Jeffery Deaver: The Twelfth Card

As she approached the scene Sachs was greeted by a blond NYPD uniform – so young he had to be a rookie. He said, “Hi, there. I was the first officer. I -”

Sachs smiled and whispered, “Don’t look at me. Keep your eyes on that garbage pile up the street.”

The rookie looked at her, blinked. “Sorry?”

“Garbage,” she repeated in a harsh whisper. “Not me.”

“Sorry, Detective,” said the young man, who sported a trim haircut and a nameplate on his chest that read R. Pulaski . The tag had not a single ding or scratch on it.

Sachs pointed to the trash. “Shrug.”

He shrugged.

“Come on with me. Keep watching it.”

“Is there -?”

“Smile.”

“I -”

“How many cops does it take to change a lightbulb?” Sachs asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “How many?”

“I don’t know either. It’s not a joke. But laugh like I just told you a great punch line.”

He laughed. A little nervous. But it was a laugh.

“Keep watching it.”

“The trash?”

Sachs unbuttoned her suit jacket. “Now we’re not laughing. We’re concerned about the garbage.”

“Why -?”

“Ahead.”

“Right. I’m not laughing. I’m looking at the trash.”

“Good.”

The man with the gun kept lounging against a building. He was in his forties, solid, with razor-cut hair. She now saw the bulge at his hip, which told her it was a long pistol, probably a revolver, since it seemed to swell out where the cylinder would be. “Here’s the situation,” she said softly to the rookie. “Man on our two o’clock. He’s carrying.”

Bless him, the rookie – with spiky little-boy hair as shiny beige as caramel – kept looking at the garbage. “The perp? You think it’s the perp in the assault?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I care about the fact that he’s carrying.”

“What do we do?”

“Keep on going. We pass him, watching the garbage. Decide we’re not interested. Head back toward the scene. You slow up and ask me if I want coffee. I say yes. You go around to his right. He’ll keep his eyes on me.”

“Why will he watch you?”

Refreshing naiveté. “He just will. You double back. Get close to him. Make a little noise, clear your throat or something. He’ll turn. Then I’ll come up behind him.”

“Sure, I’ve got it…Should I, you know, draw down on him?”

“No. Just let him know you’re there and stand behind him.”

“What if he pulls his gun?”

“Then you draw down on him.”

“What if he starts to shoot?”

“I don’t think he will.”

“But if he does?”

“Then you shoot him. What’s your first name?”

“Ronald. Ron.”

“How long you out?”

“Three weeks.”

“You’ll do fine. Let’s go.”

They walked to the garbage pile, concerned. But then they decided it was no threat and started back. Pulaski stopped suddenly. “Hey, how ’bout some coffee, Detective?”

Overacting – he’d never be a guest on Inside the Actor’s Studio – but all things considered it was a credible performance. “Sure, thanks.”

He doubled back then paused. Shouted: “How do you like it?”

“Uhm, sugar,” she said.

“How many sugars?”

Jesus Lord…She said, “One.”

“Got it. Hey, you want a Danish too?”

Okay, cool it, her eyes told him. “Just coffee’s fine.” She turned toward the crime scene, sensing the man with the gun study her long red hair, tied in a ponytail. He glanced at her chest, then her butt.

Why will he watch you?

He just will.

Sachs continued toward the museum. She glanced in a window across the street, checking out the reflection. When the smoker’s eyes swiveled back toward Pulaski she turned quickly and approached, jacket pulled aside like a gunfighter’s dust coat so she could get her Glock out fast if she needed to.

“Sir,” she said firmly. “Please keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Do as the lady says.” Pulaski stood on the other side of the guy, hand near his weapon.

The man glanced at Sachs. “That was pretty smooth, Officer.”

“Just don’t move those hands. Are you carrying a weapon?”

“Yeah,” the man replied, “and it’s bigger than what I used to carry in the Three Five.”

The numbers referred to a precinct house. He was a former cop.

Probably.

“Working security?”

“That’s right.”

“Let me see your ticket. With your left hand, you don’t mind. Keep your right where it is.”

He pulled out his wallet and handed it to her. His carry permit and security guard’s license were in order. Still, she called it in and checked out the guy. He was legit. “Thanks.” Sachs relaxed, handing him back the papers.

“Not a problem, Detective. You got yourself some scene here, looks like.” Nodding toward the squad cars blocking the street in front of the museum.

“We’ll see.” Noncommittal.

The guard put the wallet away. “I was Patrol for twelve years. Retired on a medical and was going stir crazy.” He nodded at the building behind him. “You’ll see a couple other guys carrying round here. This’s one of the biggest jewelry operations in the city. It’s an annex for the American Jewelry Exchange in the diamond district. We get a couple million bucks’ worth of stones from Amsterdam and Jerusalem every day.”

She glanced at the building. Didn’t look very imposing, just like any other office building.

He laughed. “I thought it’d be a piece of cake, this job, but I work as hard here as when I was on a beat. Well, good luck with the scene. Wish I could help, but I got here after the excitement.” He turned to the rookie and said, “Hey, kid.” He nodded toward Sachs. “On the job, in front of people, you don’t call her ‘lady.’ She’s ‘Detective.’”

The rookie looked at him uneasily but she could see he got the message – one that Sachs herself had been going to deliver when they were out of earshot.

“Sorry,” Pulaski said to her.

You didn’t know. Now you do.

Which could be the motto of police training everywhere.

They turned to go. The guard called, “Oh, hey, rookie?”

Pulaski turned.

“You forgot the coffee.” Grinned.

At the entrance to the museum Lon Sellitto was surveying the street and talking to a sergeant. The big detective looked at the kid’s name tag and asked, “Pulaski, you were first officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’sa story?”

The kid cleared his throat and pointed to an alley. “I was positioned across the street, roughly there, on routine patrol. At about oh-eight-thirty the victim, an African-American female, sixteen years of age, approached me and reported that -”

“You can just tell it in your own words,” Sachs said.

“Sure. Okay. What it was, I was standing right about there and this girl comes up to me, all upset. Her name’s Geneva Settle, junior in high school. She was working on a term paper or something on the fifth floor.” Pointing to the museum. “And this guy attacks her. White, six feet, wearing a ski mask. Was going to rape her.”

“You know that how?” Sellitto asked.

“I found his rape pack upstairs.”

“You looked in it?” Sachs asked, frowning.

“With a pen. That’s all. I didn’t touch it.”

“Good. Go on.”

“The girl gets away, comes down the fire stairs and into the alley. He’s after her, but he turns the other way.”

“Anybody see what happened to him?” Sellitto asked.

“No, sir.”

He looked over the street. “You set up the press perimeter?”

“Yes, sir.”