The Twelfth Card (30 page)

“Are they now? After all them years?”

Bell wasn’t sure the woman exactly believed her niece. The detective’s own aunt, about this woman’s age, was sharp as a needle. Nothing got by her.

But Lilly said, “Be right nice of y’all. Bella, let’s make these folk some coffee. And cocoa for Geneva. I remember that’s what she likes.”

As Roland Bell looked out carefully through a space between the drawn curtains, Geneva started through the box once again.

*   *   *

On this Harlem street:

Two boys tried to outdo each other at skateboarding down the tall banister of a brownstone, flaunting the laws both of gravity and of truancy.

A black woman stood on a porch, watering some
spectacular red geraniums that the recent frost hadn’t killed.

A squirrel buried, or dug up, something in the largest plot of dirt nearby: a five-by-four-foot rectangle dusted with yellow grass, in the middle of which rested the carcass of a washing machine.

And on East 123rd Street, near the Iglesia Adventista Church, with the soaring approach to the Triborough Bridge in the background, three police officers looked diligently out over a shabby brownstone and the surrounding streets. Two—a man and a woman—were in plain clothes; the cop in the alley was in uniform. He marched up and down the alley like a recruit on guard duty.

These observations were made by Thompson Boyd, who’d followed Geneva Settle and her guards here and was now standing in a boarded-up building across the street and several doors west. He peered through the cracks in a defaced billboard advertising home equity loans.

Curious that they’d brought the girl out into the open. Not by the book. But that was their problem.

Thompson considered the logistics: He assumed this was a short trip—a hit-and-run, so to speak, with the Crown Victoria and the other car double-parked and no attempt made to hide them. He decided to move fast to take advantage of the situation. Hurrying out of the ruined building, via the back door, Thompson now circled the block, pausing only long enough to buy a pack of cigarettes in a bodega. Easing into the alley behind the tenement where Geneva now was, Thompson peered out. He carefully set the shopping bag on the asphalt and moved forward a few more feet. Hiding behind a pile of garbage bags, he watched the blond officer on his patrol in the alley. The
killer began counting the young man’s footsteps.
One, two . . .

At
thirteen
the officer reached the back of the building and turned around. He was covering a lot of ground in his guard detail; he must’ve been told to watch the entire alleyway, both front and back, and to keep an eye on the windows in the opposite building too.

At
twelve
he reached the front sidewalk and turned, started back.
One, two, three . . .

It took twelve steps again to get to the rear of the building. He glanced around then paced his way to the front, stepping thirteen times.

The next trip was eleven steps, then twelve.

Not clockwork, but close enough. Thompson Boyd would have at least eleven steps to slip unseen to the rear of the building, while the boy’s back was turned. He’d then have another eleven until he appeared at the rear again. He pulled the ski mask over his head.

The officer now turned and headed toward the street once more.

In an instant Thompson was out of cover and sprinting to the back of the apartment building, counting . . .
three, four, five, six . . .

Quiet on his Bass walking shoes, Thompson kept his eyes on the boy’s back. The cop didn’t look around. The killer reached the wall on
eight,
pressed against it, catching his breath; he turned toward the alleyway where the uniformed cop would soon be appearing.

Eleven.
The cop would have just reached the street and be turning and starting back.
One, two, three . . .

Thompson Boyd, slowing his breathing.

Six, seven . . .

Thompson Boyd, gripping the club in both hands.

Nine, ten, eleven . . .

Feet scraped on the gritty cobblestones.

Thompson stepped quickly out of the alley, swinging the club like a baseball bat, fast as a sidewinder striking. He noted the pure shock on the boy’s face. He heard the whistling of the stick and the cop’s gasp, which stopped at the same moment the club struck his forehead. The boy dropped to his knees, a gurgling sound coming from his throat. The killer then clocked the man on the crown of the head.

The officer fell face forward to the filthy ground. Thompson dragged the quivering young man, still partly conscious, around the back of the building, where they couldn’t be seen from the street.

*   *   *

At the sound of the gunshot, Roland Bell leapt to the window of the apartment, looked out carefully. He unbuttoned his jacket and grabbed his radio.

He ignored Aunt Lilly’s wide-eyed friend, who said, “Lord, what’s going on?”

The great-aunt herself stared silently at the huge gun on the detective’s hip.

“Bell,” the detective said into the microphone. “What’ve we got?”

Luis Martinez replied breathlessly, “Gunshot. Came from the back of the building, boss. Pulaski was there. Barbe’s gone to check.”

“Pulaski,” Bell called into his radio. “Respond.”

Nothing.

“Pulaski!”

“What’s this about?” Lilly demanded, terrified. “Lord.”

Bell held up a finger. Into his radio: “Positions. Report.”

“I’m still on the front porch,” Martinez responded. “Nothing from Barbe.”

“Move to the middle of the ground-floor corridor, keep your eye on the back door. That’s the way I’d come in, I was him. But cover both entrances.”

“Roger.”

Bell turned to Geneva and the two elderly women. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“But—”

“
Now,
miss. I’ll carry you if I have to but that’ll put us more at risk.”

Barbe Lynch finally transmitted. “Pulaski’s down.” She called in a 10-13, officer needs assistance, and requested medics.

“Back entrance intact?” he asked.

Lynch answered, “Door’s closed and locked. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Stay in position, cover the back alley. I’m taking her out.

“Let’s go,” he said to the girl.

The defiance faded but she said, “I’m not leaving them.” Nodding toward the women.

“You tell me right now what’s this about,” her great-aunt said, eyeing Bell angrily.

“It’s a police matter. Somebody might be trying to hurt Geneva. I want you to leave. Is there a friend’s apartment here you can stay in for a spell?”

“But—”

“Gonna have to insist here, ladies. Is there? Tell me quick.”

They glanced at each other with frightened eyes and nodded. “Ann-Marie’s, I guess,” the aunt said. “Up the hall.”

Bell walked to the doorway and looked out. The empty corridor yawned at him.

“Okay, now. Go.”

The older women moved quickly down the hall. Bell saw them knock on a door. It opened and there were some hushed voices, then the face of an elderly black woman looked out. The women vanished inside, the door closed and the sound of chains and locks followed. The detective and the girl hurried down the stairs, with Bell pausing at every landing to make sure the lower level was cleared, his large, black automatic in hand.

Geneva said nothing. Her jaw was set; fury had blossomed inside her once again.

They paused in the lobby. The detective directed Geneva into the shadows behind him. He shouted, “Luis?”

“This level’s clear, boss, for now at least,” the cop called in a harsh whisper from halfway up the dim corridor that led to the back door.

Barbe’s calm voice said, “Pulaski’s still alive. I found him holding his gun—he got off one round. That was the shot we heard. No sign he hit anything.”

“What’s he say?”

“He’s unconscious.”

So maybe the guy’s rabbited, Bell thought.

Or maybe he planned something else. Was it safer to wait here for backup? That was the logical answer. The real issue, though: Was it the right answer to the question of what Unsub 109 had in mind?

Bell made a decision.

“Luis, I’m taking her out of here. Now. Need your help.”

“With you, boss.”

*   *   *

Thompson Boyd was once again in the burnt-out building across the street from the tenement Geneva Settle and the cops had gone into.

So far, his plan was working.

After beaning the cop, he’d ejected a shell from the man’s Glock. This he’d rubber-banded to a lit cigarette—a fuse, in effect—and set the homemade firecracker in the alley. He’d placed the gun in the unconscious cop’s hand.

He’d stripped off the mask, slipped through another alley, east of the building, into the street. When the cigarette burned down and detonated the bullet, and the two plainclothes cops disappeared, he’d run to the Crown Victoria. He had a slim jim to pop the door but hadn’t needed it; the car had been unlocked. From the shopping bag he took several of the items he’d prepared last night, then assembled and hid them under the driver’s seat and carefully closed the car door.

The improvised device was quite simple: a low, wide jar of sulfuric acid, in which rested a short glass candleholder. And sitting on top of that was a foil ball containing several tablespoons of finely ground cyanide powder. Any motion of the car would roll the ball into the acid, which would melt the foil and dissolve the poison. The lethal gas would spread upward and overcome the occupants before they had time to open a door or window. They’d be dead—or brain dead—soon after.

He peeked out through the crack between the billboard and what was left of the building’s front wall. On the porch was the brown-haired detective who seemed to be in charge of the guard detail. Beside him was the male plainclothes cop and between them the girl.

The trio paused on the porch as the detective scanned the street, the rooftops, cars, alleys.

A gun was in his right hand. Keys in his other. They were going to make a run for the deadly car.

Perfect.

Thompson Boyd turned and left the building quickly. He had to put some distance between himself and this place. Other cops were already on their way; sirens were growing louder. As he slipped out of the back of the building he heard the detective’s car start. The squeal of tires followed.

Breathe deep, he thought to the occupants of the car. He thought this for two reasons: First, of course, he wanted this hard job over with. But he also sent the message to them for another reason: Dying by cyanide can be extremely unpleasant. Wishing them a speedy, painless death was what a person with feeling would think, a person who was no longer numb.

Grape, cherry, milk . . .

Breathe deep.

*   *   *

Sensing the wild rattle of the engine—it shook her hands and legs and back—Amelia Sachs sped toward Spanish Harlem. She was doing sixty before she shifted into third gear.

She’d been at Rhyme’s when they got the report: Pulaski was down, and the killer had managed to get some sort of device into Roland Bell’s car. She’d run downstairs, fired up her red 1969 Camaro and hurried toward the scene of the attack in East Harlem.

Roaring through green lights, slowing to thirty or so at the reds—check left, check right, downshift, punch it!

Ten minutes later she skidded onto East 123rd Street, going against traffic, missing a delivery truck
by inches. Ahead of her she could see the flashing lights of the ambulances and three squad cars from the local house. Also: a dozen uniforms and a handful of ESU troops, working their way along the sidewalks. They moved cautiously, as if they were soldiers under fire.

Watch your backs . . . .

She brought the Chevy to a tire-smoking stop and jumped out, glancing at the nearby alleyways and vacant windows for any sign of the killer and his needle gun. Jogging into the alley, flashing her shield, she could see medics working on Pulaski. He was on his back and they’d cleared an airway—at least he was alive. But there was a lot of blood and his face was hugely swollen. She’d hoped he’d be able to tell them something but he was unconscious.

It looked like the kid had been surprised by his attacker, who’d lain in wait as he’d walked down the alley. The rookie had been too close to the side of the building. There would’ve been no warning when the man attacked. You always walked down the center of sidewalks and alleys so nobody could jump out and surprise you.

You didn’t know . . . .

She wondered if he’d live to learn this lesson.

“How’s he doing?”

The medic didn’t look up. “No guess. We’re lucky he’s still with us.” Then to his partner: “Okay, let’s move him out. Now.”

As they got Pulaski onto a backboard and hustled him toward the ambulance, Sachs cleared everybody away from the scene to preserve whatever evidence might be there. Then she returned to the mouth of the alley and dressed in the white Tyvek suit.

Just as she zipped it up a sergeant from the local house walked up to her. “You’re Sachs, right?”

She nodded. “Any sign of the perp?”

“Nothing. You going to run the scenes?”

“Yep.”

“You want to see Detective Bell’s car?”

“Sure.”

She started forward.

“Wait,” the man said. He handed her a face mask.

“That bad?”

He pulled his own on. Through the thick rubber she heard his troubled voice say, “Follow me.”

With ESU backing them up, two Bomb Squad Unit cops from the Sixth Precinct were crouched in the backseat of Roland Bell’s Crown Victoria. They weren’t wearing bomb suits but were in full biohazard outfits.

Wearing the thinner, white suit, Amelia Sachs stood back ten yards.

“What’ve you got, Sachs?” Rhyme called into the microphone. She jumped. Then turned the volume down. The line from her radio was plugged into the gas mask.

“I haven’t gotten close yet; they’re still removing the device. It’s cyanide and acid.”

“Probably the sulfuric we found traces of on the desk,” he said.