Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

“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.