Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

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.