Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

“That’s wack,” Geneva Settle offered, shaking her head.

After a pause, Rhyme replied solemnly, “I’m afraid it’s anything but.”

Sitting at the Internet access station in a quick-copy shop in downtown Manhattan, Thompson Boyd was reading through the local TV station website, which updated news every few minutes.

The headline of the article he read was: MUSEUM OFFICIAL MURDERED; WITNESS IN ASSAULT ON STUDENT.

Whistling, almost silently, he examined the accompanying picture, which showed the library director he’d just killed talking to a uniformed policeman on the street in front of the museum. The caption read, Dr. Donald Barry speaks with police shortly before he was shot to death .

Because of her age, Geneva Settle wasn’t identified by name, though she was described as a high school student living in Harlem. Thompson was grateful for that information; he hadn’t known which borough of the city she lived in. He hooked his phone to the USB port on the computer and transferred the picture he’d taken of the girl. This he then uploaded to an anonymous email account.

He logged off, paid for his time – in cash, of course – and strolled along lower Broadway, in the heart of the financial district. He bought a coffee from a vendor, drank half of it, then slipped the microfiche plates he’d stolen into the cup, replaced the lid and dropped them into a trash basket.

He paused at a phone kiosk, looked around and saw no one was paying him any attention. He dialed a number. There was no outgoing message from the voice mail service, only a beep. “Me. Problem with the Settle situation. I need you to find out where she goes to school or where she lives. She’s a high school student in Harlem. That’s all I know. I’ve sent a picture of her to your account… Oh, one thing – if you get a chance to take care of her yourself, there’s another fifty thousand in it for you. Give me a call when you get this message. We’ll talk about it.” Thompson recited the number of the phone where he stood then hung up. He stepped back, crossed his arms and waited, whistling softly. He’d gotten through only three bars of Stevie Wonder’s “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” before the phone started to ring.

The criminalist looked at Sellitto. “Where’s Roland?”

“ Bell? He delivered somebody into witness protection upstate but he should be back by now. Think we should give him a call?”

“Yes,” Rhyme said.

Sellitto called the detective’s mobile phone and, from the conversation, Rhyme deduced that Bell would leave Police Plaza immediately and head uptown.

Rhyme noticed Geneva ’s frown. “Detective Bell ’s just going to look out for you. Like a bodyguard. Until we get everything sorted out…Now, do you have any idea what Charles was accused of stealing?”

“The article said gold or money or something.”

“Missing gold. Ah, that’s interesting. Greed – one of your better motives.”

“Would your uncle know anything about it?” Sachs asked her.

“My uncle? Oh, no, he’s my mother’s brother. Charles was from my father’s side of the family. And Dad just knew a few things. My great-aunt gave me a few letters of Charles’s. But she didn’t know anything more about him.”

“Where are they? Those letters?” Rhyme asked.

“I have one with me.” She fished in her purse and pulled it out. “And the others’re at home. My aunt thought she might have some more boxes of Charles’s things but she wasn’t sure where they were.” Geneva fell silent as the brows in her dark, round face furrowed and she said to Sachs, “One thing? If it’s helpful?”

“Go ahead,” Sachs said.

“I remember from one of the letters. Charles talked about this secret he had.”

“Secret?” Sachs asked.

“Yeah, he said it bothered him not to be able to reveal the truth. But there’d be a disaster, a tragedy, if he did. Something like that.”

“Maybe it was the theft he was talking about,” Rhyme said.

Geneva stiffened. “I don’t think he did it. I think he was framed.”

“Why?” Rhyme asked.

A shrug. “Read the letter.” The girl started to hand it to Rhyme, then caught herself and gave it to Mel Cooper, unapologetic about the faux pas.

The tech placed it in an optical reader and a moment later the elegantly scripted words from the nineteenth century were scrolling across flat-screen monitors from the twenty-first.

Mrs. Violet Singleton

In care of

Mr. & Mrs. William Dodd

Essex Farm Road

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

July 14, 1863

My dearest Violet:

News has surely reached you of the terrible events in New York of late. I can now report that peace has returned, but the cost was great.

The climate here has been incendiary, with hundreds of thousands of less fortunate citizens still reeling from the economic panic of several years ago – Mr. Greeley’s Tribune reported that unconscionable stock speculation and imprudent lending had led to the “bursting bubbles” of the world’s financial markets.

In this atmosphere, it took merely a small spark to ignite the recent rioting: the order to draft men into the Federal army, which was acknowledged by many to be necessary in our fight against the Rebels, owing to the enemy’s surprising strength and resilience. Still, the opposition to the draft was sturdier, and more deadly, than any had anticipated. And we – Coloreds, abolitionists and Republicans, – became the target of their hate, as much as the conscription provost and his men, if not more so.

Rioters, largely Irishmen, swept through the city, attacking any Colored they might see, sacking houses and places of work. I had by happenstance been in the company of two teachers and the director of the Colored Children’s Orphanage when a mob attacked the building and set it aflame! Why, more than 200 children were inside! With God’s help, we were able to lead the little ones to safety at a nearby police station, but the rioters would have killed us all if they had had their way.

Fighting continued throughout the day. That evening the lynchings began. After one Negro was hanged, his body was set on fire, and the rioters danced around it in drunken revels. I was aghast!

I have now fled to our farm up north and will henceforth keep my attention fixed on my mission of educating children in our school, working the orchard and furthering, however I can, the cause of freedom of our people.

My dearest wife, in the aftermath of these terrible events, life to me seems precarious and fleeting, and – if you are inclined to the journey, – it is my desire that you and our son now join me. I am enclosing herewith tickets for you both, and ten dollars for expenses. I will meet your train in New Jersey and we will take a boat up the river to our farm. You can assist me in teaching, and Joshua can continue his studies and help us and James in the cider mill and shop. Should anyone ask your business and destination, respond as do I: say only that we are caretakers of the farm, tending it for Master Trilling in his absence. Seeing the hatred in the eyes of the rioters has brought home to me the fact that nowhere is safe, and even in our idyllic locale, arson, theft and pillaging might very likely ensue, should it be learned that the owners of the farm are Negroes.

I have come from a place where I was held in captivity and considered to be merely a three-fifths man. I had hoped that moving North would change this. But, alas, that is not yet the case. The tragic events of the past few days tell me that you and I and those of our kind are not yet treated as whole men and women, and our battle to achieve wholeness in the eyes of others must continue with unflagging determination.