Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

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.”

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.”