The Twelfth Card

Rhyme continued, “When Charles was convicted all his property was confiscated – including the farm – and sold… Now, that’s a nice theory: setting up someone with false charges to steal his property. But was there any proof? A tall order a hundred and forty years later – talk about cold cases…Well, there was some evidence. The Exeter Strongbow safes – the type that Charles allegedly broke into at the Freedmen’s Trust – they were made in England so I called a friend at Scotland Yard. He talked to a forensic locksmith, who said it’d be impossible to break into a nineteenth-century Exeter safe with only a hammer and chisel, which is what they found at the scene. Even steam-powered drills of that era would take three or four hours – and the article about the theft said that Charles was inside the trust for only twenty minutes.

“Next conclusion: Somebody else robbed the place, planted some of Charles’s tools at the scene and then bribed a witness to lie about him. I think that the actual thief was a man we found buried in the basement of the Potters’ Field tavern.” He explained about the Winskinskie ring and the man who’d worn it – that he was an officer in the corrupt Tammany Hall political machine.

“He was one of Boss Tweed’s cronies. And another one was William Simms, the detective who arrested Charles. Simms was later indicted for graft and planting false evidence on suspects. Simms, the Winskinskie man, and the judge and prosecutor engineered Charles’s conviction. And they kept the money from the trust that wasn’t recovered.

“So, we’ve established Charles owned a huge estate in Gallows Heights and he was set up so somebody could steal it.” His eyebrow rose. “The next logical question? The big one?”

No takers.

“Obviously: Who the hell was the perp?” Rhyme snapped. “Who robbed Charles? Well, given that the motive was to steal his farm, all I had to do was find out who took title to the land.”

“Who was it?” Hanson asked, troubled but seemingly caught up in the historical drama.

The assistant smoothed her skirt and suggested, “Boss Tweed?”

“No. It was a colleague of his. A man who was seen regularly at the Potters’ Field tavern, along with some of the other notorious figures back then – Jim Fisk, Jay Gould and Detective Simms.” A glance at each of the people across the table. “His name was Hiram Sanford.”

The woman blinked. After a moment she said, “The founder of our bank.”

“The one and only.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Cole, the attorney. “How could he do that? He was one of the pillars of New York society.”

“Just like William Ashberry?” the criminalist asked sarcastically. “The business world wasn’t really any different then than it is now. Lots of financial speculation – one of Charles’s letters quoted the New York Tribune referring to the ‘bursting bubbles’ on Wall Street. Railroads were the Internet companies of the 1800s. Their stocks were overvalued and crashed. Sanford probably lost his fortune when that happened and Tweed agreed to bail him out. But, being Tweed, he naturally wanted to use somebody else’s money to do it. So the two of them set up Charles, and Sanford bought the orchard at a rigged auction for a fraction of its value. He tore down Charles’s house and built his mansion on it, where we’re sitting right now.” A nod out the window toward the blocks nearby. “And then he and his heirs developed the land or sold it off little by little.”

“Didn’t Charles claim he was i

Rhyme scoffed, “A former slave against the anti-black Tammany Hall Democratic machine? How successful would that have been? Besides, he’d killed the man in the tavern.”

“So he was a murderer,” the attorney, Cole, pointed out quickly.

“Of course not,” Rhyme snapped. “He needed the Winskinskie man alive – to prove his i

Hanson shook his head. “Only there’s one thing that doesn’t make any sense: Why would what Hiram Sanford did way back then affect Bill Ashberry? Granted it’s bad PR – a bank founder stealing a former slave’s property? That’d be an ugly ten minutes on the nightly news. But frankly there are spin doctors who can handle that sort of thing. It’s not worth killing somebody for.”

“Ah.” Rhyme nodded. “Very good question…We’ve done a little research. Ashberry was in charge of your real estate division, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And if it were to go under he’d lose his job and most of his fortune?”

“I suppose so. But why would it go under? It’s our most profitable unit.”

Rhyme looked at Wesley Goades. “You’re up.”

The lawyer glanced briefly at the people across the table, then down again. The man simply could not hold eye contact. Nor was he given to Rhyme’s pointed explanations – and occasional digressions. He said simply, “We’re here to inform you that Ms. Settle intends to file a lawsuit against your bank seeking restitution for her loss.”

Hanson frowned and looked at Cole, who gave them a sympathetic look. “On the facts that you’ve given me, making a tortious claim against the bank for infliction of emotional distress probably wouldn’t get very far. See, the problem is that Mr. Ashberry was acting on his own, not as a bank officer. We’re not responsible for his actions.” A glance toward Goades, which may or may not have been condescending. “As your fine counsel here will tell you.”

Hanson added quickly to Geneva, “But, we’re very sympathetic to what you went through.” Stella Turner nodded. They seemed to mean this sincerely. “We’ll make it up to you.” He offered a smile. “I think you’ll find we can be pretty generous.”

His lawyer added what he had to: “Within reason.”

Rhyme regarded the bank president closely. Gregory Hanson seemed nice enough. Boyishly fifties, an easy smile. Probably one of those natural-born businessmen – the sort who was a decent boss and family man, did his job competently, worked long hours for the shareholders, flew coach on the company dime, remembered his employees’ birthdays.

The criminalist almost felt bad about what was coming next.

Wesley Goades, however, exhibited no remorse whatsoever as he said, “Mr. Hanson, the loss we’re talking about isn’t your corporate officer’s attempted murder of Ms. Settle – which is how we phrase the act – not ‘emotional distress.’ No, her suit is on behalf of Charles Singleton’s heirs, to recover the property stolen by Hiram Sanford, as well as monetary damages -”

“Wait,” the president whispered, giving a faint laugh.

“- damages equal to the rents and profits that your bank has made from that property from the date the court transferred title.” He consulted a piece of paper. “That’d be August 4, 1868. The money’ll be placed in a trust for the benefit of all of Mr. Singleton’s descendants, with distribution to be supervised by the court. We don’t have the actual figure yet.” Finally Goades looked up and held Hanson’s eye. “But we’re ballparking it conservatively at around nine hundred and seventy million dollars.”