shouted. “Somebody give you a pass, you take a pass. Coulda kicked back, watched the soaps.” Grinned, nodded at the lunchroom. “Catch you later.”

Some of the students weren’t as kind. Halfway to the lunchroom, she heard a boy’s voice, “Yo, yo, it the Fox News bitch with the cracker over there. She still alive?”

“Thought somebody clip that ’ho.”

“Fuck, that debbie be too skinny to hit with anything but a breakdown.”

Raucous laughter erupted.

Detective Bell whirled around but the young men who’d called out those words disappeared in a sea of sweats and sports jerseys, baggy jeans and cargo pants and bare heads – hats being forbidden in the halls of Langston Hughes.

“It’s okay,” Geneva said, her jaw set, looking down. “Some of them, they don’t like it when you take school seriously, you know. Raising the curve.” She’d been student of the month a number of times and had a perfect attendance award for both of her prior years here. She was regularly on the principal’s honor roll, with her 98 percent average, and had been inducted into the National Honor Society at the formal ceremony last spring. “Doesn’t matter.”

Even the vicious insult of “blondie” or “debbie” – a black girl aspiring to be white – didn’t get to her. Since to some extent it was true.

At the lunchroom door a large, attractive black woman in a purple dress, with a board of education ID around her neck, came up to Mr. Bell. She identified herself as Mrs. Barton, a counselor. She’d heard about the incident and wanted to know if Geneva was all right and if she wanted to talk with somebody in her department about it.

Oh, man, a counselor, the girl thought, her spirits dipping. Don’t need this shit now. “No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? We could do a session this afternoon.”

“Really. I’m down. It’s cool.”

“I should call your parents.”

“They’re away.”

“You’re not alone, are you?” The woman frowned.

“I’m staying with my uncle.”

“And we’re looking out for her,” the detective said. Geneva noticed the woman didn’t even ask to see his ID, it was so obvious he was a cop.

“When’ll they be back, your folks?”

“They’re on their way. They were overseas.”

“You didn’t really need to come to school today.”

“I’ve got two tests. I don’t want to miss them.”

The woman gave a faint laugh and said to Mr. Bell, “I never took school as seriously as this. Probably should have.” A glance at the girl. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

“I spent a lot of time studying for those tests,” she muttered. “I really want to take them.”

“All right. But after that I think you should go home and stay there for a few days. We’ll get your assignments to you.” Mrs. Barton stormed off to break up a pushing match between two boys.

When she was gone, the officer asked, “You have a problem with her?”

“It’s just, counselors…They’re always in your business, you know?”

He looked like, no, he didn’t know, but why should he? This wasn’t his world.

They started up the hall toward the cafeteria. As they entered the noisy place, she nodded toward the short alcove leading to the girls’ restroom. “Is it okay if I go in there?”

“Sure. Just hold on a minute.”

He motioned to a woman teacher and whispered something to her, explaining the situation, Geneva assumed. The woman nodded and stepped inside the bathroom. Came out a moment later. “It’s empty.”

Mr. Bell stationed himself outside the door. “I’ll make sure only students get in.”

Geneva stepped inside, thankful for the moment or two of peace, to be away from the staring eyes. Away from the edginess of knowing that somebody wanted to hurt her. Earlier, she’d been angry. Earlier she’d been defiant. But now the reality was starting to lap at her heart and left her scared and confused.

She came out of the stall and washed her hands and face. Another girl had come in and was putting on her makeup. A senior, Geneva believed. Tall, fine-looking, with her eyebrows artistically plucked and bangs hot-combed to perfection. The girl gave her the up and down – not because of the news story, though. She was taking inventory. You saw it all the time here, every minute of the day, checking out the competition: What was a girl wearing, how many piercings, real gold or plate, too much glitter, were her braids phat or coming loose, was she draped or wearing a simple hoop or two, are those real extensions or fake? Was she covering up being pregnant?

Geneva, who spent her money on books, not clothes and makeup, always came in low in the ratings.

Not that what God had created helped much. She had to take a deep breath to fill her bra, which she usually didn’t even bother to wear. She was that “egg-yolk-titty bitch” to the Delano Project girls, and she’d been called “him” or “he” dozens of times in the last year. (It hurt the worst when somebody’d really mistake her for a boy, not when they were dissing.) Then there was her hair: dense and wiry as steel wool. She didn’t have the time to train locs or tie rows. Braids and extensions took forever and even though Keesh would do them for free they actually made her look younger, like she was a little kid dressed up by her moms.

There she go, there she go, the skinny little boy-girl… Get her down…

The senior next to her at the washbasins turned back to the mirror. She was pretty and broad, her sexy bra straps and thong line evident, hair in a long straightened sweep, her smooth cheeks faintly maroon. Her shoes were red as candy apples. She was everything that Geneva Settle was not.

It was then that the door swung open and Geneva ’s heart froze.

In walked Jonette Monroe, another senior. Not much taller than Geneva, though broader, bustier, with solid shoulders and cut muscles. Tats on both arms. A long, mocha-shaded face. And eyes that were ice cold – they now squinted in recognition at Geneva, who looked away immediately.

Jonette was trouble. A gangsta girl. Rumors were she was dealing – could get you anything you wanted, meth, crack, smack. And if you didn’t come up with the benjamins, she’d whale on you herself – or on your best friend or even your moms – till you stood up to the debt. Twice already this year, she’d been dragged off by the cops, even kicked one in the balls.

Geneva now kept her eyes down, thinking: Detective Bell’d have no way of knowing how dangerous Jonette was when he let her inside. Her hands and face still wet, Geneva started for the door.

“Yo, yo, girl,” Jonette said to her, looking her up and down with a cold glance. “Yeah, you, Martha Stewart. Don’ you be goin’ nowhere.”

“I – ”

“Shutup.” She glanced at the other girl, the one with the purple cheeks. “An’ you, get the fuck out.”

The senior had fifty pounds and three inches of height on Jonette but the girl stopped preening and slowly gathered up her makeup. She tried to save a bit of dignity, saying, “Don’t go layin’ no attitude on me, girl.”

Jonette didn’t say a word. She took one step forward; the girl snatched up her purse and fled through the doorway. A lip liner fell to the floor. Jonette picked it up and slipped the tube into her pocket. Geneva started to leave again but Jonette held her hand up and motioned her to the back of the restroom. When Geneva stood, frozen, Jonette grabbed her by the arm and shoved open the doors of the stalls to make sure they were alone.

“Whatta you want?” Geneva whispered, both defiant and terrified.

Jonette snapped, “Shut yo’ mouth.”

Shit, she thought, furious. Mr. Rhyme was right! That terrible man from the library was still after her. He’d somehow found out her school and hired Jonette to finish the job. Why the hell had she come to school today? Scream, Geneva told herself.

And she did.

Or started to.

Jonette could see it coming and in a flash was behind her, clamping her hand over Geneva ’s mouth, stifling the sound. “Quiet!” Her other hand gripped the girl around the waist and pulled her into the far corner of the room. Geneva grabbed her hand and arm and tugged, but she was no match for Jonette. She stared at the girl’s bleeding-cross tat on her forearm and whimpered, “Please…”

Jonette rummaged for something in her purse or pocket. What? Geneva wondered in a panic. There was a flash of metal. A knife or gun? What’d they have metal detectors for if it was so goddamn easy to get a weapon into the school?

Geneva squealed, twisting violently.

Then the gang girl’s hand swung forward.

No, no…

And Geneva found herself looking at a silver police department badge.

“You gonna be quiet, girl?” Jonette asked, exasperated.

“I -”

“Quiet?”

A nod.

Jonette said, “I don’t want anybody outside to hear anything… Now, you down?”

Geneva nodded again and Jonette released her.

“You’re -”

“A cop, yeah.”

Geneva scrabbled away and pressed against the wall, breathing deeply, as Jonette walked to the door, opened it a crack. She whispered something and Detective Bell stepped inside and locked the door.

“So, you two met,” he said.

“Sort of,” Geneva said. “She really is a cop?”

The detective explained, “All the schools have undercover officers. They’re usually women, pretending to be juniors or seniors. Or, what’d you say? ‘Fronting.’”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Geneva snapped.

Jonette glanced at the stalls. “I didn’t know we were alone. Sorry to be wack. But I couldn’t say anything that’d blow my cover.” The policewoman looked Geneva over, shook her head. “Shame this had to happen to you. You’re one of the good ones. I never spent any worry on you.”

“A cop,” Geneva whispered in disbelief.

Jonette laughed in a high, girlish voice. “I’m the man, yep.”

“You’re so down,” Geneva said. “I never guessed.”

Mr. Bell said, “You remember when they busted those seniors who smuggled some guns into the school a few weeks ago?”

Geneva nodded. “A pipe bomb too, or something.”

“It was going to be another Columbine, right here,” the man said in his lazy drawl. “Jonette’s the one heard about it and stopped the whole thing.”

“Had to keep my cover so I couldn’t take ’em down myself,” she said as if she regretted not being able to bust up the kids personally. “Now, as long as you’re going to be in school, which I think is pretty wack, but that’s a different story, long as you’re here, I’ll keep an eye on you. You see anything makes you uneasy, give me a sign.”

“Gang sign?”

Jonette laughed. “You’d be a claimer in any gang, Gen, nothing personal. You go throwing me a flag, I think everybody’d know something was up. Better you just scratch your ear. How’s that?”

“Sure.”

“Then I’ll come over and mess you up some. Give you some shit. Get you out of wherever you are. You cool with that? I won’t hurt you. Maybe just push you round a little.”

“Sure, good…Listen, thanks for doing this. And I won’t say anything about you.”

“I knew that ’fore I told you,” Jonette said. Then she looked at the officer. “You wanta do it now?”

“You bet.”

Then the pleasant, soft-spoken policeman got a dark look on his face and shouted, “What the hell’re you doing in here?”

Screeching: “Get yo’ motherfuckin’ hands off me, asshole!” Jonette had slipped into character again.

The detective took her by the arm and shoved her out the door. She stumbled into the wall.

“Fuck you, I’ma sue yo’ fucking ass for abuse or some shit.” The girl rubbed her arm. “You can’t touch me. That a crime, motherfucker! “She stormed off down the hall. After a pause Detective Bell and Geneva stepped into the cafeteria proper.

“Good actress,” Geneva whispered.

“One of the best,” the policeman said.

“She kind of blew your cover.”

He handed her back the social studies book, grinned. “Wasn’t exactly working.”

Geneva sat down at a table in the corner and pulled a language arts book out of her knapsack.

Detective Bell asked, “Aren’t you eating?”

“No.”

“Did your uncle give you your lunch money?”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Forgot, didn’t he? All respect, he’s not a man who’s ever been a father. I can tell. I’ll rustle you up something.”

“No, really -”

“Truth is, I’m hungrier than a farmer at sundown. And I haven’t had any high school turkey tetrazzini in years. Gonna get me some of that. No trouble to get a second plate. You like milk?”

She debated. “Sure. I’ll pay you back.”

“We’ll put it on the city.”

He stepped into the line. Geneva had just turned back to her textbook when she saw a boy look her way and wave. She glanced behind her to see whom he was gesturing at. There was no one else. She gave a faint gasp, realizing that he was indicating her.

Kevin Cheaney was pushing away from the table where he and his homies sat and started loping toward her. Oh, my God! Was he really coming this way?…Kevin, a Will Smith look-alike. Perfect lips, perfecter body. The boy who could make a basketball defy gravity, could move like he was a break-dancer competing in a B-Boy Summit show. Kevin was a coal institution at all the jams.

In line, Detective Bell stiffened and started forward but Geneva shook her head that everything was fine.

Which it was. Better than fine. Totally def.

Kevin was destined for Connecticut or Duke on scholarship. Maybe an athletic one – he’d been captain of the team that won last year’s PSAL basketball championship. But he could make it on grades too. He didn’t have the same love of books and school that Geneva did, maybe, but he was still in the top 5 percent of the class. They knew each other casually – they shared math class this semester and would also find themselves together in the hall or in the school yard from time to time – coincidentally, Geneva told herself. But, okay, fact was that she usually gravitated to where he was standing or sitting.

Most of the down kids ignored or dissed her; Kevin, though, actually said hi from time to time. He’d ask her a question about a math or history assignment, or just pause and talk for a few minutes.

He wasn’t asking her out, of course – that’d never happen – but he treated her like a human being.

He’d even walked her home from Langston Hughes one day last spring.

A beautiful, clear day she could still picture as if she had a DVD of it.

April 21.

Normally Kevin would hang with the svelte model wannabees, or the brash girls – the blingstas. (He even flirted with Lakeesha some, which infuriated Geneva, who endured the raging jealousy with a gritty, carefree smile.)

So what was he about now?

“Yo, girl, you down?” he asked, frowning and dropping into a battered chrome chair next to her, stretching out his long legs.

“Yeah.” She swallowed, tongue-tied. Her mind was blank.

He said, “I heard ’bout what happened. Man, that was some mad shit, somebody trying to yoke and choke you. I was fretting.”

“Yeah?”

“Word.”

“It was just weird.”

“Long as you okay, that’s cool, then.”

She felt a wave of heat wash over her face. Kevin was actually saying this to her?

“Why don’t you just roll on back at home?” he asked. “Whatcha doing here?”

“Language arts test. Then our math test.”

He laughed. “Damn. You down for school, after all that shit?”

“Yeah. Can’t miss those tests.”

“And you cool with math?”

It was just calc. No big deal. “Yeah, I’ve got it covered. You know, nothing too heavy.”

“Straight up. Anyway. Just wanted to say, lotta people round here give you shit, I know that. And you take it quiet. But they wouldn’t’ve gone and came in today, way you did. All rolled together, they ain’t worth half of you. You got spine, girl.”

Breathless from the compliment, Geneva just looked down and shrugged.

“So, now I see what you really about, you and me, girl, we gotta hang more. But you’re never ’round.”

“Just, you know, school an’ shit.” Watch it, she warned herself. You don’t have to talk his talk.

Kevin joked, “Naw, girl, that ain’t it. I know what’s what. You dealin’ crank over in BK.”

“I -” Nearly an “ain’t.” She refused to let it escape. She gave him a self-conscious smile, looked down at the scuffed floor. “I don’t deal in Brooklyn. Only Queens. They got more benjamins, you know.” Lame, lame, lame, girl. Oh, you are pathetic. Her palms bled sweat.

But Kevin laughed hard. Then he shook his head. “Naw – I know why I got confused. Musta been yo’ moms selling crank in BK.”

This seemed like an insult, but it was actually an invitation. Kevin was asking her to play the dozens. That’s how the old folks referred to it. Now you called it “snapping,” trading “snaps” – insults. Part of a long tradition of black poetry and storytelling contests, snapping was verbal combat, trading barbs. Serious snappers’d perform onstage, though most snapping took place in living rooms and school yards and pizza parlors and bars and clubs and on front steps and was about as sad as what Kevin had just offered as his initial volley, like “Yo’ mama so stupid, she asks for price checks at the dollar store.” “Yo’ sister so ugly, she couldn’t get laid if she was a brick.”

But today, here, the point had nothing to do with being witty. Because playing the dozens was traditionally men against men or women against women. When a male offered to play with a female, it meant only one thing: flirt.

Geneva, thinking, How weird is this? It took getting attacked to make people respect her. Her father always said that the best can come out of the worst.

Well, go ahead, girl; play back. The game was ridiculously juvenile, silly, but she knew how to snap; she and Keesh and Keesh’s sister’d go on for an hour straight. Yo’ mama so fat her blood type is Ragu. Yo’ Chevy so old they stole the Club and left the car… But, her heart beating fiercely, Geneva now simply grinned and sweated silently. She tried desperately to think of something to say.

But this was Kevin Cheaney himself. Even if she could work up the courage to fire off a snap about his mother her mind was frozen.

She looked at her watch, then down at her language arts book. Sweet Jesus, you wack girl, she raged at herself. Say something!

But not a single syllable trickled from her mouth. She knew Kevin was about to give her that look she knew so well, that I-ain’t-got-time-t’waste-on-wack-bitches look, and walk off. But, no, it seemed he thought that she just wasn’t in the mood to play, probably still freaked from the morning’s events, and that was all right with him. He just said, “I’m serious, Gen, you’re about more’n just DJs and braids and bling. What it is, you’re smart. Nice to talk with somebody smart. My boys” – he nodded toward his posse’s table – “they’re not exactly rocket scientists, you know what I’m saying?”

A flash in her mind. Go for it, girl. “Yeah,” she said, “some of ’em’re so dumb, if they spoke their minds, they’d be speechless.”

“Def, girl! Straight up.” Laughing, he tapped his fist to hers, and an electric jolt shot through her body. She struggled not to grin; it was way bad form to smile at your own snap.

Then, through the exhilaration of the moment, she was thinking how right he was, how rarely it happens, just talking with somebody smart, somebody who could listen, somebody who cared what you had to say.

Kevin lifted an eyebrow at Detective Bell, who was paying for the food, and said, “I know that dude fronting he’s a teacher is five- 0.”

She whispered, “Man does sorta have ‘Cop’ written on his forehead.”

“That’s word,” Kevin said, laughing. “I know he’s stepping up for you and all and that’s cool. But I just wanta say I’ma watch yo’ back too. And my boys. We see anything wack, we’ll let him know.”

She was touched by this.

But then troubled. What if Kevin or one of his friends got hurt by that terrible man from the library? She was still sick with sorrow that Dr. Barry had been killed because of her, that the woman on the sidewalk had been wounded. She had a horrible premonition: Kevin laid out in the Williams Funeral Home parlor, like so many other Harlem boys, shot down on the street.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, unsmiling.

“I know I don’t,” he said. “I want to. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. That’s word. Okay, I’ma hang with my boys now. Catch you later? ’Fore math class?”

Heart thudding, she stammered, “Sure.”

He tapped her fist again and walked off. Watching him, she felt feverish, hands shaking at the exchange. Please, she thought, don’t let anything happen to him…

“Miss?”

She looked up, blinked.

Detective Bell was setting down a tray. The food smelled so fine… She was even hungrier than she’d thought. She stared at the steaming plate.

“You know him?” the policeman asked.

“Yeah, he’s down. We’re in class together. Known him for years.”

“You look a little addled, miss.”

“Well…I don’t know. Maybe I am. Yeah.”

“But it doesn’t have anything to do with what happened at the museum, right?” he asked with a smile.

She looked away, feeling heat across her face.

“Now,” the detective said, setting the steaming plate in front of her. “Chow down. Nothing like turkey tetrazzini to soothe a troubled soul. You know, I might just ask ’em for the recipe.”

Chapter Eleven

These’d do just fine.

Thompson Boyd looked down at his purchases in the basket, then started for the checkout counter. He just loved hardware stores. He wondered why that might be. Maybe because his father used to take him every Saturday to an Ace Hardware outside of Amarillo to stock up on what the man needed for his workshop in the shed outside their trailer.

Or maybe it was because in most hardware stores, like here, all the tools were clean and organized, the paint and glues and tapes were all ordered logically and easy to find.

Everything arranged by the book.

Thompson liked the smell too, sort of a pungent fertilizer/oil/solvent smell that was impossible to describe, but one that everyone who’d ever been in an old hardware store would recognize instantly.

The killer was pretty handy. This was something he’d picked up from his dad, who, even though he spent all day with tools, working on oil pipelines, derricks and the bobbing, dinosaur-head pumps, would still spend lots of time patiently teaching his son how to work with – and respect – tools, how to measure, how to draw plans. Thompson spent hours learning how to fix what was broken and how to turn wood and metal and plastic into things that hadn’t existed. Together they’d work on the truck or the trailer, fix the fence, make furniture, build a present for his mom or aunt – a rolling pin or cigarette box or butcher block table. “Big or small,” his father taught, “you put the same amount of skill into what you’re doing, son. One’s not better or harder than the other. It’s only a question of where you put the decimal point.”

His father was a good teacher and he was proud of what his son built. When Hart Boyd died he had with him a shoeshine kit the boy had made, and a wooden key chain in the shape of an Indian head with the wood-burned letters “Dad” on it.

It was fortunate, as it turned out, that Thompson learned these skills because that’s what the business of death is all about. Mechanics and chemistry. No different from carpentry or painting or car repair.

Where you put the decimal point.

Standing at the checkout stand, he paid – cash, of course – and thanked the clerk. He took the shopping bag in his gloved hands. He started out the door, paused and looked at a small electric lawn mower, green and yellow. It was perfectly clean, polished, an emerald jewel of a device. It had a curious appeal to him. Why? he wondered. Well, since he’d been thinking of his father it occurred to him that the machine reminded him of times he’d mow the tiny yard behind his parents’ trailer, Sunday morning, then go inside to watch the game with his dad while his mother baked.

He remembered the sweet smell of the leaded gas exhaust, remembered the gunshot-sounding crack when the blade hit a stone and flung it into the air, the numbness in his hands from the vibration of the grips.

Numb, the way you’d feel as you lay dying from a sidewinder snakebite, he assumed.

He realized that the clerk was speaking to him.

“What?” Thompson asked.

“Make you a good deal,” the clerk said, nodding at the mower.

“No thanks.”

Stepping outside, he wondered why he’d spaced out – what had so appealed to him about the mower, why he wanted it so much. Then he had the troubling idea that it wasn’t the family memory at all. Maybe it was because the machine was really a small guillotine, a very efficient way to kill.

Maybe that was it.

Didn’t like that thought. But there it was.

Numb…

Whistling faintly, a song from his youth, Thompson started up the street, carrying the shopping bag in one hand and, in the other, his briefcase, containing his gun and billy club and a few other tools of the trade.

He continued up the street, into Little Italy, where the crews were cleaning up after the street fair yesterday. He grew cautious, observing several police cars. Two officers were talking to a Korean fruit stand owner and his wife. He wondered what that was about. Then he continued on to a pay phone. He checked his voice mail once more, but there were no messages yet about Geneva’s whereabouts. That wasn’t a concern. His contact knew Harlem pretty good, and it’d only be a matter of time until Thompson found out where the girl went to school and where she lived. Besides, he could use the free time. He had another job, one that he’d been planning for even longer than Geneva Settle’s death, and one that was just as important as that job.

More important, really.

And funny, now that he thought about it – this one also involved children.

“Yeah?” Jax said into his cell phone.

“Ralph.”

“S’up, dog?” Jax wondered if the skinny little pharaoh was leaning against something at the moment. “You get the word from our friend?” Meaning the character reference DeLisle Marshall.

“Yeah.”

“And the Graffiti King’s cool?” Jax asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good. So where are we on all this?”

“Okay, I found what you want, man. It’s -”

“Don’t say anything.” Cell phones were the devil’s own invention when it came to incriminating evidence. He gave the man an intersection on 116th Street. “Ten minutes.”

Jax disconnected and started up the street, as two ladies in their long overcoats, wearing elaborate church hats and clutching well-worn Bibles, detoured out of his way. He ignored their uneasy looks.

Smoking, walking steady with his gunshot-not-gangsta limp, Jax inhaled the air, high on being home. Harlem…looking around him at stores, restaurants and street vendors. You could buy anything here: West African woven cloth – kente and Malinke – and Egyptian ankhs, Bolga baskets, masks and banners and framed pictures of silhouetted men and women on African National Congress black, green and yellow. Posters too: Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., Tina, Tupac, Beyoncé, Chris Rock, Shaq… And dozens of pictures of Jam Master Jay, the brilliant and generous vinyl-spinning rapper with Run-D.M.C., gunned down by some asshole in his Queens recording studio a few years back.

Jax was hit left and right by memories. He glanced at another corner. Well, lookit that. Now a fast food place, it had been the site of Jax’s first crime, committed when he was fifteen – the crime that had launched him on the path to becoming righteously notorious. Because what he racked wasn’t liquor or cigarettes or guns or cash, but a case of phat Krylon from a hardware store. Which he went on to use up over the next twenty-four hours, compounding the larceny with trespass and criminal property damage by spray-painting the graffitied bubble letters Jax 157 throughout Manhattan and the Bronx.

Over the next few years Jax bombed that tag of his on thousands of surfaces: overpasses, bridges, viaducts, walls, billboards, stores, city buses, private buses, office buildings – he tagged Rockefeller Center, right beside that gold statue, before getting tackled by two massive security bulls, who laid into him hard with Mace and nightsticks.

If young Alonzo Jackson found himself with five minutes of privacy and a flat surface, Jax 157 appeared.

Struggling to get through high school, the son of divorced parents, bored to death with normal jobs, steady in trouble, he found comfort as a writer (graffiti guerrillas were “writers,” not “artists” – what Keith Haring, the Soho galleries and claimer ad agencies told everybody). He ran with some local Blood posses for a time, but he changed his mind one day when he was hanging with his set on 140th, and the Trey-Sevens drove by, and pop, pop, pop, Jimmy Stone, standing right next to him, went down with two holes in the temple, dead ’fore he hit the ground. All on account of a small bag of rock, or on account of no reason at all.

Fuck that. Jax went out on his own. Less money. But a hell of a lot safer (despite spraying his tag on places like the Verrazano Bridge and a moving A train car – which was one phat story that even brothers in prison had heard of).

Alonzo Jackson, unofficially but permanently renamed Jax, dove into his craft. He started out simply bombing his tag throughout the city. But, he learned early that if that’s all you do, even if you lay it in every borough of the city, you’re nothing but a lame “toy,” and graffiti kings wouldn’t give you the time of day.

So, skipping school, working in fast food restaurants during the day to pay for paint, or racking what he could steal, Jax moved on to throw-ups – tags written fast but a lot bigger than bombing. He became a master of the top-to-bottom: doing the entire vertical height of a subway car. The A train, supposedly the longest route through town, was his personal favorite. Thousands of visitors would travel from Kennedy Airport into the city on a train that didn’t say Welcome to the Big Apple; it offered the mysterious message: Jax 157.

By the time Jax was twenty-one he’d done two total end-to-ends – covering the entire side of a subway car with his graffiti – and had come close to doing a whole train, every graffiti king’s dream. He did his share of ’pieces too. Jax had tried to describe what a graffiti masterpiece was. But all he could come up with was that a ’piece was something more. Something breathtaking. A work that a cluckhead crack addict sitting in a gutter and a Wall Street trader on New Jersey Transit could both look at and think, Man, that is so fucking cool.

Those were the days, Jax reflected. He was a graffiti king, in the middle of the most powerful black cultural movement since the Harlem Renaissance: hip-hop.

Sure, the Renaissance must’ve been def. But to Jax it was a smart person’s thing. It came from the head. Hip-hop burst from the soul and from the heart. It wasn’t born in colleges and writer’s lofts, it came right from the fucking streets, from the angry and striving and despairing kids who had impossibly hard lives and broken homes, who walked on sidewalks littered with cookie vials discarded by the crackheads and dotted with brown, dried blood. It was the raw shout from people who had to shout to be heard… Hip-hop’s four legs delivered everything: music in DJ’ing, poetry in MC rapping, dance in the b-boy’s breakdancing and art in Jax’s own contribution, graffiti.

In fact, here on 116th Street, he paused and looked at the place where the Woolworth’s five-and-dime had stood. The store hadn’t survived the chaos after the famous blackout of 1977 but what had sprouted in its place was a righteous miracle, the number-one hip-hop club in the nation, Harlem World. Three floors of every kind of music you could imagine, radical, addictive, electrifying. B-boys spinning like tops, writhing like stormy waves. DJs spinning vinyl for the packed dance floors, and MCs making love to their microphones and filling the room with their raw, don’t-fuck-with-me poems, pounding in time to the rhythm of a real heart. Harlem World was where the throw-downs started, the battles of the rappers. Jax had been lucky enough to see what was considered the most famous of all time: the Cold Crush Brothers and the Fantastic Five…

Harlem World was long gone, of course. Also gone – scrubbed or worn away or painted over – were the thousands of Jax’s tags and ’pieces, along with those by the other graffiti legends of the early hip-hop era, Julio and Kool and Taki. The kings of graffiti.

Oh, there were those lamenting the demise of hip-hop, which had become BET, multimillionaire rappers in chrome Humvees, Bad Boys II, big business, suburban white kids, iPods and MP3 downloads and satellite radio. It was…well, case in point: Jax was watching a double-decker tour bus ease to the curb nearby. On the side was the sign Rap/Hip-Hop Tours. See the Real Harlem . The passengers were a mix of black and white and Asian tourists. He heard snatches of the driver’s rehearsed spiel and the promise that they’d soon be stopping for lunch at an “authentic soul food” restaurant.

But Jax didn’t agree with the claimers bitching that the old days were gone. The heart of Uptown remained pure. Nothing could ever touch it. Take the Cotton Club, he reflected, that 1920s institution of jazz and swing and stride piano. Everybody thought it was the real Harlem, right? How many people knew that it was for white-only audiences (even the famed Harlem resident W. C. Handy, one of the greatest American composers of all time, was turned away at the door, while his own music was playing inside).

Well, guess what? The Cotton Club was fucking gone. Harlem wasn’t. And it never would be. The Renaissance was done and hip-hop had changed. But percolating right now in the streets around him was some brand-new movement. Jax wondered what exactly this one would be. And if he’d even be around to see it – if he didn’t handle this thing with Geneva Settle right he’d be dead or back in prison within twenty-four hours.

Enjoy your soul food, he thought to the tourists as the bus pulled away from the curb.

Continuing up the street for a few blocks, Jax finally found Ralph, who was – sure enough – leaning against a boarded-up building.

“Dog,” Jax said.

“S’up?”

Jax kept on walking.

“Where we goin’?” Ralph asked, speeding up to keep pace beside the large man.

“Nice day for a walk.”

“It cold out.”

“Walking’ll warm you up.”

They kept going for a time, Jax ignoring whatever the fuck Ralph was whining about. He stopped at Papaya King and bought four dogs and two fruit drinks, without asking Ralph if he was hungry. Or a vegetarian or puked when he drank mango juice. He paid and walked out onto the street again, handing the skinny man his lunch. “Don’t eat it here. Come on.” Jax looked up and down the street. Nobody was following. He started off again, moving fast. Ralph followed. “We walkin’ ’cause you don’ trust me?”

“Yeah.”

“So why you ain’t trust me all of a sudden?”

“‘Cause you had time to dime me out since I saw you last. What exactly is the mystery here?”

“Nice day fo’ a walk,” was Ralph’s answer. He snuck a bite of hot dog.

They continued for a half block to a street that seemed deserted and the pair turned south. Jax stopped. Ralph did too and leaned against a wrought-iron fence in front of a brownstone. Jax ate his hot dogs and sipped the mango juice. Ralph wolfed down his own lunch.

Eating, drinking, just two workers on their meal break from a construction job or window washing. Nothing suspicious about this.

“That place, shit, they make good dogs,” Ralph said.

Jax finished the food, wiped his hands on his jacket and patted down Ralph’s T-shirt and jeans. No wires. “Let’s get to it. What’d you find?”

“The Settle girl, okay? She goin’ to Langston Hughes. You know it? The high school.”

“Sure, I know it. She there now?”

“I don’t know. You ask where, not when. Only I hear something else from my boys in the hood.”

The hood…

“They be saying somebody got her back. Stayin’ on her steady.”

“Who?” Jax asked. “Cops?” Wondering why he even bothered. Of course it’d be them.

“Seem to be.”

Jax finished his fruit juice. “And the other thing?”

Ralph frowned.

“That I asked for.”

“Oh.” The pharaoh looked around. Then pulled a paper bag from his pocket and slipped it into Jax’s hand. He could feel the gun was an automatic and that it was small. Good. Like he asked. Loose bullets clicked in the bottom of the sack.

“So,” Ralph said cautiously.

“So.” Jax pulled some benjamins from his pocket and handed them to Ralph and then leaned close to the man. He smelled malt and onion and mango. “Now, listen up. Our business’s done with. If I hear you told anybody ’bout this, or even mention my name, I will find you and cap your fucked-up ass. You can ask DeLisle and he will tell you I am one coal-bad person to cross. You know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, sir,” Ralph whispered to his mango juice.

“Now get the fuck outa here. No, go that way. And don’t look back.”

Then Jax was moving in the opposite direction, back to 116th Street, losing himself in the crowds of shoppers. Head down, moving fast, despite the limp, but not so fast as to attract attention.

Up the street another tour bus squealed to a stop in front of the site of the long-dead Harlem World, and some anemic rap dribbled from a speaker inside the gaudy vehicle. But at the moment the blood-painting King of Graffiti wasn’t reflecting on Harlem, hip-hop or his criminal past. He had his gun. He knew where the girl was. The only thing he was thinking about now was how long it would take him to get to Langston Hughes High.

Chapter Twelve

The petite Asian woman eyed Sachs cautiously.

The uneasiness was no wonder, the detective supposed, considering that she was surrounded by a half dozen officers who were twice her size – and that another dozen waited on the sidewalk outside her store.

“Good morning,” Sachs said. “This man we’re looking for? It’s very important we find him. He may’ve committed some serious crimes.” She was speaking a bit more slowly than she supposed was politically correct.

Which was, it turned out, a tidy faux pas.

“I understand that,” the woman said in perfect English, with a French accent, no less. “I told those other officers everything I could think of. I was pretty scared. With him trying the stocking cap on, you understand. Pulling it down like it was a mask. Scary.”

“I’m sure it was,” Sachs said, picking up her verbal pace a bit. “Say, you mind if we take your fingerprints?”

This was to verify that they were her prints on the receipt and merchandise found at the museum library scene. The woman agreed, and a portable analyzer verified that they were hers.

Sachs then asked, “You’re sure you don’t have any idea who he is or where he lives?”

“None. He’s only been in here once or twice. Maybe more, but he’s the sort of person you never seem to notice. Average. Didn’t smile, didn’t frown, didn’t say anything. Totally average.”

Not a bad look for a killer, Sachs reflected. “What about your other employees?”

“I asked them all. None of them remember him.”

Sachs opened the suitcase, replaced the fingerprint analyzer and pulled out a Toshiba computer. In a minute she’d booted it up and loaded the Electronic Facial Identification Technique software. This was a computerized version of the old Identikit, used to re-create images of suspects’ faces. The manual system used preprinted cards of human features and hair, which officers combined and showed to witnesses to create a likeness of a suspect. EFIT used software to do the same, producing a nearly photographic image.

Within five minutes, Sachs had a composite picture of a jowly, clean-shaven white man with trim, light brown hair, in his forties. He looked like any one of a million middle-aged businessmen or contractors or store clerks you’d find in the metro area.

Average…

“Do you remember what he wore?”

There’s a companion program to EFIT, which will dress the suspect’s image in various outfits – like mounting clothes on paper dolls. But the woman couldn’t recall anything other than a dark raincoat.

She added, “Oh, one thing. I think he had a Southern accent.”

Sachs nodded and jotted this into her notebook. She then hooked up a small laser printer and soon had two dozen five-by-seven-inch copies of Unsub 109’s image, with a short description of his height, weight and the fact he might be wearing a raincoat and had an accent. She added the warning that he targeted innocents. These she handed to Bo Haumann, the grizzled, crew-cut former drill instructor who was now head of the Emergency Services Unit, which was New York ’s tactical group. He in turn distributed the pictures to his officers and the uniformed patrolmen who were here with the team. Haumann divided the law enforcers up – mixing Patrol with ESU, which had heavier firepower – and ordered them to start canvassing the neighborhood.

The dozen officers dispersed.

NYPD, the constabulary of the city of cool, put their tactical teams not in army-style armored personnel carriers but in off-the-shelf squad cars and vans and carted their equipment around in an ESU bus – a nondescript blue-and-white truck. One of these was now parked near the store as a staging vehicle.

Sachs and Sellitto pulled on body armor with shock plates over the heart and headed into Little Italy. The neighborhood had changed dramatically in the past fifteen years. Once a huge enclave of working-class Italian immigrants, it had shrunk to nearly nothing, owing to the spread of Chinatown from the south, and young professionals from the north and west. On Mulberry Street the two detectives now passed an emblem of this change: the building that was the former Ravenite Social Club, home of the Gambino crime family, which long-gone John Gotti had headed. The club had been seized by the government – resulting in the inevitable nickname “Club Fed” – and was now just another commercial building looking for a tenant.

The two detectives picked a block and began their canvass, flashing their shields and the picture of the unsub to street vendors and clerks in stores, teenagers cutting classes and sipping Starbucks coffee, retirees on benches or front stairs. They’d occasionally hear reports from the other officers. “Nothing…Negative on Grand, K…Copy that…Negative on Hester, K…We’re trying east…”

Sellitto and Sachs continued along their own route, having no more luck than anyone else.

A loud bang behind them.

Sachs gasped – not at the noise, which she recognized immediately as a truck backfire – but at Sellitto’s reaction. He’d jumped aside, actually taking cover behind a phone kiosk, his hand on the grip of his revolver.

He blinked and swallowed. Gave a shallow laugh. “Fucking trucks,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Sachs said.

He wiped his face and they continued on.

Sitting in his safe house, smelling garlic from one of the nearby restaurants in Little Italy, Thompson Boyd was huddled over a book, reading the instructions it offered and then examining what he’d bought at the hardware store an hour ago.

He marked certain pages with yellow Post-it tabs and jotted notes in the margins. The procedures he was studying were a bit tricky but he knew he’d work through them. There wasn’t anything you couldn’t do if you took your time. His father taught him that. Hard tasks or easy.

It’s only a question of where you put the decimal point…

He pushed back from the desk, which, along with one chair, one lamp and one cot, was the only piece of furniture in the place. A small TV set, a cooler, a garbage can. He also kept a few supplies here, things he used in his work. Thompson pulled the latex glove away from his right wrist and blew into it, cooling his skin. Then he did the same with his left. (You always assumed a safe house would get tossed at some point so you took precautions there’d be no evidence to convict you, whether it was wearing gloves or using a booby trap.) His eyes were acting up today. He squinted, put drops in, and the stinging receded. He closed his lids.

Whistling softly that haunting song from the movie Cold Mountain.

Soldiers shooting soldiers, that big explosion, bayonets. Images from the film cascaded through his mind.

Wssst…

That song disappeared, along with the images, and up popped a classical tune. “Bolero.”

Where the tunes came from, he generally couldn’t tell. It was like in his head there was a CD changer that somebody else had programmed. But with “Bolero” he knew the source. His father had the piece on an album. The big, crew-cut man had played it over and over on the green-plastic Sears turntable in his workshop.

“Listen to this part, son. It changes key. Wait…wait…There! You hear that?”

The boy believed he had.

Thompson now opened his eyes and returned to the book.

Five minutes later: Wsssst…“Bolero” went away and another melody started easing out through his pursed lips: “Time After Time.” That song Cyndi Lauper made famous in the eighties.

Thompson Boyd had always liked music and from an early age wanted to play an instrument. His mother took him to guitar and flute lessons for several years. After her accident his father drove the boy himself, even if that made him late to work. But there were problems with Thompson’s advancement: His fingers were too big and stubby for fret boards and flute keys and piano, and he had no voice at all. Whether it was church choir or Willie or Waylon or Asleep at the Wheel, nope, he couldn’t get more than a croak out of the old voice box. So, after a year or two, he turned away from the music and filled his time with what boys normally did in places like Amarillo, Texas: spending time with his family, nailing and planing and sanding in his father’s work shed, playing touch then tackle football, hunting, dating shy girls, going for walks in the desert.

And he tucked his love of music wherever failed hopes go.

Which usually isn’t very far beneath the surface. Sooner or later they crawl out again.

In his case this happened to be in prison a few years ago. A guard on the maximum security block came up and asked Thompson, “What the fuck was that?”

“How do you mean?” asked the ever-placid Average Joe.

“That song. You were whistling.”

“I was whistling?”

“Fuck yes. You didn’t know?”

He said to the guard, “Just something I was doing. Wasn’t thinking.”

“Damn, sounded good.” The guard wandered off, leaving Thompson to laugh to himself. How ’bout that? He had an instrument all along, one he’d been born with, one he carried around with him. Thompson went to the prison library and looked into this. He learned that people would call him an “orawhistler,” which was different from a tin-whistle player, say – like in Irish bands. Orawhistlers are rare – most people have very limited whistling range – and could make good livings as professional musicians in concerts, advertising, TV and movies (everybody knew the Bridge on the River Kwai theme, of course; you couldn’t even think about it without whistling the first few notes, at least in your head). There were even orawhistling competitions, the most famous being the International Grand Championship, which featured dozens of performers – many of them appeared regularly with orchestras around the world and had their own cabaret acts.

Wssst…

Another tune came into his head. Thompson Boyd exhaled the notes softly, getting a soft trill. He noticed he’d moved his.22 out of reach. That wasn’t doing things by the book… He pulled the pistol closer then returned to the instruction booklet again, sticking more Post-it notes onto pages, glancing into the shopping bag to make sure he had everything he needed. He thought that he had the technique down. But, as always when he approached something new, he was going to learn everything cold before executing the job.

“Nothing, Rhyme,” Sachs said into the microphone dangling near her ample lips.

That his prior good mood had vanished like steam was evident when he snapped, “Nothing?”

“Nobody’s seen him.”

“Where are you?”

“We’ve covered basically all of Little Italy. Lon and I’re at the south end. Canal Street.”

“Hell,” Rhyme muttered.

“We could…” Sachs stopped speaking. “What’s that?”

“What?” Rhyme asked.

“Hold on a minute.” To Sellitto she said, “Come on.”

Displaying her badge she forced her way through four lanes of thick, attitudinal traffic. She looked around then started south on Elizabeth Street, a dark canyon of tenements, retail shops and warehouses. She stopped again. “Smell that?”

Rhyme asked caustically, “Smell?”

“I’m asking Lon.”

“Yeah,” the big detective said. “What is that? Something, you know, sweet.”

Sachs pointed to a wholesale herbal products, soap and incense company, two doors south of Canal on Elizabeth Street. A strong flowery scent wafted from the open doors. It was jasmine – the aroma that they’d detected on the rape pack and that Geneva herself had smelled at the museum.

“We might have a lead, Rhyme. I’ll call you back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the slim Chinese man in the herbal wholesaler said, gazing at the EFIT composite picture of Unsub 109. “I see him some. Upstair. He not there a lot. What he do?”

“Is he up there now?”

“Don’t know. Don’t know. Think I saw him today. What he do?”

“Which apartment?”

The man shrugged.

The herbal import company took up the first floor, but at the end of the dim entryway, past a security door, were steep stairs leading up into darkness. Sellitto pulled out his radio and called in on the operations frequency. “We’ve got him.”

“Who’s this?” Haumann snapped.

“Oh, sorry. It’s Sellitto. We’re two buildings south of Canal on Elizabeth. We’ve got a positive ID on the tenant. Might be in the building now.”

“ESU Command, all units. You copy, K?”

Affirmative responses filled the airwaves.

Sachs identified herself and transmitted, “Make it a silent roll-up and stay off Elizabeth. He can see the street from the window in the front.”

“Roger, five-eight-eight-five. What’s the address? I’m calling in for a no-knock warrant, K.”

Sachs gave him the street number. “Out.”

Less than fifteen minutes later the teams were on site and S and S officers were checking out the front and rear of the building with binoculars and infrared and sonic sensors. The lead Search and Surveillance officer said, “There’re four floors in the building. Import warehouse is on the ground. We can see into the second and the fourth floors. They’re occupied – Asian families. Elderly couple on the second and the top’s got a woman and four or five kids.”

Haumann said, “And the third floor?”

“Windows are curtained, but the infrared scans positive for heat. Could be a TV or heater. But could be human. And we’re getting some sounds. Music. And the creaking of floors, sounds like.”

Sachs looked at the building directory. The plate above the intercom button for the third floor was empty.

An officer arrived and gave Haumann a piece of paper. It was the search warrant signed by a state court judge and had just been faxed to the ESU command post truck. Haumann looked it over, made sure the address was correct – a wrong no-knock could subject them to liability and jeopardize the case against the unsub. But the paper was in order. Haumann said, “Two entry teams, four people each, front stairwell and back fire escape. A battering ram at the front.” He pulled eight officers from the group and divided them into two groups. One of them – A team – was to go through the front. B was on the fire escape. He told the second group, “You take out the window on the three count and hit him with a flash-bang, two-second delay.”

“Roger.”

“On zero, take out the front door,” he said to the head of the A team. Then he assigned other officers to guard the innocents’ doors and to be backup. “Now deploy. Move, move, move!”

The troopers – mostly men, two women – moved out, as Haumann ordered. The B team went around to the back of the building, while Sachs and Haumann joined the A team, along with an officer manning the battering ram.

Under normal circumstances a crime scene officer wouldn’t be allowed on an entry team. But Haumann had seen Sachs under fire and knew she could pull her own. And, more important, the ESU officers themselves welcomed her. They’d never admit it, at least not to her, but they considered Sachs one of them and were glad to have her. It didn’t hurt, of course, that she was one of the top pistol shots on the force.

As for Sachs herself, well, she just plain liked doing kick-ins.

Sellitto volunteered to remain downstairs and keep an eye on the street.

Her knees aching from arthritis, Sachs climbed with the other officers to the third floor. She stepped close to the door and listened. She nodded to Haumann. “I can hear something,” she whispered.

Haumann said into his radio, “Team B, report.”

“We’re in position,” Sachs heard in her earpiece. “Can’t see inside. But we’re ready to go.”

The commander looked at the team around them. The huge officer with the battering ram – a weighted tube about three feet long – nodded. Another cop crouched beside him and closed his fingers around the doorknob to see if it was locked.

Into his mike Haumann whispered, “Five…four…three…”

Silence. This was the moment when they should’ve heard the sound of breaking glass and then the explosion of the stun grenade.

Nothing.

And something was wrong here too. The officer gripping the knob was shivering fiercely, moaning.

Jesus, Sachs thought, staring at him. The guy was having a fit or something. A tactical entry officer with epilepsy? Why the hell hadn’t that shown up in his medical?

“What’s wrong?” Haumann whispered to him.

The man didn’t reply. The quaking grew worse. His eyes were wide and only the whites showed.

“B team, report,” the commander called into his radio. “What’s going on, K?”

“Command, the window’s boarded up,” the B team leader transmitted. “Plywood. We can’t get a grenade in. Status of Alpha, K?”

The officer at the door had slumped now, his hand frozen on the knob, still shivering. Haumann whispered in a harsh voice, “We’re wasting time! Get him out of the way and take the door out. Now!” Another officer grabbed the seizing one.

The second one began to shake too.

The other officers stepped back. One muttered, “What’s going -”

It was then that the first officer’s hair caught fire.

“He wired the door!” Haumann was pointing to a metal plate on the floor. You saw these often in old buildings – they were used as cheap patches on hardwood floors. This one, though, had been used by Unsub 109 to make an electric booby trap; high voltage was coursing through both men.

Fire was sprouting from the first officer’s head, his eyebrows, the backs of his hands, then his collar. The other cop was unconscious now, but still quivering horribly.

“Jesus,” an officer whispered in Spanish.

Haumann tossed his H &K machine gun to a nearby officer, took the battering ram and swung it hard at the wrist of the officer gripping the knob. Bones probably shattered, but the ram knocked his fingers loose. The circuit broken, the two men collapsed. Sachs beat out the flames, which were filling the hallway with the revolting smell of burnt hair and flesh.

Two of the backup officers began CPR on their unconscious colleagues, while an A-team cop grabbed the handles of the battering ram and swung it into the door, which burst open. The team raced inside, guns up. Sachs followed.

It took only five seconds to learn that the apartment was empty.

Chapter Thirteen

Bo Haumann called into his radio, “B Team, B team, we’re inside. No sign of the suspect. Get downstairs, sweep the alley. But remember – he waited around at the last scene. He goes for innocents. And he goes for cops.”

A desk lamp burned and when Sachs touched the seat of the chair she found it was warm. A small closed-circuit TV sat on the desk, the fuzzy screen showing the hallway in front of the door. He’d had a security camera hidden somewhere outside and seen them coming. The killer had gotten away only moments ago. But where? The officers looked around for an escape route. The window by the fire escape was covered with plywood. The other was uncovered but it was thirty feet above the alley. “He was here. How the hell’d he get away?”

The answer came a moment later.

“Found this,” an officer called. He’d been looking under the bed. He pulled the cot away from the wall, revealing a hole just big enough for a person to crawl through. It looked like the unsub had cut through the plaster and removed the brick wall between this building and the one next door. When he saw them on the TV monitor he’d simply kicked out the plaster on the other side of the wall and slipped into the adjoining building.

Haumann sent more officers to check the roof and nearby streets, others to find and cover the entrances into the building next door.

“Somebody into the hole,” the ESU commander ordered.

“I’ll go, sir,” a short officer said.

But with his bulky armor, even he couldn’t fit through the gap.

“I’ll do it,” Sachs said, by far the slimmest of the officers present. “But I need this room cleared. To save the evidence.”

“Roger that. We’ll get you inside then pull back.” Haumann ordered the bed moved aside. Sachs knelt down and shone her flashlight through the hole, on the other side of which was a catwalk in a warehouse or factory. To reach it she had a four-foot crawl through the tight space.

“Shit,” muttered Amelia Sachs, the woman who’d drive 160 miles per hour and trade shots face to face with cornered perps but came close to paralysis at the hint of claustrophobia.

Headfirst or feet?

She sighed.

Headfirst would be spookier but safer; at least she’d have a few seconds to find the umsub’s firing position before he could draw a target. She looked into the tight, dark space. A deep breath. Pistol in hand, she started forward.

What the hell’s the matter with me? Lon Sellitto thought, standing in front of the warehouse beside the herbal goods importer, the building whose front door he was supposed to be guarding. He stared at this doorway and at the windows, looking for the escaped unsub, praying the perp would show up so he could nail him.

Praying that he wouldn’t.

What the hell’s the matter?

In his years on the force Sellitto had been in a dozen firefights, taken weapons off cranked-up psychos, even wrestled a suicide off the roof of the Flatiron Building, with nothing but six inches of ornate trim separating him from heaven. He’d gotten shook sometimes, sure. But he’d always bounced right back. Nothing’d ever affected him like Barry’s death this morning. Being in the line of fire had spooked him, no denying that. But this was something else. Something to do with being so close to a person at that one moment…the moment of death. He couldn’t get the librarian’s voice out of his head, his last words as a living person.

I didn’t really see -

Couldn’t forget the sound of the three bullets striking his chest either.

Tap…tap…tap…

They were soft, barely audible, faint slaps. He’d never heard a noise like that. Lon Sellitto now shivered and felt nauseous.

And the man’s brown eyes…They were looking right into Sellitto’s when the slugs hit. In a fraction of an instant there was surprise, then pain, then…nothing. It was the oddest thing Sellitto had ever seen. Not like drifting off to sleep, not distracted. The only way to describe it: one moment there was something complicated and real behind the eyes and then, an instant later, even before he crumpled to the sidewalk, there was nothing.

The detective had remained frozen, staring at the limp doll lying in front of him – despite the fact that he knew he should be trying to run down the shooter. The medics had actually jostled him aside to get to Barry; Sellitto had been unable to move.

Tap…tap…tap…

Then, when it came time to call Barry’s next of kin, Sellitto had balked again. He’d made plenty of those difficult calls over the years. None of them easy, of course. But today he simply couldn’t face it. He’d made up some bullshit excuse about his phone and let someone else do the duty. He was afraid his voice would crack. He was afraid he’d cry, which he’d never done in his decades of service.

Now, he heard the radio report on the futile pursuit of the perp.

Hearing, tap, tap, tap…

Fuck, I just want to go home.

He wanted to be with Rachel, have a beer with her on their porch in Brooklyn. Well, too early for beer. A coffee. Or maybe it wasn’t too early for a beer. Or a scotch. He wanted to be sitting there, watching the grass and trees. Talking. Or not saying anything. Just to be with her. Suddenly the detective’s thoughts shifted to his teenage son, who lived with Sellitto’s ex. He hadn’t called the boy for three or four days. Had to do that.

He -

Shit. Sellitto realized that he was standing in the middle of Elizabeth Street with his back to the building he was supposed to be guarding, lost in thought. Jesus Christ! What’re you doing? The shooter’s loose around here somewhere, and you’re fucking daydreaming? He could be waiting in that alley there, or the other one, just like he was that morning.

Crouching, Sellitto turned back, examining the dark windows, smudged or shaded. The perp could be behind any one of them, sighting down on him right now with that fucking little gun of his. Tap, tap…The needles from the bullets tearing flesh to shreds as they fanned out. Sellitto shivered and stepped back, taking refuge between two parked delivery trucks, out of sight of the windows. Peering around the side of one van, he watched the black windows, he watched the door.

But those weren’t what he saw. No, he was seeing the brown eyes of the librarian in front of him, a few feet away.

I didn’t…

Tap, tap…

Life becoming no life.

Those eyes…

He wiped his shooting hand on his suit trousers, telling himself that he was sweating only because of the body armor. What was with the fucking weather? It was too hot for October. Who the hell wouldn’t sweat?

“I can’t see him, K,” Sachs whispered into her microphone.

“Say again?” was Haumann’s staticky reply.

“No sign of him, K.”

The warehouse into which Unsub 109 had fled was essentially one big open space divided by mesh catwalks. On the floor were pallets of olive oil bottles and tomato sauce cans, sealed in shrink-wrap. The catwalk she stood on was about thirty feet up, around the perimeter – level with the unsub’s apartment in the building next door. It was a working warehouse, though probably used only sporadically; there were no signs that employees had been here recently. The lights were out but enough illumination filtered through greasy skylights to give her a view of the place.

The floors were swept clean and she could find no footprints to reveal which way Unsub 109 had gone. In addition to the front door and back loading-dock door, there were two others on the ground-floor level, to the side. One labeled Restroom, the other unmarked.

Moving slowly, swinging her Glock ahead of her, her flashlight beam seeking a target, Amelia Sachs soon cleared the catwalks and the open area of the warehouse. She reported this to Haumann. ESU officers then kicked in the loading-dock door of the warehouse and entered, spreading out. Relieved for the reinforcements, she used hand signals to point to the two side doors. The cops converged on them.

Haumann radioed, “We’ve been canvassing but nobody’s seen him outside. He might still be inside, K.”

Sachs quietly acknowledged the transmission. She walked down the stairs to the main floor, joining up with the other officers.

She pointed to the bathroom. “On three,” she whispered.

They nodded. One pointed to himself but she shook her head, meaning she was going in on point. Sachs was furious – that the perp had gotten away, that he had a rape pack in a smiley-face bag, that he’d shot an innocent simply for diversion. She wanted this guy nailed and she wanted to make sure she had a piece of him.

She was in the armored vest, of course, but she couldn’t help thinking about what would happen if one of those needle bullets hit her face or arm.

Or throat.

She held up a single finger. One…

Go in fast, go in low, with two pounds of pressure on the two-and-a-half-pound trigger.

You sure about this, girl?

An image of Lincoln Rhyme came to mind.

Two…

Then a memory of her patrolman father imparting his philosophy of life from his deathbed, “Remember, Amie, when you move they can’t getcha.”

So, move!

Three.

She nodded. An officer kicked the door open – nobody was going near any metal doorknobs – and Sachs lunged forward, dropping into a painful crouch and spraying the flashlight beam around the small, windowless bathroom.

Empty.

She backed out and turned to the other door. The same routine here.

On three, another powerful kick. The door cracked inward.

Guns and flashlights up. Sachs thought, Brother, never easy, is it? She was looking down a long stairway that descended into pitch-black darkness. She noted that there were no backs on the stairs, which meant that the unsub could stand behind them and shoot into their ankles, calves or backs as they descended.

“Dark,” she whispered.

The men shut out their flashlights, mounted to the barrels of their machine guns. Sachs went first, knees aching. Twice she nearly tumbled down the uneven, loose steps. Four ESU officers followed her.

“Corner formation,” she whispered, knowing she wasn’t technically in charge, but unable to stop herself at this point. The troops didn’t question her. Touching one another’s shoulders to orient themselves, they formed a rough square, each facing outward and guarding a quadrant of the basement.

“Lights!”

The beams of the powerful halogens suddenly filled the small space as the guns sought targets.

She saw no threat, heard no sounds. Except one fucking loud heartbeat, she thought.

But that’s mine.

The basement contained a furnace, pipes, oil tanks, about a thousand empty beer bottles. Piles of trash. A half dozen edgy rats.

Two officers probed the stinking garbage bags, but the perp was clearly not here.

She radioed Haumann what they’d found. No one else had seen a sign of the unsub. All the officers were going to rendezvous at the command post truck to continue the canvass of the neighborhood, while Sachs searched the scenes for evidence – with everybody keeping in mind that, as at the museum earlier, the killer might still be nearby.

…watch your back.

Sighing, she replaced her weapon and turned toward the stairs. Then paused. If she took the same flight of steps back up to the main floor – a nightmare on her arthritic knees – she’d still have to walk down another flight to street level. An easier alternative was to take the much shorter stairway directly to the sidewalk.

Sometimes, she reflected, turning toward it, you just have to pamper yourself.

Lon Sellitto had become obsessed with one particular window.

He’d heard the transmission that the warehouse was clear, but he wondered if ESU had actually gotten into all the nooks and crannies. After all, everybody’d missed the unsub that morning at the museum. He’d easily gotten within pistol range.

Tap, tap, tap.

That one window, far right, second floor…It seemed to Sellitto that it had quivered once or twice.

Maybe just the wind. But maybe the motion was from somebody trying to open it.

Or aiming through it.

Tap.

He shivered and stepped back.

“Hey,” he called to an ESU officer, who’d just come out of the herbal importer’s. “Take a look – you see anything in that window?”

“Where?”

“That one.” Sellitto leaned out of cover just a bit and pointed to the black glass square.

“Naw. But the place’s cleared. Didn’t you hear?”

Sellitto leaned out from cover a bit farther, hearing tap, tap, tap, seeing brown eyes going lifeless. He squinted and, shivering, looked the window over carefully. Then in his periphery he suddenly saw motion to his left and heard the squeal of a door opening. A flash of light as the cold sun reflected off something metallic.

It’s him!

“God,” Sellitto whispered. He went for his gun, crouching and spinning toward the glint. But instead of following procedures when speed-drawing a weapon and keeping his index finger outside the trigger guard, he yanked the Colt from his holster in a panic.

Which is why the gun discharged an instant later, sending the slug directly toward the spot where Amelia Sachs was emerging from the basement door to the warehouse.

Chapter Fourteen

Standing at the corner of Canal and Sixth, a dozen blocks from his safe house, Thompson Boyd waited for the light to change. He caught his breath and wiped his damp face.

He wasn’t shaken, he wasn’t freaked out – the breathlessness and sweat were from the sprint to safety – but he was curious how they’d found him. He was always so careful with his contacts and the phones he used, and always checking to see if he was being followed, that he guessed it had to be through physical evidence. Made sense – because he was pretty sure that the woman in white, walking through the museum library scene like a sidewinder snake, had been in the hallway outside the apartment on Elizabeth Street. What had he left behind at the museum? Something in the rape bag? Some bits of trace from his shoes or clothes?

They were the best investigators he’d ever encountered. He’d have to keep that in mind.

Gazing at the traffic, he reflected on the escape. When he’d seen the officers coming up the stairs, he’d quickly placed the book and the purchases from the hardware store into the shopping bag, grabbed his attaché case and gun, then clicked on the switch that turned the doorknob live. He’d kicked through the wall and escaped into the warehouse next door, climbed to its roof and then hurried south to the end of the block. Climbing down a fire escape, he’d turned west and started sprinting, taking the course he’d charted out and practiced dozens of times.

Now, at Canal and Sixth, he was lost in a crowd waiting for the light to change, hearing the sirens of the police cars joining in the search for him. His face was emotionless, his hands didn’t shake, he wasn’t angry, he wasn’t panicked. This was the way he had to be. He’d seen it over and over again – dozens of professional killers he’d known had been caught because they panicked, lost their cool in front of the police and broke down under routine questioning. That, or they got rattled during the job, leaving evidence or living witnesses. Emotion – love, anger, fear – makes you sloppy. You had to be cool, distant.

Numb…

Thompson gripped his pistol, hidden in his raincoat pocket, as he watched several squad cars speed up Sixth Avenue. The vehicles skidded around the corner and turned east on Canal. They were pulling out all the stops looking for him. Not surprising, Thompson knew. New York’s finest would frown on a perp electrocuting one of their own (though in Thompson’s opinion it was the cop’s own fault for being careless).

Then a faint tone of concern sounded in his brain as he watched another squad car skid to a stop three blocks away. Officers got out and began interviewing people on the street. Then another rolled to a stop only two hundred feet from where he now stood. And they were moving this way. His car was parked near Hudson, about five minutes away. He had to get to it now. But still the stoplight remained red.

More sirens filled the air.

This was becoming a problem.

Thompson looked at the crowd around him, most of them peering east, intent on the police cars and the officers. He needed some distraction, some cover to get across the street. Just something…didn’t have to be flamboyant. Just enough to deflect people’s attention for a time. A fire in a trash bin, a car alarm, the sound of breaking glass…Any other ideas? Glancing south, to his left, Thompson noticed a large commuter bus headed up Sixth Avenue. It was approaching the intersection where the cluster of pedestrians stood. Set fire to the trash bin, or this? Thompson Boyd decided. He eased closer to the curb, behind an Asian girl, slim, in her twenties. All it took was an easy push in her lower back to send her into the bus’s path. Twisting in panic, gasping, she slid off the curb.

“She fell!” Thompson cried in a drawl-free shout. “Get her!”

Her wail was cut off as the right sideview mirror of the bus struck her shoulder and head and flung her body, tumbling, along the sidewalk. Blood spattered the window and those standing nearby. The brakes screamed. So did several of the women in the crowd.

The bus skidded to a stop in the middle of Canal, blocking traffic, where it would have to remain until the accident investigation. A fire in a trash basket, a breaking bottle, a car alarm – they might’ve worked. But he’d decided that killing the girl was more efficient.

Traffic was instantly frozen, including two approaching police cars on Sixth Avenue.

He crossed the street slowly, leaving the gathering crowd of horrified passersby, who were crying, or shouting, or just staring in shock at the limp, bloody body, crumpled against a chain-link fence. Her unseeing eyes stared blankly skyward. Apparently nobody thought the tragedy was anything more than a terrible accident.

People running toward her, people calling 911 on mobile phones…chaos. Thompson now calmly crossed the street, weaving through the stopped traffic. He’d already forgotten the Asian girl and was considering more important matters: He’d lost one safe house. But at least he’d escaped with his weapons, the things he’d bought at the hardware store and his instruction book. There were no clues at the apartment to lead to him or the man who’d hired him; not even the woman in white could find any connection. No, this wasn’t a serious problem.

He paused at a pay phone, called voice mail and received some good news. Geneva Settle, he learned, was attending Langston Hughes High School in Harlem. She was also, he found out, being guarded by police, which was no surprise, of course. Thompson would find out more details soon – presumably where she lived or even, with some luck, the fact that an opportunity had presented itself, and the girl had already been shot to death, the job finished.

Thompson Boyd then continued on to his car – a three-year-old Buick, in a boring shade of blue, a medium car, an average car, for Average Joe. He pulled into traffic and circled far around the bus accident congestion. He made his way toward the Fifty-ninth Street bridge, his thoughts occupied about what he’d learned in the book he’d been studying for the past hour, the one bristling with Post-it tabs, thinking about how he’d put his new skills to use.

“I don’t…I don’t know what to say.”

Miserable, Lon Sellitto was looking up at the captain who’d come directly here from Police Plaza as soon as the brass learned of the shooting incident. Sellitto sat on the curb, hair askew, belly over his belt, pink flesh showing between the buttons. His scuffed shoes pointed outward. Everything about him was rumpled at the moment.

“What happened?” The large, balding African-American captain had taken possession of Sellitto’s revolver and was holding it at his side, unloaded, the cylinder open, following NYPD procedures after an officer has discharged a weapon.

Sellitto looked into the tall man’s eyes and said, “I fumbled my piece.”

The captain nodded slowly and turned to Amelia Sachs. “You’re okay?”

She shrugged. “It was nothing. Slug hit nowhere near me.”

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 Beyoncé. 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 heart-breakingly 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 two 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?”

“The answer?”

“Then, listen up, this’s important. You gotta push this button to send it to me. That little button with the antenna on it. You don’t push it, it don’t send. Second question, push two. Then the answer.”

“I don’t understand.”

He laughed, wondering why she wasn’t getting it. “Whatchu think? We got a deal, girl. I’ll cover your back on the street. You cover mine in class.”

The realization hit her like a slap. Her eyes looked up, bored into his. “You mean cheat.”

He frowned. “Don’t go talking that shit out loud.” Looking around.

“You’re kidding. This’s a joke.”

“Joke? No, girl. You gonna help me.”

Not a question. An order.

She felt she was about to choke or be sick. Her breathing came fast. “I’m not going to do it.” She held the organizer out. He didn’t take it.

“What’s yo’ problem? Lotta girls help me.”

“Alicia,” Geneva whispered angrily, nodding and recalling a girl who’d been in math class with them until recently, Alicia Goodwin, a smart girl, a whiz in math. She’d left school when her family had moved to Jersey. She and Kevin had been tight. So that’s what this was all about: When he’d lost his partner, Kevin’d gone looking for a new one and picked Geneva, a better student than her predecessor but not nearly as good-looking. Geneva wondered how far down on the list she’d fallen. Anger and pain raged in her like fire in a boiler. This was even worse than what had happened at the museum this morning. At least the man in the mask hadn’t pretended to be her friend.

Judas…

Geneva raged, “You got a stable of girls feeding you the answers…What’d your GPA be if it weren’t for them?”

“I’m not stupid, girl,” he whispered angrily. “Just, I don’t need to learn this shit. I’ll be playing ball and getting tall paper for endorsements the rest of my life. Better for everybody for me to practice, ’sted of study.”

“‘For everybody.’” She gave a sour laugh. “So that’s where your grades come from: You steal them. Like you’d fiend somebody in Times Square for a gold chain.”

“Yo, girl, I telling you, watch yo’ mouth,” he whispered ominously.

“I’m not helping you,” she muttered.

Then he smiled, giving her a lowered-lid gaze. “I’ll make it worth yo’ while. You come over to my place anytime you want. I’ll fuck you good. I’ll even go down on you. I know what I’m about in that department.”

“Go to hell,” she shouted. Heads turned.

“Listen up,” he growled, gripping her arm hard. Pain surged. “You got the booty of a ten-year-old and you go round like some blondie from Long Island, thinking you’re better’n everybody. A peasy-haired bitch like you can’t be too choosy when it comes to a man, you know what I’m saying? Where you gonna find somebody good as me?”

Geneva gasped at the insult. “You’re disgusting.”

“Okay, girl, fine. You frigid, that’s cool. I pay you to help me. How much you want? A C-note. Two? I got tall paper. Come on, name yo’ price. I gotta pass this test.”

“Then study,” she snapped and flung the organizer at him.

He caught it in one hand and yanked her close to him with the other.

“Kevin,” a man’s voice called sternly.

“Fuck,” the boy whispered in disgust, closing his eyes momentarily, letting go of her arm.

Mr. Abrams, the math teacher, walked up and took the organizer away. He looked at it. “What’s this?”

“He wanted me to help him cheat,” Geneva said.

“The bitch’s wack. It’s hers and she -”

“Come on, we’re going to the office,” he said to Kevin.

The boy stared at her with cold eyes. She glared right back.

The teacher asked, “You all right, Geneva?”

She was rubbing her arm where he’d gripped her. She lowered her hand and nodded. “Just want to go to the bathroom for a few minutes.”

“Go ahead.” He said to the class, all staring, all quiet, “We’ll have a study period for ten minutes before the test.” The teacher escorted Kevin out the back door of the classroom. Which filled suddenly with rapid-fire gossip, as if somebody had clicked off the mute button on a TV. Geneva waited a few seconds then followed.

Looking up the corridor, she saw Detective Bell, standing with his arms crossed, near the front door. He didn’t see her. She stepped into the hallway and plunged into the crowd of students heading for their classes.

Geneva Settle didn’t make for the girls’ room, however. She came to the end of the hallway and pushed through the door into the deserted school yard, thinking: Nobody on earth’s going to see me cry.

There! Not a hundred feet from him.

Jax’s heart gave a fast thud when he saw Geneva Settle standing by herself in the school yard.

The Graffiti King was in the mouth of an alley across the street, where he’d been for the past hour, waiting for a glimpse of her. But this was even better than he hoped. She was alone. Jax looked over the block. There was an unmarked police car, with a cop inside, in front of the school, but it was some ways from the girl and the cop wasn’t looking at the school yard; he wouldn’t be able to see her from where he was even if he turned around. This might be easier than he’d thought.

So quit standing around, he told himself. Get your ass moving.

He pulled a black do-rag out of his pocket, slicked down his ’fro with it. Easing forward, pausing beside a battered panel truck, the ex-con scanned the playground (which reminded him a lot of the yard at prison, minus, of course, the razor wire and gun towers). He decided he could cross the street here and use the cover of a Food Emporium tractor-trailer that was parked along the sidewalk, its engine idling. He could get to within maybe twenty-five feet of her without being seen by Geneva or the cop. That’d be plenty close enough.

As long as the girl continued to look down, he could slip through the chain link unnoticed. She’d be spooked after everything that’d happened to her, and if she got a glimpse of him approaching, she’d probably turn and run, shouting for help.

Go slow, be careful.

But move now. You may not get a chance like this again.

Jax started for the girl, picking his steps carefully to keep his limping leg from shuffling leaves and giving him away.

Chapter Sixteen

Was that the way it always worked?

Did boys always want something from you?

In Kevin’s case, he wanted her mind. Well, wouldn’t she have been just as upset if she’d been built like Lakeesha and he’d hit on her for booty or boobs?

No, she thought angrily. That was different. That was normal. The counselors at school talked a lot about rape, about saying no, about what to do if a boy got too pushy. What to do after, if it happened.

But they never said a word about what to do if somebody wanted to rape your mind.

Shit, shit, shit!

Her teeth ground together and she wiped the tears, flung them away on her fingertips. Forget him! He’s a lame asshole. The calc test – that’s all that’s important.

d over dx times x to the nth equals…

Motion to her left. Geneva looked in that direction and, squinting against the sun, saw a figure across the street, in the shadows of a tenement, a man with a black do-rag on his head and wearing a dark green jacket. He’d been walking toward the school yard but then disappeared behind a big truck nearby. Her first panicked thought: The man from the library had come for her. But, no, this guy was black. Relaxing, she glanced at her Swatch. Get back inside.

Only…

Despairing, she thought about the looks she’d get. Kevin’s boys, who’d give her the bad eye. The bling girls, who’d stare and laugh.

Get her down, get the bitch down…

Forget about them. Who gives a shit what they think? The test is all that matters.

d over dx times x to the nth equals nx to the nth minus one…

As she started back for the side door she wondered if Kevin would be suspended. Or maybe expelled. She hoped so.

d over dx times…

It was then that she heard the scrape of footsteps from the street. Geneva stopped and turned. She couldn’t see anyone clearly, because of the glare of the bright sun. Was it the black man in the green jacket coming toward her?

The sound of footsteps paused. She turned away, started toward the school, pushing aside every thought but the power rule of calculus.

…equals nx to the nth minus one…

Which is when she heard footsteps again, moving fast now. Somebody was charging forward, headed straight for her. She couldn’t see. Who is it? She held her hand up to block the fierce sunlight.

And heard Detective Bell’s voice call, “ Geneva! Don’t move!”

The man was sprinting forward, with someone else – Officer Pulaski – at his side. “Miss, what happened? Why’d you come outside?”

“I was -”

Three police cars squealed up nearby. Detective Bell looked up, toward the large truck, squinting into the sun. “Pulaski! That’s him. Go, go, go!”

They were looking at the receding form of the man she’d seen a minute ago, the one in the green jacket. He was jogging away quickly, with a slight limp, down an alley.

“I’m on it.” The officer sprinted after him. He squeezed through the gate and disappeared into the alley, in pursuit of the man. Then a half dozen police officers appeared in the school yard. They fanned out and surrounded Geneva and the detectives.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Hurrying her toward the cars, Detective Bell explained that they’d just heard from an FBI agent, somebody named Dellray, who worked with Mr. Rhyme. One of his informants had learned that a man in Harlem had been asking about Geneva that morning, trying to find which school she went to and where she lived. He was African-American and wearing a dark green army jacket. He’d been arrested on a murder charge a few years ago and was now armed. Because the attacker in the museum that morning was white and might not know Harlem very well, Mr. Rhyme concluded, he’d decided to use an accomplice who knew the neighborhood.

After Mr. Bell learned this, the detective had gone into the classroom to get her and found out that she’d slipped out the back door. But Jonette Monroe, the undercover cop, had been keeping an eye on her and followed her. She’d then alerted the police to where Geneva was.

Now, the detective said, they had to get her back to Mr. Rhyme’s immediately.

“But the test. I -”

“No tests, no school until we catch this guy,” Bell said firmly. “Now, come on, miss.”

Furious at Kevin’s betrayal, furious that she’d been dragged into the middle of this mess, she crossed her arms. “I have to take that test.”

“Geneva, you don’t know what kind of muley I can be. I aim to keep you alive and if that means picking you up and carrying you to my car rest assured I will do just that.” His dark eyes, which had seemed so easygoing, were now hard as rocks.

“All right,” she muttered.

They continued toward the cars, the detective looking around them, checking the shadows. She noticed his hand was near his side. Close to his gun. The blond-haired officer trotted up to them a moment later. “Lost him,” he gasped, catching his breath. “Sorry.”

Bell sighed. “Any description?”

“Black, six feet, solid build. Limp. Black do-rag. No beard or mustache. Late thirties, early forties.”

“Did you see anything else, Geneva?”

She shook her head sullenly.

Bell said, “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”

She climbed into the back of the detective’s Ford, with the blond officer beside her. Mr. Bell started for the driver’s side. The counselor they’d met earlier, Mrs. Barton, hurried up, a frown on her face. “Detective, what’s wrong?”

“We have to get Geneva out of here. Might be that one of the people wants to hurt her was close by. Still could be, for all we know.”

The heavy woman looked around, frowning. “Here?”

“We aren’t sure. A possibility, all I’m saying. Just better to play it safe.” The detective added, “We’re thinking he was here about five minutes ago. African-American, good-sized fella. Wearing a green army jacket and do-rag. Clean-shaven. Limping. He was on the far side of the school yard, by that big truck there. Could you could ask students and teachers if they know him or saw anything else?”

“Of course.”

He asked her too to see if any school security tapes might have picked him up. They exchanged phone numbers, then the detective dropped into the driver’s seat, started the engine. “Buckle up, everybody. We aren’t exactly going to be moseyin’ on out of here.”

Just as Geneva clicked her seat belt on, the policeman hit the gas and the car skidded away from the curb and started a roller-coaster ride through the ragged streets of Harlem, as Langston Hughes High School – her last fortress of sanity and comfort – disappeared from view.

As Amelia Sachs and Lon Sellitto organized the evidence she’d collected at the safe house on Elizabeth Street, Rhyme was thinking about Unsub 109’s accomplice – the man who’d just gotten real damn close to Geneva at her school.

There was a possibility that the unsub had been using this man solely for surveillance, except that with the ex-con’s violent background and the fact he was armed, he too was probably prepared to kill her himself. Rhyme had hoped that the man had shed some evidence near the school yard, but no – a crime scene team had looked over the area carefully and found nothing. And a canvass team had located no witnesses on the street who’d seen him or how he got away. Maybe -

“Hi, Lincoln,” a male voice said.

Startled, Rhyme looked up and saw a man standing nearby. In his mid-forties, with broad shoulders, a close-cropped cap of silver hair, bangs in the front. He wore an expensive, dark gray suit.

“Doctor. Didn’t hear the bell.”

“Thom was outside. He let me in.”

Robert Sherman, the doctor supervising Rhyme’s physical therapy, ran a clinic that specialized in working with spinal cord injury patients. It was he who’d developed Rhyme’s regimen of therapy, the bicycle and the locomotor treadmill, as well as aquatherapy and the traditional range-of-motion exercises that Thom performed on Rhyme.

The doctor and Sachs exchanged greetings, then he glanced at the lab, noting the bustle of activity. From a therapeutic point of view, he was pleased that Rhyme had a job. Being engaged in an activity, he’d often said, vastly improved one’s will and drive to improve (though he caustically urged Rhyme to avoid situations where he could be, say, burned to death, which had nearly happened in a recent case).

The doctor was talented and amiable and damn smart. But Rhyme had no time for him at the moment, now that he knew two armed perps were after Geneva. He greeted the medico in a distracted mood.

“My receptionist said you canceled the appointment today. I wondered if you were okay.”

A concern that could easily have been addressed via telephone, the criminalist reflected.

But that way the doctor couldn’t have put the same pressure on Rhyme to take the tests as he could in person.

And Sherman had indeed been pressuring him. He wanted to know that the exercise plan was paying off. Not only for the patient’s sake but also so that the doctor himself could incorporate the information into his ongoing studies.

“No, everything’s fine,” Rhyme said. “A case just fell into our laps.” He gestured toward the evidence board. Sherman eyed it.

Thom stuck his head in the doorway. “Doctor, you want some coffee? Soda?”

“Oh, we don’t want to take up the doctor’s precious time,” Rhyme said quickly. “Now that he knows that there’s nothing wrong, I’m sure he’ll want to – ”

“A case?” Sherman asked, still looking over the board.

After a moment Rhyme said in a brittle voice, “A tough one. Very bad man out there. One we were in the process of trying to catch when you stopped by.” Rhyme wasn’t inclined to give an inch and didn’t apologize for his rude behavior. But doctors or therapists who deal with SCI patients know that they come with some bonuses: anger, bad attitudes and searing tongues. Sherman was completely unaffected by Rhyme’s behavior. The doctor continued to study Rhyme as he responded: “No, nothing for me, Thom, thank you. I can’t stay long.”

“You sure?” A nod toward Rhyme. “Don’t mind him.”

“I’m fine, yes.”

But even though he didn’t want a refreshing beverage, even though he couldn’t stay long, nonetheless here he was, not making any immediate move to depart. In fact, he was pulling up a fucking chair and sitting down.

Sachs glanced toward Rhyme. He gave her a blank look and turned back to the doctor, who scooted his chair closer. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “Lincoln, you’ve been resisting the tests for months now.”

“It’s been a whirlwind. Four cases we’ve been working on. And now five. Time-consuming, as you can imagine…And fascinating, by the way. Unique issues.” Hoping the doctor would ask him for some details, which would at least deflect the course of the conversation.

But the man didn’t, of course. SCI doctors never went for the bait. They’d seen it all. Sherman said, “Let me say one thing.”

And how the hell can I stop you? thought the criminalist.

“You’ve worked harder on our exercises than any other patient of mine. I know you’re resisting the test because you’re afraid it won’t’ve had any effect. Am I right?”

“Not really, Doctor. I’m just busy.”

As if he hadn’t heard, Sherman said, “I know you’re going to find considerable improvement in your overall condition and functional status.”

Doctor-talk could be as prickly as cop-talk, Rhyme reflected. He replied, “I hope so. But if not, believe me, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the muscle mass improvement, the bone density improvement… Lungs and heart are better. That’s all I’m after. Not motor movement.”

Sherman eyed him up and down. “You really feel that way?”

“Absolutely.” Looking around, he lowered his voice as he said, “These exercises won’t let me walk.”

“No, that won’t happen.”

“So why would I want some tiny improvement in my left little toe? That’s pointless. I’ll do the exercises, keep myself in the best shape I can and in five or ten years, when you folks come up with a miracle graft or clone or something, I’ll be ready to start walking again.”

The doctor smiled and clapped his hand on Rhyme’s leg, a gesture he did not feel. Sherman nodded. “I’m so glad to hear you say that, Lincoln. The biggest problem I have is patients’ giving up because they find that all the exercise and hard work doesn’t really change their lives very much. They want big wins and cures. They don’t realize that this kind of war is won with small victories.”

“I think I’ve already won.”

The doctor rose. “I’d still like those scans done. We need the data.”

“As soon as – hey, Lon, are you listening? Incoming cliché! As soon as the deck is cleared.”

Sellitto, who had no clue what Rhyme was talking about, or didn’t care, gave him a hollow look.

“All right,” Sherman said and walked to the door. “And good luck with the case.”

“We’ll hope for the best,” Rhyme said cheerily.

The man of small victories left the town house and Rhyme immediately turned back to the evidence boards.

Sachs took a call and listened for a moment, hung up. “That was Bo Haumann. Those guys on the entry team? The ones who took the electricity? The first one’s got some bad burns, but he’ll live. The other one’s been released.”

“Thank God,” Sellitto said, seeming hugely relieved. “Man, what that must’ve been like. All that juice going through you.” He closed his eyes momentarily. “The burns. And the smell. Jesus. His hair was fucking burnt off… I’ll send him something. No, I’ll take him a present myself. Maybe flowers. Think he’d like some flowers?”

This reaction, like his earlier behavior, wasn’t typical of Sellitto. Cops got hurt and cops got killed, and everybody on the force accepted that reality in his or her own way. There were plenty of officers who’d say, “Thank God he’s alive,” and bless themselves and trot to the closest church to pray their thanks. But Sellitto’s way was to nod and get on with the job. Not to act like this.

“No clue,” Rhyme said.

Flowers?

Mel Cooper called out, “ Lincoln, I’ve got Captain Ned Seely on the line.” The tech had been talking to the Texas Rangers about the killing in Amarillo that VICAP had reported was similar to the incident at the museum.

“Speaker it.”

He did and Rhyme asked, “Hello, Captain?”

“Yes, sir,” came the response, a drawl. “Mr. Rhyme?”

“That’s right.”

“Got your associate’s request for information on the Charlie Tucker case. I pulled what he had but it wasn’t much. You think it’s the same fellow causing a stir up your way?”

“The M.O.’s similar to an incident we had here this morning. His shoes were the same brand – so was the tread wear. And he left some fake evidence to lead us off, the same way he left those candles and occult markings at Tucker’s killing. Oh, and our perp’s got a Southern accent. There was also a similar killing in Ohio a few years later. That one was a contract hit.”

“So y’all’re thinkin’ somebody hired this fella to kill Tucker?”

“Maybe. Who was he?”

“Tucker? Ordinary fellow. Just retired from the Department of Justice – that’s our corrections outfit down here. Was happily married, a grandfather. Never in any trouble. Went to church regular.”

Rhyme frowned. “What’d he do for prisons?”

“Guard. In our maximum security facility in Amarillo…Hmmm, you thinkin’ maybe a prisoner hired somebody to get even for something that happened inside? Prisoner abuse, or some such?”

“Could be,” Rhyme said. “Did Tucker ever get written up?”

“Nothing in the file here about it. You might wanta check with the prison.”

Rhyme got the name of the warden of the facility where Tucker had worked and then said, “Thanks, Captain.”

“Nothing to it. Y’all have a good day.”

A few minutes later Rhyme was on the line with Warden J. T. Beauchamp of the Northern Texas Maximum Security Correction Facility in Amarillo. Rhyme identified himself and said he was working with the NYPD. “Now, Warden -”

“J. T., if you please, sir.”

“All right, J. T.” Rhyme explained the situation to him.

“Charlie Tucker? Sure, the guard who was killed. Lynching, or whatever. I wasn’t here then. Tucker retired just before I moved from Houston. I’ll pull his file. Put you on hold.” A moment later the warden returned. “I’ve got it right here. Nope, no formal complaints against him, ’cepting from one prisoner. He said Charlie was ridin’ him pretty hard. When Charlie didn’t stop they got into a little scuffle ’bout it.”

“That could be our man,” Rhyme pointed out.

“’Cepting the prisoner was executed a week later. And Charlie didn’t get hisself killed for another year.”

“But maybe Tucker hassled another prisoner, who hired somebody to even the score.”

“Possible. Only hiring a pro for that? Little sophisticated for our lot down here.”

Rhyme tended to agree. “Well, maybe the perp was a prisoner himself. He went after Tucker as soon as he got out, then set up the murder to look like some ritual killing. Could you ask some of your guards or other employees? We’d be looking for a white male, forties, medium build, light brown hair. Probably doing time for a violent felony. And probably released or escaped – ”

“No escapes, not from here,” the warden added.

“Okay then, released not long before Tucker was killed. That’s about all we know. Oh, and he has a knowledge of guns and’s a good shot.”

“That won’t help. This’s Texas.” A chuckle.

Rhyme continued, “We have a computer composite of his face. We’ll email a copy to you. Could you have somebody compare it to the pictures of releasees around that time?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll have my gal do it. She’s got a pretty good eye. But may take a while. We’ve had ourselves a lotta inmates go through here.” He gave them his email address and they hung up.

Just as the call was disconnected, Geneva, Bell and Pulaski arrived.

Bell explained about the accomplice’s escape at the school. He added a few details about him, though, and told them that somebody was going to canvass the students and teachers and dig up a security tape if there was one.

“I didn’t get to take my last test,” Geneva said angrily, as if this were Rhyme’s fault. This girl could definitely get on your nerves. Still, he said patiently, “I have some news you might be interested in. Your ancestor survived his swim in the Hudson.”

“He did?” Her face brightened and she eagerly read the printout of the 1868 magazine article. Then she frowned. “They make him sound pretty bad. Like he’d planned it all along. He wasn’t that way. I know it.” She looked up. “And we still don’t know what happened to him if he was ever released.”

“We’re still searching for information. I hope we can find out more.”

The tech’s computer chimed and he looked it over. “Maybe something here. Email from a professor at Amherst who runs an African-American history website. She’s one of the people I emailed about Charles Singleton.”

“Read it.”

“It’s from Frederick Douglass’s diary.”

“Who was he again?” Pulaski asked. “Sorry, I probably should know. Got a street named after him and all.”

Geneva said, “Former slave. The abolitionist and civil rights leader of the nineteenth century. Writer, lecturer.”

The rookie was blushing. “Like I say, should’ve known.”

Cooper leaned forward and read from the screen, “‘May third, 1866. Another evening at Gallows Heights -’”

“Ah,” Rhyme interrupted, “our mysterious neighborhood.” The word “gallows” again reminded him of The Hanged Man tarot card, the placid figure swinging by his leg from a scaffold. He glanced at the card, then turned his attention back to Cooper.

“‘…discussing our vital endeavor, the Fourteenth Amendment. Several members of the Colored community in New York and myself met with, inter alia, the Honorable Governor Fenton and members of the Joint Committee on Reconstruction, including Senators Harris, Grimes and Fessenden, and Congressmen Stevens and Washburne and the Democrat, Andrew T. Rogers, who proved far less partisan than we had feared.

“‘Governor Fenton began with a moving invocation, whereupon we began to present to the members of the committee our opinions on the various draft versions of the Amendment, which we did at length. (Mr. Charles Singleton was particularly articulate in his view that the amendment should incorporate a requirement of universal suffrage for all citizens, Negroes and Caucasians, women as well as men, which the members of the committee took under advisement.) Lengthy debates lasted well into the night.’”

Geneva leaned over his shoulder and read. “‘Particularly articulate,’” she whispered out loud. “And he wanted voting for women.”

“Here’s another entry,” Cooper said.

“‘June twenty-fifth, 1867. I am troubled by the slow progress. The Fourteenth Amendment was presented to the states for ratification one year ago, and with expediency twenty-two blessed the measure with their approval. Only six more are required, but we are meeting with stubborn resistance.

“‘Willard Fish, Charles Singleton and Elijah Walker are traveling throughout those states as yet uncommitted and doing what they can to implore legislators therein to vote in favor of the amendment. But at every turn they are faced with ignorance in perceiving the wisdom of this law – and personal disdain and threats and anger. To have sacrificed so much, and yet not achieve our goal… Is our prevailing in the War to be hollow, merely a Pyrrhic victory? I pray the cause of our people does not wither in this, our most important effort.’” Cooper looked up from the screen. “That’s it.”

Geneva said, “So Charles was working with Douglass and the others on the Fourteenth Amendment. They were friends, sounds like.”

Or were they? Rhyme wondered. Was the newspaper article right? Had he worked his way into the circle to learn what he could about the Freedmen’s Trust and rob it?

Although, for Lincoln Rhyme, truth was the only goal in any forensic investigation, he harbored a rare sentimental hope that Charles Singleton had not committed the crime.

He stared at the evidence board, seeing far more question marks than answers.

“Geneva, can you call your aunt? See if she’s found any more letters or anything else about Charles?”

The girl called the woman with whom Aunt Lilly was living. There was no answer but she left a message for one of them to call back at Rhyme’s. She then placed another call. Her eyes brightened. “Mom! Are you home?”

Thank God, Rhyme thought. Her parents were back at last.

But a frown crossed the girl’s face a moment later. “No…What happened?…When?”

A delay of some sort, Rhyme deduced. Geneva gave her mother an update, reassured them she was safe and being looked out for by the police. She handed the phone to Bell, who spoke to her mother at some length about the situation. He then gave the phone back and Geneva said good-bye to her and to her father. She reluctantly hung up.

Bell said, “They’re stuck in London. The flight was canceled, and they couldn’t get anything else today. They’re on the earliest plane out tomorrow – it goes to Boston and they’ll catch the next flight here.”

Geneva shrugged, but Rhyme could see the disappointment in her eyes. She said, “I better get back home. I have some projects for school.”

Bell checked with his SWAT officers and Geneva’s uncle. Everything seemed safe, he reported.

“You’ll stay out of school tomorrow?”

A hesitation. She grimaced. Would there be another battle?

Then someone spoke. It was Pulaski, the rookie. “The fact is, Geneva, it’s not just you anymore. If that guy today, the one in the combat jacket, had gotten close, and started shooting, there might’ve been other students hurt or killed. He might try again when you’re in a crowd outside of school or on the street.”

Rhyme could see in her face that his words afffected her. Maybe she was reflecting about Dr. Barry’s death.

So he’s dead because of me…

“Sure,” she said in a soft voice. “I’ll stay home.”

Bell nodded at her. “Thanks.” And cast a grateful glance toward the rookie.

The detective and Pulaski ushered the girl out the door and the others returned to the evidence from the unsub’s safe house.

Rhyme was upset to see there wasn’t much. The diagram of the street in front of the African-American museum, which Sachs had found hidden in the man’s bed, yielded no prints. The paper was off-the-shelf generic, the sort sold at Staples and Office Depot. The ink was cheap and untraceable. The sketch contained far more details of the alleys and buildings across the street than of the museum itself – this map was for the man’s escape route, Rhyme assumed. But Sachs had already searched those locations carefully and detectives had canvassed potential witnesses in the jewelry exchange and other buildings shown on the plan.

There were more fibers from the rope – his garrotte, they speculated.

Cooper ran a portion of the map through the GC/MS, and the only trace found in the paper was pure carbon. “Charcoal from a street fair vendor?” he wondered.

“Maybe,” Rhyme said. “Or maybe he burned evidence. Put it on the chart. Maybe we’ll find a connection later.”

The other trace evidence on the map – stains and crumbs – were more food: yogurt and ground chickpeas, garlic and corn oil.

“Falafel,” Thom, a gourmet cook, offered. “Middle Eastern. And often served with yogurt. Refreshing, by the way.”

“And extremely common,” Rhyme said sourly. “We can narrow down the sources to about two thousand in Manhattan alone, wouldn’t you think? What the hell else do we have?”

On the way back here Sachs and Sellitto had stopped at the real estate company managing the Elizabeth Street building and had gotten information on the lessee of the apartment. The woman running the office had said the tenant had paid three months’ rent in cash, plus another two months’ security deposit, which he’d told her to keep. (The cash, unfortunately, had been spent; there was none left to fingerprint.) He’d given his name as Billy Todd Hammil on the lease, former address, Florida. The composite picture that Sachs had done bore a resemblance to the man who’d signed the lease, though he’d worn a baseball cap and glasses. The woman confirmed that he had a Southern accent.

A search of identification databases revealed 173 hits for Billy Todd Hammils throughout the country in the past five years. Of the ones who were white and between thirty-five and fifty, none was in the New York area. The ones in Florida were all elderly or in their twenties. Four Billy Todds had criminal records, and of these, three were still in prison and one had died six years ago.

“He picked the name out of a hat,” Rhyme muttered. He looked over the computer-generated image.

Who are you, Unsub 109? he wondered.

And where are you?

“Mel, email the picture to J. T.”

“To?”

“Our good ole boy warden down in Amarillo.” A nod toward the picture. “I’m still leaning toward the theory our boy’s an inmate who had a run-in with that guard who was lynched.”

“Got it,” Cooper said. After he’d done so he took the sample of liquid that Sachs had found in the safe house, carefully opened it up and prepared it for the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer.

A short time later the results popped up on the screen.

“This’s a new one to me. Polyvinyl alcohol, povidone, benzalkonium chloride; dextrose; potassium chloride; water; sodium bicarbonate; sodium chloride -”

“More salt,” Rhyme chimed in. “But it ain’t popcorn this time.”

“And sodium citrate and sodium phosphate. Few other things.”

“Fucking Greek to me.” Sellitto shrugged and wandered into the hall, turning toward the bathroom.

Cooper nodded at the list of ingredients. “Any clue what it is?”

Rhyme shook his head. “Our database?”

“Nothing.”

“Send it down to Washington.”

“Will do.” The tech sent the information off to the FBI’s lab and then turned to the final item of evidence that Sachs had found: wood scrapings of the stains on top of the desk. Cooper prepared a sample for the chromatograph.

As they waited for the results Rhyme scanned the evidence chart. He was looking over the entries when he saw some fast motion from the corner of his eye. Startled, he turned toward it. But no one was in that portion of the lab. What had he seen?

Then he saw movement again and realized what he was looking at: a reflection in the glass front of a cabinet. It was Lon Sellitto, alone in the hallway, apparently believing no one could see him. The fast motion had been the big detective’s practicing a fast draw of his pistol. Rhyme couldn’t see the man’s face clearly but his expression appeared distressed.

What was this about?

The criminalist caught Sachs’s eye and nodded toward the doorway. She edged closer to the door and looked out, watching the detective draw his weapon several more times then shake his head, grimacing. Sachs shrugged. After three or four minutes of the exercise, the detective put his gun away, stepped into the bathroom and without closing the door flushed the toilet and stepped out again a second later.

He returned to the lab. “Jesus, Linc, when’re you going to put in a classy john in this place? Didn’t yellow and black go out in the seventies?”

“You know, I just don’t hold a lot of meetings in the toilet.”

The big man laughed, but too loudly. The sound, like the banter that inspired it, rang false.

But whatever was troubling the man instantly ceased to occupy Rhyme’s mind when the results of the GC/MS analysis flashed onto the computer screen – the scrapings from the unsub’s desktop at the safe house. Rhyme frowned. The analysis had reported that the substance that had stained the wood was pure sulfuric acid, news that Rhyme found particularly discouraging. For one thing, from an evidentiary point of view, it was readily available and therefore virtually impossible to trace to a single source.

But more upsetting was the fact that it was perhaps the most powerful – and dangerous – acid you could buy; as a weapon, even a tiny quantity could, within seconds, kill or permanently disfigure.

ELIZABETH STREET SAFE HOUSE SCENE

Used electrical booby trap.

Fingerprints: None. Glove prints only.

Security camera and monitor; no leads.

Tarot deck, missing the twelfth card; no leads.

Map with diagram of museum where G.

Settle was attacked and buildings across the street.

Trace:

Falafel and yogurt.

Wood scrapings from desk with traces of pure sulfuric acid.

Clear liquid, not explosive. Sent to FBI lab.

More fibers from rope. Garrotte?

Pure carbon found in map.

Safe house was rented, for cash, to Billy Todd Hammil. Fits Unsub 109’s description, but no leads to an actual Hammil.

AFRICAN-AMERICAN MUSEUM SCENE

Rape pack:

· Tarot card, twelfth card in deck, the Hanged Man, meaning spiritual searching.

· Smiley-face bag.

· Too generic to trace.

· Box cutter.

· Trojan condoms.

· Duct tape.

· Jasmine scent.

· Unknown item bought for $5.95. Probably a stocking cap.

· Receipt, indicating store was in New York City, discount variety store or drugstore.

· Most likely purchased in a store on Mulberry Street, Little Italy. Unsub identified by clerk.

Fingerprints:

· Unsub wore latex or vinyl gloves.

· 8 Prints on items in rape pack belonged to person with small hands, no IAFIS hits. Positive ID for clerk’s.

Trace:

· Cotton rope fibers, some with traces of human blood. Garrotte?

· Sent to CODIS.

· No DNA match in CODIS.

· Popcorn and cotton candy with traces of canine urine.

Weapons:

· Billy club or martial arts weapon.

· Pistol is a North American Arms.22 rimfire magnum, Black Widow or Mini-Master.

· Makes own bullets, bored-out slugs filled with needles. No match in IBIS or DRUGFIRE.

Motive:

· Uncertain. Rape was probably staged.

· True motive may have been to steal microfiche containing July 23, 1868, issue of Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated magazine and kill G. Settle because of her interest in an article for reasons unknown. Article was about her ancestor Charles Singleton (see accompanying chart).

· Librarian victim reported that someone else wished to see article.

· Requesting librarian’s phone records to verify this.

· No leads.

· Requesting information from employees as to other person wishing to see story.

· No leads.

· Searching for copy of article.

· Several sources report man requested same article. No leads to identity. Most issues missing or destroyed. One located. (See accompanying chart.)

· Conclusion: G. Settle still at risk.

Profile of incident sent to VICAP and NCIC.

· Murder in Amarillo, TX, five years ago. Similar M.O. – staged crime scene (apparently ritual killing, but real motive unknown).

· Victim was a retired prison guard.

· Composite picture sent to Texas prison.

· Murder in Ohio, three years ago. Similar M.O. – staged crime scene (apparently sexual assault, but real motive probably hired killing). Files missing.

PROFILE OF UNSUB 109

· White male.

· 6 feet tall, 180 lbs.

· Middle-aged.

· Average voice.

· Used cell phone to get close to victim.

· Wears three-year-old, or older, size-11 Bass walkers, light brown. Right foot slightly outturned.

· Additional jasmine scent.

· Dark pants.

· Ski mask, dark.

· Will target innocents to help in killing victims and escaping.

· Most likely is a for-hire killer.

· Possibly a former prisoner in Amarillo, TX.

· Talks with a Southern accent.

· Has trim, light brown hair, clean-shaven.

· Nondescript.

· Seen wearing dark raincoat.

PROFILE OF PERSON HIRING UNSUB 109

· No information at this time.

PROFILE OF UNSUB 109’S ACCOMPLICE

· Black male.

· Late 30’s, early 40’s.

· Six feet.

· Solidly built.

· Wearing green combat jacket.

· Ex-convict.

· Has a limp.

· Reportedly armed.

· Clean-shaven.

· Black do-rag.

· Awaiting additional witnesses and security tapes.

PROFILE OF CHARLES SINGLETON

· Former slave, ancestor of G. Settle. Married, one son. Given orchard in New York state by master. Worked as teacher, as well. Instrumental in early civil rights movement.

· Charles allegedly committed theft in 1868, the subject of the article in stolen microfiche.

· Reportedly had a secret that could bear on case. Worried that tragedy would result if his secret was revealed.

· Attended meetings in Gallows Heights neighborhood of New York.

· Involved in some risky activities?

· Worked with Frederick Douglass and others in getting the 14th Amendment to the Constitution ratified.

· The crime, as reported in Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated:

· Charles arrested by Det. William Simms for stealing large sum from Freedmen’s Trust in NY. Broke into the trust’s safe, witnesses saw him leave shortly after. His tools were found nearby. Most money was recovered. He was sentenced to five years in prison. No information about him after sentencing. Believed to have used his connections with early civil rights leaders to gain access to the trust.

· Charles’s correspondence:

· Letter 1, to wife: Re: Draft Riots in 1863, great anti-black sentiment throughout NY state, lynchings, arson. Risk to property owned by blacks.

· Letter 2, to wife: Charles at Battle of Appomattox at end of Civil War.

· Letter 3, to wife: Involved in civil rights movement. Threatened for this work. Troubled by his secret.

Chapter Seventeen

Walking down a street in Queens, carrying his shopping bag and briefcase, Thompson Boyd paused suddenly. He pretended to look at a newspaper in a vending machine and, cocking his head in concern at the state of world affairs, glanced behind him.

Nobody following, nobody paying any attention to Average Joe.

He didn’t really think there was a chance of a tail. But Thompson always minimized risks. You could never be careless when your profession was death, and he was particularly vigilant after the close call on Elizabeth Street with the woman in white.

They’ll kill you in a kiss…

He now doubled back to the corner. Saw no one ducking into buildings or turning away fast.

Satisfied, Thompson continued in the direction he’d been heading originally.

He glanced at his watch. It was the agreed-upon time. He walked to a phone kiosk and placed a call to a pay phone in downtown Manhattan. After one ring he heard, “Hello?”

“It’s me.” Thompson and the caller went through a little song and dance – security stuff, like spies – to make certain each knew for sure who was on the other end of the line. Thompson was minimizing his drawl, just like his client was altering his voice too. Wouldn’t fool a voiceprint analyzer, of course. Still, you did what you could.

The man would already know the first attempt had failed since the local news had broken the story. His client asked, “How bad is it? We have a problem?”

The killer tilted his head back and put Murine into his eyes. Blinking as the pain dissipated, Thompson replied in a voice as numb as his soul, “Oh, well now, you gotta understand ’bout what we’re doing here. It’s like everything else in life. Nothing ever goes smooth one hundred percent. Nothing runs just the way we’d like. The girl outsmarted me.”

“A high school girl?”

“The girl’s got street smarts, simple as that. Good reflexes. She lives in a jungle.” Thompson felt a brief pang that he’d made this comment, thinking the man might believe it referred to the fact she was black, a racist thing, though he only meant she lived in a tough part of town and had to be savvy. Thompson Boyd was the least prejudiced person on earth. His parents had taught him that. Thompson himself had known people of all races and backgrounds and he’d responded to them solely on the basis of their behavior and attitudes, not what color they were. He’d worked for whites, blacks, Arabs, Asians, Latinos, and he’d killed people of those same races. He could see no difference between them. The people who’d hired him all avoided his eyes and acted edgy and cautious. The people who’d died by his hand had gone to their rewards with varying degrees of dignity and fear, which had nothing to do with color or nationality.

He continued, “Wasn’t what you wanted. It wasn’t what I wanted, bet your bottom dollar. But what happened was a reasonable possibility. She’s got good people watching her. Now we know. We’ll just rerig and keep going. We can’t get emotional about it. Next time we’ll get her. I’ve brought in somebody knows Harlem pretty good. We’ve already found out where she goes to school, we’re working on where she lives. Trust me, we’ve got everything covered.”

“I’ll check for messages later,” the man said. And hung up abruptly. They’d spoken for no more than three minutes, Thompson Boyd’s limit.

By the book…

Thompson hung up – there was no need to wipe prints; he was wearing leather gloves. He continued down the street. The block was a pleasant strip of bungalows on the east side of the street and apartments on the west, an old neighborhood. There were a few children nearby, just getting home from school. Inside the houses here Thompson could see the flicker of soap operas and afternoon talk shows, as the women ironed and cooked. Whatever life was like in the rest of the city, a lot of this neighborhood had never dug out of the 1950s. It reminded him of the trailer park and the bungalow of his childhood. A nice life, a comforting life.

His life before prison, before he grew numb as a missing arm or a snakebit leg.

A block ahead of him Thompson saw a young blonde girl dressed in a school uniform approach a beige bungalow. His heart sped up a bit – just a beat or two – watching her climb the few concrete stairs, take a key from her book bag, open the door and walk inside.

He continued on to this same house, which was as neat as the others, perhaps slightly more so, and featured a hitching-post jockey, with black features painted politically correct tan, and a series of small ceramic deer grazing on the tiny, yellowing lawn. He walked past the bungalow slowly, looking into the windows, and then continued up the block. A gust of wind blew the shopping bag in an arc and the cans clanked dully against each other. Hey, careful there, he told himself. And steadied the bag.

At the end of the block he turned and looked back. A man jogging, a woman trying to parallel park, a boy dribbling a basketball on a leaf-covered driveway. No one paid him any attention.

Thompson Boyd started back toward the house.

Inside her Queens bungalow Jeanne Starke told her daughter, “No book bags in the hall, Brit. Put ’em in the den.”

“Mom,” the ten-year-old girl sighed, managing to get at least two syllables out of the word. She tossed her yellow hair, hung her uniform jacket on the hook and picked up the heavy knapsack, groaning in exasperation.

“Homework?” her pretty, mid-thirties mother asked. She had a mass of curly brunette hair, today tied back with a rosy red scrunchy.

“Don’t have any,” Britney said.

“None?”

“Nope.”

“Last time you said no homework, you had homework,” her mother said pointedly.

“It wasn’t really homework. It was a report. Just cutting something out of a magazine.”

“You had work for school to do at home. Homework.”

“Well, I don’t have any today.”

Jeanne could tell there was more. She lifted an eyebrow.

“It’s just we have to bring in something Italian. For show-and-tell. You know, for Columbus Day. Did you know he was Italian? I thought he was Spanish or something.”

The mother of two did happen to know this fact. She was a high school graduate and the holder of an associate degree in nursing. She could have worked, if she’d wanted to, but her boyfriend made good money as a salesman and was happy to let her to take care of the house, go shopping with her girlfriends and raise the children.

Part of which was making sure they did their homework, whatever form it took, including show-and-tell.

“That’s all? Loving, loving, tell the truth?”

“Mommmmm.”

“The truth?”

“Yeah.”

“‘Yes.’ Not ‘yeah.’ What’re you going to take?”

“I don’t know. Something from Barrini’s deli maybe. Did you know that Columbus, like, was wrong? He thought he’d found Asia, not America. And he came here three times and still never got it right.”

“Really?”

“Yeah…yes.” Britney vanished.

Jeanne returned to the kitchen, thinking this fact she hadn’t known. Columbus really thought he’d found Japan or China? She dredged the chicken in flour, then egg, then bread crumbs, and started to lose herself in a fantasy about the family traveling in Asia – the images courtesy of cable TV. The girls would love that. Maybe…It was then that she happened to glance outside and, through the opaque curtain, saw the form of a man slow as he approached the house.

This made her uneasy. Her boyfriend, whose company made computer components for government contractors, had stirred up some paranoia inside her. Always be on the lookout for strangers, he’d say. You notice anybody slowing down as they drive past the house, anybody who seems unusually interested in the children…tell me about it right away. Once, not long ago, they’d been in the park up the street with the girls, who were playing on the swings, when a car slowed up and the driver, wearing sunglasses, glanced at the children. Her boyfriend had gotten all freaked and made them go back to the house.

He’d explained: “Spies.”

“What?”

“No, not like CIA spies. Industrial spies – from our competitors. My company made over six billion dollars last year and I’m responsible for a good chunk of that. People would love to find out what I know about the market.”

“Companies really do that?” Jeanne had asked.

“You never really know about people,” had been his response.

And Jeanne Starke, who had a rod imbedded in her arm where it’d been shattered by a whisky bottle a few years ago, had thought: You never did, true. She now wiped her hands on her apron, walked to the curtain and looked out.

The man was gone.

Okay, stop spooking yourself. It’s -

But wait…She saw motion on the front steps. And believed she saw a corner of a bag – a shopping bag – sitting on the porch. The man was here!

What was going on?

Should she call her boyfriend?

Should she call the police?

But they were at least ten minutes away.

“There’s somebody outside, Mommy,” Britney called.

Jeanne stepped forward fast. “Brit, you stay in your room. I’ll see.”

But the girl was opening the front door.

“No!” Jeanne called.

And heard: “Thanks, honey,” Thompson Boyd said in a friendly drawl as he stepped inside the house, toting the shopping bag she’d seen.

“You gave me a fright,” Jeanne said. She hugged him and he kissed her.

“Couldn’t find my keys.”

“You’re home early.”

He grimaced. “Problems with the negotiations this morning. They were postponed till tomorrow. Thought I’d come home and do some work here.”

Jeanne’s other daughter, Lucy, eight, ran into the hallway. “Tommy! Can we watch Judge Judy?”

“Not today.”

“Aw, please. What’s in the bag?”

“That’s the work I have to do. And I need your help.” He set the bag down on the floor in the hallway, looked at the girls solemnly and said, “You ready?”

“I’m ready!” Lucy said.

Brit, the older girl, said nothing but that was because it wouldn’t be cool to agree with her sister; she was definitely ready to help too.

“After we postponed my meeting I went out and bought these. I’ve been reading up on it all morning.” Thompson reached into the shopping bag and pulled out cans of paint, sponges, rollers and brushes. Then he held up a book bristling with yellow Post-it tabs, Home Decor Made Easy. Volume 3: Decorating Your Child’s Room.

“Tommy!” Britney said. “For our rooms?”

“Yep,” he drawled. “Your mom and I sure don’t want Dumbo on our walls.”

“You’re going to paint Dumbo?” Lucy frowned. “I don’t want Dumbo.”

Neither did Britney.

“I’ll paint whoever y’all want.”

“Let me look first!” Lucy took the book from him.

“No, me!”

“We’ll all look together,” Thompson said. “Let me hang up my coat and put my briefcase away.” He headed into his office, in the front of the house.

And returning to the kitchen, Jeanne Starke thought that despite his incessant travel, the paranoia about his job, the fact that his heart didn’t join into either his joy or his sadness, the fact that he wasn’t much of a lover, well, she knew she could do a lot worse in the boyfriend department.

Escaping down the alley from the police at the Langston Hughes school yard, Jax had piled into a cab and told the driver to head south, fast, ten bucks extra you roll through that light. Then five minutes later he’d told the man to circle back, dropping him off not far from the school.

He’d been lucky, getting away. The police were obviously going to do whatever was necessary to keep people from getting close to the girl. He was uneasy; it was almost like they’d known about him. Had that asshole claimer Ralph dimed him, after all?

Well, Jax’d have to be smarter. Which is what he was trying to do right now. Just like in prison – never make your move until you’d checked everything out.

And he knew where to look for help.

City men always gravitated together, whether they were young or old, black or Hispanic or white, lived in East New York or Bay Ridge or Astoria. In Harlem they’d gather in churches, bars, rap and jazz clubs and coffee shops, living rooms, on park benches and doorsteps. They’d be on front stairs and fire escapes in the summer, around burning trash drums in the winter. Barbershops too – just like the movie from a few years ago (Jax’s real first name, Alonzo, in fact, had come from Alonzo Henderson, the former Georgia slave who became a millionaire by creating a popular chain of barbershops – a man whose drive and talent Jax’s father had hoped would rub off on the boy, vainly, as it turned out).

But the most popular place for men to congregate in Harlem was on basketball courts.

They’d go there to play ball, sure. But they’d also go just to bullshit, to solve the world’s problems, to speak of women fine and women mean, to argue sports, to dis, and to boast – in a modern, freewheeling version of signifying and toasting: the traditional art of telling the tales of mythical characters in black culture, like the criminal Stackolee or the stoker on the Titanic who survived the ice disaster by swimming to safety.

Jax now found the closest park to Langston Hughes with basketball courts. Despite the chill autumn air and low sun, they were plenty crowded. He eased up to the nearest one and took off his combat jacket, which the cops had probably tipped to, turned it inside out and slung it over his arm. He leaned against the chain link, smoking and looking like a big version of Pharaoh Ralph. He pulled off the do-rag and brushed his ’fro up with his fingers.

Just as well he changed his look. He saw a squad car drive past, slow, along the street across from the playground. Jax stayed right where he was. Nothing draws cops faster than walking away (he’d been stopped dozens of times for the criminal offense of WWB – walking while black). At the court in front of him a handful of high school boys moved magically over the scuffed gray asphalt of a half court, while another dozen watched. Jax saw the dusty brown ball smack into the ground, then heard the delayed crack. He watched hands grapple, watched bodies collide, watched the ball sailing toward the board.

The squad car vanished and Jax pushed away from the fence and approached the boys standing on the edge of the court. The ex-con looked them over. Not a posse, no Glock-toting gangstas. Just a bunch of boys – some with tats, some without, some draped with chain, some with a single cross, some with bad intentions, some with good. Preening for the girls, lording over the little kids. Talking, smoking. Being young.

Watching them, Jax slipped into melancholy. He’d always wanted a big family but, like so many other things, that dream hadn’t worked out. He’d lost one child to the foster system and another to his girlfriend’s fateful visit to the clinic on 125th Street. One January years ago, to Jax’s delight, she’d announced she was pregnant. In March she’d had some pains and they’d gone to a free clinic, which was their only health care option. They’d spent hours in the filthy, overcrowded waiting room. By the time she’d finally gotten to see a doctor she’d miscarried.

Jax had grabbed the man and come close to beating him bloody. “Not my fault,” said the tiny Indian, cowering beside a gurney. “They cut our budget. The city did, I’m saying.” Jax was plunged into rage and depression. He had to get even with somebody, to make sure this didn’t happen again – to her or to anyone else. It was no consolation when the doctor explained that at least they’d saved his girlfriend’s life – which probably wouldn’t’ve happened if other planned budget cutbacks for healthcare to the poor had gone through.

How could a fucking government do that to people? Wasn’t the whole point of city hall and the state capital to be there for the welfare of citizens? How could they let a little baby die?

Neither the doctor, nor the police who led him out of the hospital that night in handcuffs, had been inclined to answer those questions.

The sorrow and blistering anger at that memory made him all the more determined to get over with what he was about now.

Grim-faced, Jax looked over the boys on the courts and nodded to the one that he’d pegged as a leader of some kind. Wearing baggy shorts, high-top sneakers and a sports jersey. His hair was a gumby – thin on one side, rounded high on the other. The boy looked him over. “S’up, grandpa?”

Some guffaws from the others.

Grandpa.

In the old Harlem – well, maybe the old everywhere – being an adult carried respect. Now it got you dissed. A playa would’ve taken the piece out of his sock and make this little claimer hop to. But Jax had been seasoned by his years on the street and years inside prison and knew that wasn’t the way to go, not here. He laughed it off. Then whispered, “Tall paper?”

“You want some?”

“I wanta give you some. If you’re interested, asshole.” Jax tapped his pocket, where his wad of benjamins resided, curled up fat.

“I ain’t selling nothing.”

“And I ain’t buying what you think. Come on. Let’s stroll.”

The kid nodded and they walked away from the court. As they did, Jax felt the boy looking him over, noticing the man’s limp. Yeah, it was an I-got-shot limp but it could’ve been a playa-gangsta limp just as easy. And then he looked at Jax’s eyes, cold as dirt, and then the muscles and the prison tat. Maybe thinking: Jax’s age would’ve made him head-high O.G. – who you fucked with at your peril. Original Gangstas had AKs and Uzis and Hummers and a dozen badasses in their posses. O.G.s were the ones used twelve-year-olds to cap witnesses and rival dealers ’cause courts couldn’t send them into the system forever, like they did when you were seventeen or eighteen.

An O.G. would bust you up bad for calling him “grandpa.”

The kid started to look uneasy. “Yo, yo, whatchu want exactly, man? Where we goin’?”

“Just over there. Don’t want to talk in front of the whole world.” Jax stopped behind some bushes. The boy’s eyes darted around. Jax laughed. “I’m not going to fuck you up, boy. Chill.”

The kid laughed too. But nervous. “I’m down, man.”

“I need to find somebody’s crib. Somebody going to Langston Hughes. You go there?”

“Yeah, most of us.” He nodded toward the courts.

“I’m looking for the girl was on the news this morning.”

“Her? Geneva? Saw some dude get capped or something? The straight-A bitch?”

“I don’t know. She get straight A’s?”

“Yeah. She smart.”

“Where’s she live?”

He fell silent, cautious. Debating. Was he going to get fucked up for asking what he wanted to? He decided he wasn’t. “You were talking ’bout paper?”

Jax slipped him some bills.

“I myself don’ know the bitch, man. But I can hook you up with a brother who does. Nigger of mine name of Kevin. Want me to give him a call?”

“Yeah.”

A tiny cell phone emerged from the boy’s shorts. “Yo, dog. It’s Willy… The half courts…Yeah. Listen, dude here with some benjamins, looking fo’ yo’ bitch… Geneva. The Settle bitch…Hey, chill, man. S’a joke, you know what I’m saying?…Right. Now, this dude, he – ”

Jax snatched the phone from Willy’s hand and said, “Two hundred, you give up her address.”

A hesitation.

“Cash?” Kevin asked.

“No,” Jax snapped, “American Fuckin’ Express. Yeah, cash.”

“I’ma come by the courts. You got those C-notes on you?”

“Yeah, they’re sitting right next to my Colt, you’re interested. And when I say Colt I don’t mean malt in a forty.”

“I’m down, man. Just askin’. I don’t go round fielding folk.”

“I’ll be hanging with my crew,” Jax said, grinning at the uneasy Willy. He disconnected the phone and tossed it to the kid. Then he walked back to the fence and leaned against it and watched the game.

Ten minutes later Kevin arrived – unlike Willy, he was a real playa, tall, handsome, poised. Looked like some actor Jax couldn’t place. To show off for the old dude, show he wasn’t too eager to earn any C-notes – and to impress a few of the bling girls, of course – Kevin took his time. Paused, tapped fists, hugged a boy or two. Tossed out, “Yo, yo, my man,” a few times and then stepped onto the court, commandeered the ball and did a couple of impressive dunks.

Man could play hoops, no question.

Finally Kevin loped up to Jax and looked him over, because that was what you did when an outsider walked into a pack – whether it was on half courts or in a bar or even in Alonzo Henderson’s Victorian-era barbershops, Jax guessed. Kevin tried to figure out where Jax was carrying the piece, how much paper he really had on him, what he was about. Jax asked, “Just lemme know how long you’re going keep giving me the bad-eye, okay? ’Cause it’s gettin’ boring.”

Kevin didn’t smile. “Where’s the benjamins?”

Jax slipped Kevin the money.

“Where’s the girl?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

“Just the address.”

“You afraid of me?”

“Just the address.” Eyes not wavering.

Kevin grinned. “Don’t know the number, man. I know the building. I walked her home last spring. I gotta point it out.”

Jax nodded.

They started west and south, surprising Jax; he thought the girl would live in one of the tougher neighborhoods – farther north toward the Harlem River, or east. The streets here weren’t elegant but they were clean, and many of the buildings had been renovated, it seemed. There was also a lot of new construction underway.

Jax frowned, looking around at the nice streets. “You sure we’re talking Geneva Settle.”

“That’s the bitch you ask about. That’s the crib I’m showing you… Yo, man, you wanta buy some weed, some rock?”

“No.”

“Sure? I got some good shit.”

“A damn shame, you going deaf and all at your young age.”

Kevin shrugged.

They came to a block near Morningside Park. On top of the rocky incline was the Columbia University campus, a place he had frequently bombed with Jax 157 years ago.

They started to turn the corner but both of them stopped fast.

“Yo, check it out,” Kevin whispered. There was a Crown Vic – clearly an unmarked police car – double-parked in front of an old building.

“That’s her crib? The car’s in front of?”

“Naw. Hers’s two buildings closer. That one there.” He pointed.

It was old but in perfect shape. Flowers in the window boxes, everything clean. Nice curtains. Paint looked new.

Kevin asked, “You going to fuck up the bitch?” He looked Jax up and down.

“What I’m about is my business.”

“Your business, your business… Sure it is,” Kevin said in a soft voice. “Only…the reason I’m asking is, ’cause if she was to get fucked up – which I have no problem with, I’m saying – but if something was to happen to her, yo, check it out: I’d know it was you. And somebody might come round and wanna talk to me ’bout it. So, I’m thinking, with all that tall paper you carrying around in your pocket there, maybe I had a little more of it, I might forget I even seen you. On th’ other hand, it’s possible I could remember a lot ’bout you and that you was interested in the little bitch.”

Jax had seen quite a bit of life. Been a graffiti king, been a soldier in Desert Storm, known gangstas in prison and outside, been shot at…If there was a rule in this crazy world it was that however stupid you thought people were, they were always happy to be stupider.

In a fraction of a second, Jax grabbed the boy’s collar with his left hand and swung his fist up hard into the boy’s gut, three times, four, five…

“Fuck – ” was all the boy got out.

The way you fought in prison. Never give ’em a single second to recover.

Again, again, again…

Jax let go and the kid rolled into the alley, groaning in pain. With the deliberate, slow movement of a baseball player picking out a bat, Jax bent down and pulled the gun from his sock. As terrified Kevin watched helplessly, the ex-con worked the slide of the automatic to chamber a round then wrapped his do-rag around the barrel a number of times. This was, Jax had learned from DeLisle Marshall on S block, one of the best, and cheapest, ways to muffle the sound of a gunshot.

Chapter Eighteen

That evening, 7:30 P.M., Thompson Boyd had just finished painting a cartoon bear on the wall of Lucy’s room. He stepped back and glanced at his work. He’d done what the book had told him to do and, sure enough, it looked pretty much like a bear. It was the first picture in his life he’d ever painted, outside of school – which is why he’d worked so hard studying the book in his safe house earlier today.

The girls seemed to love it. He thought he himself should be pleased with the picture. But he wasn’t sure. He stared at it for a long time, waiting to feel proud. He didn’t. Oh, well. He stepped into the hallway, glanced at his cell phone. “Got a message,” he said absently. He dialed. “Hey, it’s Thompson. How you doing? Saw you called.”

Jeanne glanced at him then returned to drying the dishes.

“No, kidding?” Thompson chuckled. For a man who didn’t laugh, he thought he sounded real. Of course, he’d done the same thing that morning, in the library, laughing to put the Settle girl at ease, and that hadn’t worked so well. He reminded himself not to overact. “Man, that’s a bummer,” he said into the dead phone. “Sure. Won’t take too long, will it? Got that negotiation again tomorrow, yeah, the one we postponed…Gimme ten and I’ll see you there.”

He folded the phone closed and said to Jeanne, “Vern’s over at Joey’s. He’s got a flat.”

Vernon Harber had once existed but no longer did. Thompson had killed him some years ago. But because he’d known Vern before he died, Thompson had turned him into a fictional neighborhood buddy he saw occasionally, a sidekick. Like the dead real Vern, the live fictional one drove a Supra and had a girlfriend named Renee and told plenty of funny stories about life on the docks and at the pork store and in his neighborhood. Thompson knew a lot more about Vern and he kept the details in mind. (When you lie, he knew, lie big, ballsy and specific.)

“He drove his Supra over a beer bottle.”

“Is he all right?” Jeanne asked.

“He was just parking. The putz can’t get the lug nuts off by himself.”

Alive and dead, Vern Harber was a couch potato.

Thompson took the paintbrush and cardboard bucket to the laundry room and set them in the basin, ran water to soak the brush. He slipped on his jacket.

Jeanne asked, “Oh, could you get some two-percent on the way home?”

“Quart?”

“That’s fine.”

“And some roll-ups!” Lucy called.

“What flavor?”

“Grape.”

“All right. Brit?”

“Cherry!” the girl said. Her memory nudged her. “Please,” she added.

“Grape and cherry and milk.” Pointing at each of the females, according to her order.

Thompson stepped outside and started walking in a convoluted path up and down the streets of Queens, glancing back occasionally to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Breathing cold air into his lungs, exhaling it hotter and in the form of soft musical notes: the Celine Dion song from Titanic.

The killer had kept an eye on Jeanne when he’d told her he was going out. He’d noted that her concern for Vern seemed real and that she wasn’t the least suspicious, despite the fact he was going to see a man she’d never met. But this was typical. Tonight, he was helping a friend. Sometimes he said he wanted to place an OTB bet. Or he was going to see the boys at Joey’s for a fast one. He rotated his lies.

The lean, curly-haired brunette never asked much about where he went, or about the phoney computer salesman job he claimed he had, which required him to be away from home frequently. Never asked details about why his business was so secret he had to keep his home office door locked. She was smart and clever, two very different things, and most any other smart and clever woman would have insisted on being included more in his life. But not Jeanne Starke.

He’d met her at a lunch counter here in Astoria a few years ago after he’d gone to ground following the murder of a Newark drug dealer he’d been hired to kill. Sitting next to Jeanne at the Greek diner, he’d asked her for the ketchup and then apologized, noting that she had a broken arm and couldn’t reach it. He asked if she was all right, what had happened? She’d deflected the question, though tears filled her eyes. They’d continued to talk.

Soon they were dating. The truth about the arm finally came out and one weekend Thompson paid a visit to her ex-husband. Later, Jeanne told him that a miracle had happened: Her ex had left town and wasn’t even calling the girls anymore, which he’d done once a week, drunk, to rage at them about their mother.

A month later Thompson moved in with her and the children.

It was a good arrangement for Jeanne and her daughters, it seemed. Here was a man who didn’t scream or take a belt to anyone, paid the rent and showed up when he said he would – why, they felt he was the greatest catch on earth. (Prison had taught Thompson a great deal about setting low bars.)

A good arrangement for them, and good for a professional killer too: Someone in his line of work who has a wife or girlfriend and children is far less suspicious than a single person.

But there was another reason he was with her, more important than simple logistics and convenience. Thompson Boyd was waiting. Something had been missing from his life for a long time and he was awaiting its return. He believed that someone like Jeanne Starke, a woman without excessive demands and with low expectations, could help him find it.

And what was this missing thing? Simple: Thompson Boyd was waiting for the numbness to go away and for the feeling in his soul to return, the way your foot comes back to life after it’s fallen asleep.

Thompson had many recollections of his childhood in Texas, images of his parents and his aunt Sandra, cousins, friends from school. Watching Texas A &M games on the tube, sitting around the Sears electric organ, Thompson pushing the button for the chords while his aunt or father played the melody as best they could with their pudgy fingers (they ran in the family line). Singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” and “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” and the theme from The Green Berets. Playing hearts. Learning how to use tools with his father in the perfectly neat work shed. Walking beside the big man in the desert, marveling at the sunsets, the lava beds, coyotes, the sidewinders, which moved like music but could still sting you to death in a flash.

He recalled his mother’s life of church, packing sandwiches, sun-bathing, sweeping Texas dust out the trailer door and sitting in aluminum chairs with her girlfriends. He recalled his father’s life of church, collecting LP records, spending Saturdays with his boy and weekdays wildcatting on the derricks. He recalled those wonderful Friday evenings, going to the Goldenlight Café on Route 66 for Harleyburgers and fries, Texas swing music pumping through the speakers.

Thompson Boyd wasn’t numb then.

Even during that hard time after a June twister took their double-wide and his mother’s right arm, and nearly her life, even when his father lost his job in the layoffs that swept the Panhandle like an Okie dust storm, Thompson wasn’t numb.

And he sure wasn’t numb when he watched his mother gasp and stifle tears on the streets of Amarillo after some kid called her “one-arm” and Thompson had followed and made sure the boy never made fun of anybody again.

But then came the prison years. And somewhere in those Lysol-stinking halls numbness crawled over feeling and put it to sleep. So deep asleep that he didn’t even feel a blip when he got the word that a driver snoozing at the cab of a Peterbilt killed his parents and aunt simultaneously, the only thing that survived being the shoe-shine kit the boy had made his father for the man’s fortieth birthday. So deep asleep that when, after he left prison and tracked down the guard Charlie Tucker, Thompson Boyd felt nothing as he watched the man die slowly, face purple from the noose, struggling desperately to grip the rope and hoist himself up to stop the strangulation. Which you just can’t do, no matter how strong you are.

Numb, as he’d watched the pendulum of the guard’s corpse, twisting slowly to stillness. Numb, as he’d set the candles on the ground at Tucker’s feet to make the murder look like some psycho, satanic thing and glanced up into the man’s glazed eyes.

Numb…

But Thompson believed he could repair himself, just like he fixed the bathroom door and the loose stair railing at the bungalow. (They were both tasks, the only difference being where you put the decimal point.) Jeanne and the girls would bring the feelings back. All he had to do was go through the motions. Do what other people did, normal people, people who weren’t numb: Paint the children’s rooms, watch Judge Judy with them, go on picnics in the park. Bring them what they’d asked for. Grape, cherry, milk. Grape, cherry, milk. Try an occasional cuss word, fuck, fuck, shit…Because that’s what people said when they were angry. And angry people felt things.

This was also why he whistled – he believed music could transport him back to those earlier days, before prison. People who liked music weren’t numb. People who whistled felt things, they had families, they’d turn the heads of strangers with a good trill. They were people you could stop on the street corner and talk to, people you could offer a french fry to, right off your Harleyburger plate, with giddy music pounding in the next room, ain’t them musicians something, son? How ’bout that?

Do it by the book and the numbness would go away. The feeling would return.

Was it working, he wondered, the regimen he’d set up for himself to get the feeling back in his soul? The whistling, reciting the things he felt he should recite, grape and cherry, cussing, laughing? Maybe a little, he believed. He remembered watching the woman in white that morning, back and forth, back and forth. He could honestly say that he’d enjoyed watching her at work. A small pleasure, but it was a feeling nonetheless. Pretty good.

Wait: “Pretty fucking good,” he whispered.

There, a cuss word.

Maybe he should try the sex thing again (usually once a month, in the morning, he could manage, but truth was he just didn’t want to – if the mood’s not there, even Viagra won’t do you much good). He now debated. Yes, that’s what he’d do – give it a couple of days and try with Jeanne. The thought made him uneasy. But maybe he’d give it a shot. That’d be a good test. Yeah, he’d try it and see if he was getting better.

Grape, cherry, milk…

Thompson now stopped at a pay phone in front of a Greek deli. He dialed the voice-mail box number again and punched in the code. He listened to a new message, which told him that there’d nearly been a chance to kill Geneva Settle at the school but too many police had been guarding her. The message continued, giving her address, on 118th Street, and reporting that at least one unmarked police car and a squad car were parked nearby, changing positions occasionally. The number of officers guarding her seemed to vary from one to three.

Thompson memorized the address and erased the message then continued on his complicated walk to a six-story apartment building that was considerably more dilapidated than Jeanne’s bungalow. He went around to the back and opened the door. He climbed the stairs to the apartment that was his main safe house. He stepped inside, locked the door then disarmed the system he’d set up to stop intruders.

This place was a little nicer than the one on Elizabeth Street. It was covered in blond paneling carefully tacked up and featured brown shag carpet that smelled just like what brown shag would smell. There were a half dozen pieces of furniture. The place reminded Thompson of the rec room he and his father had built weekends in the Amarillo bungalow, which had replaced the tornado-shredded trailer.

From a large utility cabinet he carefully removed several jars and carried them to the desk, whistling the theme from Pocohantas. The girls had just loved that movie. He opened the toolbox, put on thick rubber gloves and a face mask and goggles and assembled the device that tomorrow would kill Geneva Settle – and anyone near her.

Wssst…

The tune became something else: no longer Disney. Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young.”

When he finished the device he examined it carefully and was satisfied. He put everything away and then walked into the bathroom, stripped off the gloves and washed his hands three times. The whistling faded as he began mentally reciting the mantra for today.

Grape, cherry and milk…Grape, cherry and milk.

He never stopped getting ready for the day when the numbness would go away.

“How you doing there, miss?”

“Okay, Detective.”

Mr. Bell stood in the doorway of her room and looked over her bed, which was covered with schoolbooks and papers.

“My, I must say you do work hard.”

Geneva shrugged.

“I’m going home to my boys now.”

“You have sons?”

“That I do. Two of ’em. Maybe you’ll meet them someday. If you’d like.”

“Sure,” she said. Thinking: That’ll never happen. “Are they at home with your wife?”

“They’re at their grandfolks right now. I was married but she passed on.”

These words flicked Geneva’s heart. She could see pure pain behind them – in the way, oddly enough, that his expression didn’t change as he spoke them. It was like he practiced saying this to people and not crying. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that was some years ago.”

She nodded. “Where’s Officer Pulaski?”

“He’s gone home. He’s got a daughter. And his wife’s expecting.”

“Boy or girl?” Geneva asked.

“I honestly couldn’t tell you. He’ll be back tomorrow early. We can ask him then. Your uncle’s in the next room and Miss Lynch’ll be staying here tonight.”

“Barbe?”

“Yes’m.”

“She’s nice. She was telling me about some of the dogs she owns. And about some of the new TV shows.” Geneva nodded down at her books. “I don’t have much time for TV.”

Detective Bell laughed. “My boys could use a bit of your influence, miss. I will sure as rain get y’all together. Now, you shout out for Barbe, any reason you want.” He hesitated. “Even you have a bad dream. I know it’s tough sometimes, your parents not home.”

“I do fine being alone,” she said.

“I don’t doubt it. Still, holler if you need to. That’s what we’re here for.” He walked to the window, peeked out through the curtains, made sure the window was locked and let the drapes fall back. “‘Night, miss. Don’t you worry. We’ll catch ourselves this fellow. Only a matter of time. There’s nobody better than Mr. Rhyme and the people he’s got working with him.”

“‘Night.” Glad he was leaving. Maybe he meant well but Geneva hated to be treated like a child as much as she hated to be reminded of this terrible situation. She cleared her books off the bed and stacked them neatly by the door so that if she had to leave fast she could find them in the dark and take them with her. She did this every night.

She now reached into her purse and found the dried violet that that illusionist woman, Kara, had given her. She looked at it for a long moment then put it carefully into the book that was on the top of the stack and closed the cover.

A fast trip to the bathroom, where she cleaned the pearl-colored basin after washing up and brushing her teeth. She laughed to herself, thinking of the unholy mess that was Keesh’s john. In the hallway Barbe Lynch said good night to her. Back in the bedroom, Geneva locked the door, then hesitated and, feeling foolish, propped the desk chair under the knob. She undressed and pulled on shorts and a faded T-shirt and got back into bed. She shut the light out and lay on her back, anxious and frenzied, for twenty minutes, thinking of her mother, then her father, then Keesh.

Kevin Cheaney’s image made an entrance; she shoved it angrily away.

Then her thoughts ended up on her ancestor, Charles Singleton.

Running, running, running…

The leap into the Hudson.

Thinking of his secret. What was so important that he’d risk everything to keep it hidden?

Thinking of the love he had for his wife, his son.

But the terrible man from the library that morning kept barging into her mind. Oh, she talked big in front of the police. But of course she was scared. The ski mask, the thonk as the club hit the mannequin, the slap of his feet after her. And now the other one too, the black man at the school yard with the gun.

Those memories killed sleep quickly.

She opened her eyes and lay awake, restless, thinking of another sleepless night, years ago: Seven-year-old Geneva had crawled out of bed and wandered into the living room of their apartment. There she’d turned on the TV and watched some stupid sitcom for ten minutes before her father stepped into the living room.

“What’re you doing there, watching that?” He’d blinked at the light.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Read a book. Better for you.”

“I don’t feel like reading.”

“All right. I will.” He’d walked to the shelves. “You’ll like this one. One of the best books ever.”

As he sat in his armchair, which creaked and hissed under his weight, she glanced at the limp paperback but couldn’t see the cover.

“You comfy?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She was lying on the couch.

“Close your eyes.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Close your eyes so you’ll picture what I’m reading.”

“Okay. What’s -?”

“Hush.”

“Okay.”

He’d started the book, To Kill a Mockingbird. For the next week, his reading it out loud to her at bedtime became a ritual.

Geneva Settle decided it was one of the best books ever – and even at that age, she’d read, or heard, a lot of books. She loved the main characters – the calm, strong, widower father; the brother and sister (Geneva’d always wanted a sibling). And the story itself, about courage in the face of hatred and stupidity, was spellbinding.

The memory of the Harper Lee book stayed with her. And funny, when she went back and reread it at age eleven, she got a lot more of it. Then at fourteen she understood even more. She’d read it again last year and wrote a paper on it for English. She got an A-plus.

To Kill a Mockingbird was one of the books on the stack that sat beside the bedroom door at the moment, the in-case-of-fire-grab-this pile. It was a book that she tended to cart around in her book bag, even if she wasn’t reading it. This was the book that she’d slipped Kara’s good-luck-charm violet into.

Tonight, though, she picked another one from the stack. Charles Dickens. Oliver Twist. She lay back, rested the book on her chest and opened it to her flattened straw bookmark (she’d never turn down the pages in any book, even a paperback). She began to read. At first the creaks of the town house spooked her, and the image of the man in the mask came back, but soon she lost herself in the story. And not long after that, an hour or so, Geneva Settle’s eyes grew heavy and she was finally lulled to sleep – not by a mother’s good-night kiss, or a father’s deep voice reciting a prayer, but by the litany of a stranger’s beautiful words.

Chapter Nineteen

“Time for bed.”

“What?” Rhyme asked, looking up from his computer screen.

“Bed,” Thom repeated. He was a bit wary. Sometimes it was a battle to get Rhyme to stop working.

But the criminalist said, “Yep. Bed.”

He was, in fact, exhausted – discouraged too. He was reading an email from Warden J. T. Beauchamp in Amarillo reporting that nobody in the prison recognized the computer composite of Unsub 109.

The criminalist dictated a brief thank-you and logged off. Then he said to Thom, “Just one call, then I’ll go willingly.”

“I’ll straighten up some,” the aide said. “Meet you upstairs.”

Amelia Sachs had gone back to her place to spend the night, and to see her mother, who lived near her and had been sick lately – some cardiac problems. Sachs spent the night with Rhyme more often than not, but she’d kept her apartment in Brooklyn, where she had other family members and friends. (Jennifer Robinson – the patrolwoman who’d delivered the teenagers to Rhyme’s that morning – lived right up the street.) Besides, Sachs, like Rhyme, needed solitude from time to time, and this arrangement suited them both.

Rhyme called and talked briefly to her mother, wished her well. Sachs came on the line and he told her about the latest developments – few though they were.

“You okay?” Sachs asked him. “You sound preoccupied.”

“Tired.”

“Ah.” She didn’t believe him. “Get some sleep.”

“You too. Sleep well.”

“Love you, Rhyme.”

“Love you.”

After he disconnected, he rolled toward the evidence chart.

He wasn’t, however, gazing at Thom’s precise entries about the case. He was looking at the printout of the tarot card, taped to a board, the twelfth card, The Hanged Man. He reread the block about the meaning of the card. He studied the man’s placid, inverted face. Then he turned and wheeled to the small elevator that connected the laboratory on the first floor to the bedroom on the second, instructed the elevator to ascend and then wheeled out.

He reflected on the tarot card. Just like Kara, their illusionist friend, Rhyme didn’t believe in spiritualism or the psychic. (They were both, in their own ways, scientists.) But he couldn’t help but be struck by the fact that a card showing a scaffold just happened to be a piece of evidence in a case in which the word “Gallows” figured prominently. The word “Hanged” too was a curious coincidence. Criminalists must know about all methods of death, of course, and Rhyme understood exactly how hanging worked. It snapped the neck high, just below the base of the skull. (The actual cause of death in execution-style hangings was suffocation, though not from squeezing the throat shut, but from cutting off the neuron messages to the lungs.) This is what had nearly happened to Rhyme at the subway crime scene accident some years ago.

Gallows Heights …The Hanged Man…

The meaning of the tarot card, though, was the most significant aspect of the happenstance: Its appearance in a reading indicates spiritual searching leading to a decision, a transition, a change of direction. The card often foretells a surrendering to experience, ending a struggle, accepting what is. When this card appears in your reading you must listen to your inner self, even if that message seems to be contrary to logic.

He was amused because he’d been doing plenty of seeking lately – before the Unsub 109 case and the appearance of the fortune-telling card. Lincoln Rhyme needed to make a decision.

A change of direction…

Now he didn’t remain in the bedroom but instead drove to the room that was the epicenter of this churning debate: his therapy room, where he’d spent hundreds of hours hard at work on Dr. Sherman’s exercise regimen.

Parking the wheelchair in the doorway, he studied the rehab equipment in the dim room – the ergometer bike, the treadmill. Then he glanced down at his right hand, strapped at the wrist to the padded arm of his red Storm Arrow wheelchair.

Decision…

Go on, he told himself.

Try it. Now. Move your hand.

Breathing hard. Eyes riveted to his right hand.

No…

His shoulders slumped, to the extent they could, and he looked into the room. Thinking of all the grueling exercise. Sure, the effort had improved his bone density and muscle mass and circulation, reducing infections and the chance of a neurovascular episode.

But the real question surrounding the exercise could be summed up in a two-word euphemism from the medical specialists: functional benefit. Rhyme’s translation was less foggy: feeling and moving.

The very aspects of his recovery he’d dismissed when speaking to Sherman earlier today.

To put it frankly, he’d lied to the doctor. In his heart, not confessed to anyone, was the burning need to know one thing: Had those tortured hours of exercise let him regain sensation and given him the ability to move muscles that had not moved in years? Could he now turn the knob on a Bausch & Lomb microscope to bring a fiber or hair into focus? Could he feel Amelia Sachs’s palm against his?

As for the sensation, perhaps there had been some slight improvement. But a quadriplegic with a C4 level of injury floats in a sea of phantom pain and phony sensation, all ginned up by the brain to taunt and confuse. You feel flies crawling on skin where no flies have landed. You feel no sensation whatsoever as you look down and realize that a spill of scalding coffee is burning off layers of your flesh. Rhyme believed, though, that he had a bit of improved sensation.

Ah, but about the big payoff – movement? This was the jewel in the crown of spinal-cord-injury recovery.

He looked down at his hand once again, his right hand, which he hadn’t been able to move since the accident.

This question could be answered simply and definitively. No phantom-pain issues, no I-think-maybe-I-feel-something responses. It could be answered right now. Yes or no. He didn’t need MRI scans or a dynamic resistance gauge or whatever contraption the doctors had in their little black bags. Right now he could simply send tiny impulses shooting to the muscle along the highway of neurons and then see what happened.

Would the messengers arrive and make the finger curl – which would be the equivalent of a world-record long jump? Or would they crash to a stop on a dead strand of nerve?

Rhyme believed he was a brave man, both physically and morally. In the days before the accident, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the job. Protecting a crime scene once, he and another officer had held off a crazed mob of forty people trying to loot the store where a shooting had taken place, when the cops could easily have dodged to safety. Another time, he’d run a scene fifty feet from a barricaded perp taking potshots at him, in order to find evidence that might lead them to the location of a kidnapped girl. Then there was the time he’d put his entire career on the line by arresting a senior police officer who was contaminating a scene simply to grandstand for the press.

But now his courage failed him.

His eyes boring into the right hand, staring.

Yes, no…

If he tried to move his finger and wasn’t able to, if he couldn’t even claim one of Dr. Sherman’s small victories in this exhausting battle he’d been fighting, he believed that it would be the end for him.

The dark thoughts would return, like a tide rolling higher and higher on the shore, and finally he’d call up a doctor once more – oh, but not Sherman. A very different doctor. The man from the Lethe Society, a euthanasia group. A few years ago when he’d tried to end his life he hadn’t been as independent as he was now. There’d been fewer computers, no voice-activated ECU systems and phones. Ironically, now that his lifestyle was better, he was also more self-sufficient at killing himself. The doctor could help him rig some contraption to the ECU, and leave pills or a weapon nearby.

Of course, he had people in his life now, not like a few years ago. His suicide would be devastating to Sachs, yes, but death had always been an aspect of their love. With cop blood in her veins, she was often first through the door in a suspect takedown, even though she didn’t need to be. She’d been decorated for her courage in firefights, and she drove like hot lightning – some would even say she herself had a suicidal streak within her.

In Rhyme’s case, when they’d met – on a hard, hard case, a crucible of violence and death some years ago – he’d been very close to killing himself. Sachs understood this about him.

Thom too accepted it. (Rhyme had told the aide at the first interview, “I might not be around too much longer. Be sure to cash your paycheck as soon as you get it.”)

Still, he hated the thought of what his death would do to them, and the other people he knew. Not to mention the fact that crimes would go unsolved, victims would die, if he wasn’t on earth to practice the craft that was the essential part of his soul.

This was why he’d been putting off the test. If he’d had no improvement it could be enough to push him over the edge.

Yes…

The card often foretells a surrendering to experience, ending a struggle, accepting what is.

…or no?

When this card appears in your reading you must listen to your inner self.

And it was at this moment that Lincoln Rhyme made his decision: He would give up. He’d stop the exercises, would stop considering the spinal cord operation.

After all, if you don’t have hope, then hope can’t be destroyed. He’d made a good life for himself. His existence wasn’t perfect but it was tolerable. Lincoln Rhyme would accept his course, and he’d be content to be what Charles Singleton had rejected: a partial man, a three-fifths man.

Content, more or less.

Using his left ring finger, Rhyme turned his wheelchair around and drove back toward the bedroom just in time to meet Thom at the doorway.

“You ready for bed?” the aide asked.

“As a matter of fact,” Rhyme said cheerfully, “I am.”