Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

My warmest regards to your sister and William, as well as their children, of course. Tell Joshua I am proud of his achievement in the subject of geography.

I live for the day, now soon, I pray, when I will see you and our son once again.

Yours in love,

Charles

Geneva took the letter off the optical scanner. She looked up and said, “The Civil War Draft Riots of 1863. Worst civil disturbance in U.S. history.”

“He doesn’t say anything about his secret,” Rhyme pointed out.

“That’s in one of the letters I have at home. I was showing you this so you’d know he wasn’t a thief.”

Rhyme frowned. “But the theft was, what, five years after he wrote that? Why do you think that means he’s not guilty?”

“My point,” Geneva said, “is that he doesn’t sound like a thief, does he? Not somebody who’s going to steal from an education trust for former slaves.”

Rhyme said simply, “That’s not proof.”

“I think it is.” The girl looked over the letter again, smoothed it with her hand.

“What’s that three-fifths-man thing?” Sellitto asked.

Rhyme recalled something from American history. But unless information was relevant to his career as a criminalist, he discarded it as useless clutter. He shook his head.

Geneva explained, “Before the Civil War, slaves were counted as three-fifths of a person for the purpose of representation in Congress. It wasn’t an evil Confederate conspiracy, like you’d think; the North came up with that rule. They didn’t want slaves counted at all, because that would give the South more representatives in Congress and the electoral college. The South wanted them counted as full people. The three-fifths rule was a compromise.”

“They were counted for representation,” Thom pointed out, “but they still couldn’t vote.”

“Oh, of course not,” Geneva said.

“Just like women, by the way,” Sachs added.

The social history of America wasn’t of any interest to Rhyme at the moment. “I’d like to see the other letters. And I want to find another copy of that magazine, Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated . What issue?”

“July twenty-third, 1868,” Geneva said. “But I’ve had a tough time finding it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mel Cooper said. And Rhyme heard the railroad track clatter of his fingers on the keyboard.

Geneva was looking at her battered Swatch. “I really -”

“Hey, y’all,” a man’s voice called from the doorway. Wearing a brown tweed sports coat, blue shirt and jeans, Detective Roland Bell walked into the lab. A law enforcer in his native North Carolina, Bell had moved to New York a few years ago for personal reasons. He had a flop of brown hair, gentle eyes and was so easygoing that his urban coworkers sometimes felt a stab of impatience working with him, though Rhyme suspected the reason he sometimes moved slowly wasn’t Southern heritage at all but his meticulous nature, owing to the importance of his job within the NYPD. Bell’s specialty was protecting witnesses and other potential victims. His operation wasn’t an official unit in the NYPD but it still had a name: “SWAT.” This wasn’t the traditional weapons and tactics acronym, though; it was short for “Saving the Witness’s Ass Team.”

“Roland, this is Geneva Settle.”

“Hey there, miss,” he drawled and shook her hand.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” she said firmly.

“Don’t you worry – I won’t get in your way,” Bell said. “You got my word of honor on that. I’ll stay as outa sight as a tick in tall grass.” A glance at Sellitto. “Now what’re we up against here?”

The heavyset detective ran through the details of the case and what they knew so far. Bell didn’t frown or shake his head but Rhyme could see his eyes go still, which signaled his concern. But when Sellitto was done, Bell put on his down-home face again and asked Geneva a number of questions about herself and her family to give him an idea of how to set up the protection detail. She answered hesitatingly, as if she begrudged the effort.

Finally Bell was finished and Geneva said impatiently, “I really have to go. Could somebody drive me home? I’ll get Charles’s letters for you. But then I have to go to school.”

“Detective Bell’ll take you home,” Rhyme said then added with a laugh, “but about school, I thought we’d agreed you’d take the day off. Take a makeup.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I didn’t agree to that. You said, ‘Let’s just get some questions out of the way and then we’ll see.’”

Not many people quoted Lincoln Rhyme’s words back at him. He grumbled, “Whatever I said, I think you’ll have to stay home, now that we know the perp may still be after you. It’s just not safe.”

“Mr. Rhyme, I need to take those tests. Makeups at my school – they sometimes don’t get scheduled, test books get lost, you don’t get credit.” Geneva was angrily gripping an empty belt loop on her jeans. She was so skinny. He wondered if her parents were health freaks, keeping her on a diet of organic granola and tofu. It seemed that a lot of professors leaned in that direction.

“I’ll call the school right now,” Sachs said. “We’ll tell them there’s been an incident and -”

“I think I really want to go,” Geneva said softly, eyes looking steadily into Rhyme’s. “Now.”

“Just stay at home for a day or two until we find out more. Or,” Rhyme added with a laugh, “until we nail his ass.”

It was supposed to be light, to win her over by talking teenage. But he regretted the words instantly. He hadn’t been real with her – solely because she was young. It was like the people who came to visit him and were overly loud and jokey because he was a quad. They pissed him off.

Just like she was pissed at him now.

She said, “I’d really appreciate a ride, if you don’t mind. Or I’ll take the train. But I have to leave now , if you want those letters.”

Irritated to have to be fighting this battle, Rhyme said with finality, “I’ll have to say no.”

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“There’s a man I want to call.”

“A man?”

“He’s the lawyer I mentioned. Wesley Goades. He used to work for the biggest insurance company in the country, and now he runs a legal clinic in Harlem.”

“And you want to call him?” Sellitto asked. “Why?”

“Because I want to ask him if you can keep me from going to school.”

Rhyme scoffed. “It’s for your own good.”

“That’s sort of for me to decide, isn’t it?”

“Your parents or your uncle.”

“They’re not the ones who have to graduate from eleventh grade next spring.”

Sachs chuckled. Rhyme shot her a dark look.

“Just for a day or two, miss,” Bell said.

Geneva ignored him and continued, “Mr. Goades got John David Colson released from Sing-Sing after he’d been in prison for ten years for a murder he didn’t commit. And he’s sued New York, I mean, the state itself, two or three times. He won every trial. And he just did a Supreme Court case. About homeless rights.”

“Won that one too, did he?” Rhyme asked wryly.

“He usually wins. In fact, I don’t think he’s ever lost.”

“This’s crazy,” Sellitto muttered, absently brushing at a dot of blood on his jacket. He muttered, “You’re a kid -”

Wrong thing to say.

Geneva glared at him and snapped, “You’re not going to let me make a phone call? Don’t prisoners get to do that, even?”

The big detective sighed. He gestured toward the phone.

She walked to it, looked in her address book and punched in a number.