The Twelfth Card

“Geneva,” Rhyme said, “what does Charles say?”

She nodded at the letter and recited, again from memory, “‘And yet the source of my tears – the stains you see on this paper, my darling, – are not from pain but from regret for the misery I have visited upon us.’”

“The original letter contains several stains,” Rhyme explained. “We analyzed them and found lysozyme, lipocalin and lactoferrin – proteins, if you’re interested – and assorted enzymes, lipids and metabolites. Those, and water, of course, make up human tears… By the way, did you know that the composition of tears differs significantly depending on whether they were shed in pain or because of emotion? These tears” – a nod toward the document – “were shed in emotion. I can prove that. I suspect the jury will find that fact moving too.”

Cole sighed. “You’ve run a DNA test on the stain and it matches Ms. Settle’s DNA.”

Rhyme shrugged and muttered the byword for today: “Obviously.”

Hanson looked at Cole, whose eyes slipped back and forth between the letter and his notes. The president said to Geneva, “A million dollars. I’ll write you a check right now for a million dollars, if you and your guardian sign a liability waiver.”

Goades said coolly, “Ms. Settle insists on seeking restitution in the amount of the actual damages – monies that all of Charles Singleton’s heirs will share in, not just herself.” He leveled another gaze at the bank president. “I’m sure you weren’t suggesting that your payment would be for her alone, an incentive, maybe, to neglect to inform her relatives about what happened.”

“No, no, of course not,” Hanson said quickly. “Let me talk to our board. We’ll come up with a settlement figure.”

Goades gathered up the papers and stuffed them into his knapsack. “I’m filing the complaint in two weeks. If you want to discuss voluntarily creating a trust fund for the claimants, you can call me here.” He slid a card across the desk.

When they were at the door the bank’s attorney, Cole, said, “ Geneva, wait, please. Look, I’m sorry about what I said before. Truly. It was…inappropriate. I honestly feel bad for what happened to you and to your ancestor. And I do have your interest in mind here. Just remember that a settlement would be far and away the best thing for you and your relatives. Let your lawyer tell you how tough a trial like this would be, how long it could take, how expensive.” He smiled. “Trust me. We are on your side here.”

Geneva looked him over. Her reply was: “The battles’re the same as they’ve always been. It’s just harder to recognize the enemy.” She turned and continued out the door.

The attorney clearly had no idea what she meant.

Which, Rhyme supposed, more or less proved her point.

Chapter Forty-Four

Early Wednesday, the autumn air cold and clear as fresh ice.

Geneva had just visited her father at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital and was on her way to Langston Hughes High. She’d finished the paper on Home to Harlem. It turned out not to be such a bad book (though she’d still rather have written about Octavia Butler; damn, that woman could write!) and she was pretty pleased with her report.

What was especially phat, though, was that Geneva’d written it on a word processor, one of the Toshibas in Mr. Rhyme’s lab, which Thom had showed her how to use. At school the few computers that worked were so overbooked that you couldn’t get more than fifteen minutes of time on one, let alone use it to write a whole paper. And to find facts or research all she had to do was “minimize” WordPerfect and call up the Internet. A miracle. What would’ve otherwise taken her two days to write, she finished in mere hours.

Crossing the street, she aimed for the shortcut through the school yard of PS 288 elementary school, which took a few minutes off the trip from the Eighth Avenue train station to Langston Hughes. The chain-link fence around the school yard cast a gridded shadow on the bleached-gray asphalt. The slim girl slipped easily through the gap in the gate, which had long ago been wedged open wide enough for a teenage boy and a basketball to pass through. The hour was early, the yard deserted.

She was ten feet across the grounds when she heard a voice calling from the other side of the fence.

“Girlfriend, yo!”

She stopped.

Lakeesha stood on the sidewalk, decked out in tight green stretch pants, a long orange blouse, taut over her boobs, book bag dangling, bling and braids glistening in the sun. Her face had the same somber expression as when Geneva ’d seen her last week when that wack bitch Frazier tried to kill her and her father. “Hey, girl, where’ve you been?”

Keesh looked doubtfully at the gap in the chain link; she’d never fit. “C’mon here.”

“Meet me at school.”

“Naw. Wa

Geneva debated. Her friend’s face told her this was important. She slipped out through the gate and walked up to the big girl. They fell into a slow walk, side by side.

“Where’ve you been, Keesh?” Geneva frowned. “You cut class?”

“Ain’t feelin’ good.”

“Monthlies?”

“Naw, not that. My moms sent a note.” Lakeesha looked around. “Who that old dude you with th’other day?”

She opened her mouth to lie and instead said, “My father.”

“No!”

“Word,” Geneva said.

“He be livin’ in Chicago, or somethin’, you tellin’ me.”

“My moms lied. He was in the system. He got released a couple months ago, came to find me.”

“Where he at now?”

“In the hospital. He got hurt.”

“He down?”

“Yeah. He’ll be okay.”

“And him and you? You phat?”

“Maybe. Hardly know him.”

“Damn, him showin’ up – musta been freaky.”

“You got that right, girl.”

Finally the big girl slowed. Then stopped. Geneva looked at her friend’s evasive eyes and watched her hand disappearing into her purse, gripping something inside.

A hesitation.

“What?” Geneva asked.

“Here,” the girl whispered fast, lifting her hand and thrusting it forward. In her fingers, which ended in black-and-white-checkered acrylic nails, was a silver necklace, a heart on the end of a chain.

“That’s -” Geneva began

“What you give me last month, fo’ my birthday.”

“You’re giving it back?”

“I can’t keep it, Gen. You be needin’ benjamins anyway. You can hock it.”

“Don’t be wack, girl. Not like it came from Tiffany’s.”

Tears were welling in the big girl’s eyes, the prettiest part of her face. Her hand lowered. “I be movin’ next week.”

“Moving? Where?”

“BK.”

“Brooklyn? Your whole family? The twins?”

“They ain’ goin’. None of the family be goin’.” The girl’s eyes swept the sidewalk.

“What’s this all about, Keesh?”

“I’ma tell you somethin’ that happen.”

“I’m not in the mood for drama, girl,” Geneva snapped. “What’re you talking about?”

“Kevin,” Lakeesha continued in a soft voice.

“Kevin Cheaney?”

Keesh nodded. “I’m sorry, girl. Me and him, we in love. He got this place he moving to. I’ma go with him.”

Geneva, silent for a moment. Then: “Was he the one you were talking to when I called last week?”

She nodded. “Listen, I didn’t want it to happen but it jus’ did. You gotta understand. We got this thing, him and me. It ain’t like nothin’ I never felt. I know you wanta be with him. You talkin’ ’bout him all the time, lookin’ him over ever’ day. You so happy that time he walk you home. I know all that and still I done move in on you. Oh, girl, I been worried steady, thinkin’ ’bout tellin’ you.”

Geneva felt a chill in her soul, but it had nothing to do with her crush on Kevin, which had vanished the instant he showed his true self in math class. She asked, “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

Wasn’t feeling good…

Keesh lowered her head and stared at the dangling necklace.