The Twelfth Card

“Explosion in the bathroom of the subject’s unit,” somebody called. “Medics to the scene, EMS to the scene!”

“Negative, negative. Everybody take it easy.” Sellitto was ru

“That you, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah. It was the blasting cap went off. Boyd had a booby trap rigged to take out the evidence. I saved most of it…” He pressed his hand into his armpit and squeezed. “Fuck, that stings.”

“How big a device?” Hauma

Sellitto glanced at the desk in the other room. “Big enough to blow the shit out of what looks like a gallon jar of sulfuric acid, I’d guess. And I see some jars of powder, probably cyanide. It would’ve taken out most of the evidence – and anybody who was nearby.”

Several of the ESU officers glanced with gratitude toward Sellitto. One said, “Man, this’s one perp I wa

Hauma

“No sign. Heat on the infrared was a fridge, TV and sunlight on furniture, looks like,” one cop transmitted.

Sellitto looked over the room and then radioed, “Got an idea, Bo.”

“Go ahead.”

“Let’s fix the door fast. Leave me and a couple other guys inside, clear everybody else off the streets. He might be back soon. We’ll get him then.”

“Roger, Lon. I like it. Let’s get moving. Who knows carpentry?”

“I’ll do it,” Sellitto said. “One of my hobbies. Just get me some tools. And what kind of fucking entry team is this? Doesn’t anybody have a goddamn Band-Aid?”

Down the street from Boyd’s apartment, Amelia Sachs was listening to the transmitted exchanges about the kick-in. It seemed that her plan for Sellitto might’ve worked – even better than she’d hoped. She wasn’t exactly sure what had happened but it was clear that he’d done something ballsy and she heard some newfound confidence in his voice.

She acknowledged the message about the plan to pull everybody off the street and wait for Boyd to return, then she added that she was going to warn the last residents across the street from the safe house and, after that, she’d join the others on the stake-out. She knocked on the front door and told the woman who answered to stay away from the front of the house until she heard it was safe to come out. There was a police action going on across the street.

The woman’s eyes were wide. “Is it dangerous?”

Sachs gave her the standard line: We’re just being cautious, nothing to be alarmed about and so on. Noncommittal, reassuring. Half of being a cop is public relations. Sometimes it’s most of being a cop. Sachs added that she’d seen some children’s toys in the woman’s yard. Were they home now?

It was then that Sachs saw a man emerge from an alleyway up the street. He was walking slowly in the direction of the apartment, head down, wearing a hat and a long overcoat. She couldn’t see his face.

The woman was saying in a concerned voice, “It’s just my boyfriend and me here now. The children are at school. They usually walk home but should we go pick them up?”

“Ma’am, that man there, across the street?”

She stepped forward and glanced. “Him?”

“Do you know him?”

“Sure. He lives in that building right there.”

“What’s his name?”

“Larry Tang.”

“Oh, he’s Chinese?”

“I guess. Or Japanese or something.”

Sachs relaxed.

“He’s not involved in anything, is he?” the woman asked.

“No, he’s not. About your children, it probably would be best to -”

Oh, Jesus…

Looking past the woman, Amelia Sachs stared into a bedroom of the bungalow, which was in the process of being renovated. On the wall were some painted cartoon characters. One was from Wi

The orange shade of the paint was identical to the samples she’d found near Geneva ’s aunt’s place in Harlem. Bright orange.

Then she glanced at the floor in the entry hall. On a square of newspapers was an old pair of shoes. Light brown. She could just see the label inside. They were Bass. About size 11.

Amelia Sachs understood suddenly that the boyfriend that the woman had referred to was Thompson Boyd and the apartment across the street wasn’t his residence but was another of his safe houses. The reason it was empty at the moment, of course, was that he was somewhere in this very house.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Amelia Sachs, thinking: Get the woman outside. Her eyes aren’t guilty. She’s not part of it.

Thinking: Of course Boyd’s armed.

Thinking: And I just traded my Glock for a fucking six-shooter.

Get her out of here. Fast.

Sachs’s hand was easing toward her waistband, where Sellitto’s tiny pistol rested. “Oh, one more thing, ma’am,” she said calmly. “I saw a van up the street. I wonder if you could tell me whose it is.”

What was that noise? Sachs wondered. Something from within the house. Metallic. But not like a weapon, a faint clatter.

“A van?”

“Yeah, you can’t see it from here. It’s behind that tree.” Sachs stepped back, gesturing her forward. “Could you step outside and take a look, please? It’d be a big help.”

The woman, though, stayed where she was, in the entryway, glancing to her right. Toward where the sound had come from. “Honey?” She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

The clattering, Sachs understood suddenly, had been venetian blinds. Boyd had heard the exchange with his girlfriend and had looked out the window. He’d seen an ESU officer or squad car near his safe house.

“It’s really important,” Sachs tried. “If you could just…”

But the woman froze, her eyes wide.

“No! Tom! What’re you -?”

“Ma’am, come over here!” Sachs shouted, drawing the Smith & Wesson. “Now! You’re in danger!”

“What’re you doing with that? Tom!” She backed away from Boyd but remained in the corridor, a rabbit in headlights. “No!”

“Get down!” Sachs said in a ragged whisper, dropping into a crouch and moving forward into the house.

“Boyd, listen to me,” Sachs shouted. “If you’ve got a weapon, drop it. Throw it out where I can see it. Then get on the floor. I mean now! There’re dozens of officers outside!”

Silence, except for the woman’s sobbing.

Sachs executed a fast feint, looking low around the corner to the left. She caught a glimpse of the man, his face calm, a large, black pistol in his hand. Not the North American.22 magnum, but an automatic, which would have stopping-power bullets and a clip capacity of fifteen rounds or so. She ducked back to cover. Boyd’d been expecting her to present higher and the two slugs he fired missed her, though only by inches, blowing plaster and wood splinters into the air. The brunette was screaming with every breath, scrabbling away, looking from Sachs back to where Boyd was. “No, no, no!”

Sachs called, “Throw your weapon down!”

“Tom, please! What’s going on?”

Sachs called to her, “Get down, miss!”

A long moment of complete silence. What was Boyd up to? It was as if he was debating what to do next.

Then he fired a single round.

The detective flinched. The bullet was wide, though. It completely missed the wall where Sachs stood.

But, it turned out, Boyd hadn’t been aiming at her at all, and the slug did indeed hit its target.

The brunette was dropping to her knees, her hands on her thigh, which gushed blood. “Tom,” she whispered. “Why?…Oh, Tom.” She rolled onto her back and lay clutching her leg, gasping in pain.

Just like at the museum, Boyd had shot someone to distract the police, to give him a chance to get away. But this time it was his girlfriend.

Sachs heard the crack of glass as Boyd broke through a window to escape.

The woman kept whispering words Sachs couldn’t hear. She radioed Hauma