The Twelfth Card

“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 disco

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.”

“My grades’re fine.”

“Oh, I know that. We’re real happy with your academic work, Geneva. But school’s about children and parents working together. I’d really like to talk to them. What’s their cell number?”

The girl froze.

A dense silence.

Which Lincoln Rhyme finally broke. “I’ll tell you the truth.”

Geneva looked down. Her fists were clenched.

Rhyme said to Barton, “I just got off the phone with her father.”

Everyone else in the room turned and stared at him.

“Are they back home?”

“No, and they won’t be for a while.”

“No?”

“I asked them not to come.”

“You did? Why?” The woman frowned.

“It’s my decision. I did it to keep Geneva safe. As Roland Bell here will tell you” – a glance at the Carolina detective, who nodded, a fairly credible gesture, considering he had no clue what was going on – “when we set up protection details, sometimes we have to separate the people we’re guarding from their families.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Otherwise,” Rhyme continued, vamping, “the attacker could use their relatives to draw them into public.”

Barton nodded. “Makes sense.”

“What’s it called, Roland?” Rhyme glanced at the detective again. And filled in the answer himself, “Isolation of Dependents, right?”

“IOD,” Bell said, nodding. “What we call it. Very important technique.”

“Well, I’m glad to know that,” the counselor said. “But your uncle’ll be looking out for you, right?”

Sellitto said, “No, we think it’s probably best if Geneva stays here.”

“We’re ru

Barton bought it all, Rhyme could see. The counselor said to Geneva, “Well, when this is over, please have them call me. Seems like you’re handling it pretty well. But psychologically it has to be taking a toll. We’ll all sit down together and work through some of the issues.” She added with a smile, “There’s nothing broke that can’t be fixed.”

A sentence that was probably emblazoned on a desk plaque or coffee mug in her office.

“Okay,” Geneva said cautiously. “We’ll see.”

After the woman was gone, Geneva turned to Rhyme. “I don’t know what to say. It means so much to me, what you did.”

“Mostly,” he muttered, uneasy with the gratitude, “it was for our convenience. I can’t very well go calling up Child Welfare and tracking you down in foster homes every time we have a question about the case.”

Geneva laughed. “Front all you want,” she said. “Thanks anyway.” Then she huddled with Bell and told him what books, clothes and other items she needed from the basement on 118th Street. The detective said he’d also get back from the phony uncle whatever she’d paid him for the scam.

“He won’t give it back,” she said. “You don’t know him.”

Bell smiled and said amiably, “Oh, he’ll give it back.” This, from the man with two guns.

Geneva called Lakeesha and told her girlfriend that she’d be staying at Rhyme’s, then, hanging up, she followed Thom upstairs to the guest room.

Sellitto asked, “What if the counselor finds out, Linc?”

“Finds out what?”

“Well, how ’bout that you lied about Geneva ’s parents and made up some department procedures? What the hell was it? The DUI?”

“IOD,” Bell reminded.

“And what’s she going to do?” Rhyme growled. “Make me stay after school?” He gave an abrupt nod at the evidence board. “Now can we get back to work? There is a killer out there. And he’s got a partner. And somebody hired them. Recall that? I’d like to figure out who the hell they are sometime this decade.”

Sachs walked to the table and began organizing the folders and copies of materials that William Ashberry had let her borrow from the foundation library – the “small crime scene.” She said, “This’s mostly about Gallows Heights – maps, drawings, articles. Some things on Potters’ Field.”

She handed the documents to Cooper one by one. He taped up several drawings and maps of Gallows Heights, which Rhyme stared at intently as Sachs told them what she’d learned about the neighborhood. She then walked to the drawing and touched a two-story commercial building. “Potters’ Field was right about here. West Eightieth Street.” She skimmed some of the documents. “Seems like it was pretty disreputable, a lot of crooks hung out there, people like Jim Fisk and Boss Tweed and politicians co