Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

The girl frowned and her dark eyes turned darker. “I don’t take anything for free.” A shake of the head. “Besides, a social worker’d come to check things out and see my situation. I’d get sent down to my aunt’s in ’Bama. She lives in a town outside of Selma, three hundred people in it. You know what kind of education I’d get there? Or, I stay here, and end up in foster in Brooklyn, living in one room with four gangbanger girls, boxes playing hip-hop and BET on, twenty-four hours a day, dragged to church…” She shivered and shook her head.

“That’s why the job.” Rhyme glanced at the uniform.

“That’s why the job. Somebody hooked me up with this guy makes fake driver’s licenses. According to it, I’m eighteen.” A laugh. “I don’t look it, I know. But I applied to a place where the manager’s an old white guy. He didn’t have a clue how old I was from looking at me. Been at the same place ever since. Never missed a single shift. Until today.” A sigh. “My boss’ll find out. He’ll have to fire me. Shit. And I just lost my other job last week.”

“You had two jobs?”

The girl nodded. “Scrubbing graffiti. There’s all this renovation going on in Harlem. You see it everywhere now. Some big insurance or real estate companies fix up old buildings and rent ’em for a lot of money. The crews hired some kids to clean the walls. It was great money. But I got fired.”

“Because you were underage?” Sachs asked.

“No, because I saw these workers, three big white guys who worked for some real estate company. They were hassling this old couple who’d lived in the building forever. I told ’em to stop or I’d call the police…” She shrugged. “They fired me. I did call the police but they weren’t interested… So much for doing good deeds.”

“And that’s why you didn’t want that Mrs. Barton, the counselor, to help,” Bell said.

“She finds out I’m homeless, and, bang, my ass’s in foster.” She shuddered. “I was so close! I could’ve done it. A year and a half and I’d be gone. I’d be in Harvard or Vassar. Then that guy shows up at the museum yesterday and ruins everything!”

Geneva rose and walked to the chart that had the details about Charles Singleton on it. She gazed at it. “That’s why I was writing about him. I had to find out he was innocent. I wanted him to be nice and be a good husband and father. The letters were so wonderful. He could write so pretty, all his words. Even his handwriting was beautiful.” She added breathlessly, “And he was a hero in the Civil War and taught children and saved the orphans from the draft rioters. Suddenly I had a relative who was good, after all. Who was smart, who knew famous people. I wanted him to be somebody I could admire, not like my father or mother.”

Luis Martinez stuck his head in the doorway. “He checks out. Right name and address, no priors, no warrants.” He’d run the name of the phony uncle. Rhyme and Bell weren’t trusting anybody at this point.

“You must be lonely,” Sachs said.

A pause. “My daddy took me to church some, ’fore he ran off. I remember this gospel song. It used to be our favorite. It’s called ‘Ain’t Got Time to Die.’ That’s what my life’s like. I ain’t got time to be lonely.”

But Rhyme knew Geneva well by now. She was fronting. He said, “So you’ve got a secret just like your ancestor. Who knows yours?”

“Keesh, the super, his wife. That’s all.” She fixed Rhyme with a defiant look. “You’re going to turn me in, aren’t you?”

“You can’t live alone,” Sachs said.

“I have for two years,” she snapped. “I have my books, school. I don’t need anything else.”

“But -”

“No. If you tell, it’ll ruin everything.” She added, “Please.” The word was muted, as if saying it came very hard to her.

Silence for a moment. Sachs and Sellitto looked at Rhyme, the one person in the room who didn’t have to answer to city brass and regulations. He said, “No need to make any decisions right away. We’ve got our hands full catching the unsub. But I’m thinking you ought to stay here, not a safe house.” He glanced at Thom. “I think we can find room for you upstairs, can’t we?”

“You bet we can.”

“I’d rather – ” the girl started.

Rhyme said with a smile, “I think we’ll insist this time.”

“But my job. I can’t afford to lose it.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Rhyme got the number from her and called the girl’s boss at McDonald’s and explained in general terms about the attack and said that Geneva wouldn’t be coming in for a few days. The manager sounded truly concerned and told him that Geneva was their most conscientious employee. She could take as much time off as she needed and could be sure that her job would be waiting for her when she returned.

“She’s the best employee we’ve got,” the man said over the speakerphone. “A teenager who’s more responsible than somebody twice that age. You don’t see that very often.”

Rhyme and Geneva shared a smile and he disconnected the call.

It was then that the doorbell rang. Bell and Sachs immediately grew vigilant, their hands slipping toward their weapons. Sellitto, Rhyme noted, still looked spooked, and though he glanced down at his weapon, he didn’t reach for it. His fingers remained on his cheek, rubbing gently, as if the gesture could conjure up a genie to calm his troubled heart.

Thom appeared in the doorway. He said to Bell, “There’s a Mrs. Barton here, from the school. She’s brought a copy of some security video.”

The girl shook her head in dismay. “No,” she whispered.

“Send her in,” Rhyme said.

A large African-American woman walked in, wearing a purple dress. Bell introduced her. She nodded to everyone and, like most of the counselors Rhyme himself had met, had no reaction to his disabled condition. She said, “Hello, Geneva.”

The girl nodded. Her face was a still mask. Rhyme could tell she was thinking about the threat this woman represented to her: rural Alabama or a foster home.

Barton continued, “How’re you doing?”

“Okay, fine, thank you,” the girl said with a deference that wasn’t typical of her.

“This’s got to be tough on you,” the woman said.

“I’ve been better.” Geneva now tried a laugh. It sounded flat. She glanced at the woman once and then looked away.

Barton said, “I spoke to maybe a dozen or so people about that man near the school yard yesterday. Only two or three remember seeing anybody. They couldn’t describe him, except he was of color, wore a green combat jacket and old work shoes.”

“That’s new,” Rhyme said. “The shoes.” Thom wrote this on the board.

“And here’s the tape from our security department.” She handed a VHS cassette to Cooper, who played it.

Rhyme wheeled close to the screen and felt his neck straining with the tension as he studied the images.

It wasn’t much help. The camera was aimed mostly at the school yard, not the surrounding sidewalks and streets. In the periphery it was possible to see some vague images of passersby, but nothing distinctive. Without much hope that they’d pick up anything, Rhyme ordered Cooper to send the cassette off to the lab in Queens to see if it could be digitally enhanced. The tech filled out the chain-of-custody card and packed it up, called for a pickup.

Bell thanked the woman for her help.

“Anything we can do.” She paused and looked the girl over. “But I really do need to talk to your parents, Geneva.”

“My parents?”

She nodded slowly. “I have to say – I’ve been talking to some of the students and teachers, and to be honest, most of them say your folks haven’t been very involved in your classes. In fact, I haven’t found anybody who’s actually met them.”