The Twelfth Card (10 page)

Geneva was frowning. Rhyme noticed and asked, “What?”

“Well, I was thinking . . . Dr. Barry said that somebody else was interested in the same issue of that magazine that I was. He wanted to read it, but Dr. Barry told him he’d have to wait until I was through with it.”

“Did he say who?”

“No.”

Rhyme considered this. “So let’s speculate: The librarian tells this
somebody
that you’re interested in the magazine. The unsub wants to steal it and he wants to kill you because you’ve read it or
will
read it.” The criminalist wasn’t convinced this was the situation, of course. But one of the things that made him so successful was his willingness to consider bold, sometimes far-fetched theories. “And he took the one article you were reading, right?”

The girl nodded.

“It was like he knew exactly what to look for . . . . What was it about?”

“Nothing important. Just this ancestor of mine. My teacher’s into all this
Roots
stuff and we had to write about somebody in our past.”

“Who was he, this ancestor?”

“My great-great-great-whatever, a freed slave. I went to the museum last week and found out there was an article about him in this issue of C
oloreds’ Weekly Illustrated
. They didn’t have it in the library but Mr. Barry said he’d get the microfiche from storage. It just came in.”

“What was the story about specifically?” Rhyme persisted.

She hesitated then said impatiently, “Charles Singleton, my ancestor, was a slave in Virginia. His master had this change of heart and he freed all of his slaves. And because Charles and his wife had been with the family for so long and had taught their children to read and write, their master gave them a farm in New York state. Charles was a soldier in the Civil War. He came back home afterwards and in eighteen sixty-eight he got accused of stealing some money from a black educational fund.
That
’s all the article in the magazine was about. I’d just gotten to the part where he jumped into the river to escape from the police when that man showed up.”

Rhyme noted that she spoke well but held on to her words tightly, as if they were squirming puppies trying to escape. With educated parents on one side and homegirl friends like Lakeesha on the other, it was only natural that the girl suffered from some linguistic multiple personality.

“So you don’t know what happened to him?” Sachs asked.

Geneva shook her head.

“I think we have to assume that the unsub had some interest in what you were researching. Who knew what the topic of your paper was? Your teacher, I assume.”

“No, I never told him specifically. I don’t think I told anybody but Lakeesha. She might’ve mentioned it to somebody but I doubt it. Assignments don’t take up a lot of her attention, you know what I’m saying? Not even her own. Last week I went to this law office in Harlem to see if they had any old records about crimes in the eighteen hundreds but I
didn’t tell the lawyer there very much. Of course, Dr. Barry would’ve known.”

“And he would’ve mentioned it to that other person who was interested in the magazine too,” Rhyme pointed out. “Now, just for the sake of argument, let’s assume there’s something in that article that the unsub doesn’t want known—maybe about your ancestor, maybe something else entirely.” A glance at Sachs. “Anybody still at the scene?”

“A portable.”

“Have ’em canvass the employees. See if Barry mentioned that somebody was interested in that old magazine. Have them go through his desk too.” Rhyme had another thought. “And I want his phone records for the past month.”

Sellitto shook his head. “Linc, really . . . this’s sounding pretty thin, don’t you think? We’re talking, what? The eighteen hundreds? This isn’t a cold case. It’s a
frozen
one.”

“A pro who staged a scene, nearly killed one person, and did kill another—right in front of a half dozen cops—just to steal that article? That’s not thin, Lon. That’s got searchlights all over it.”

The big cop shrugged and called the precinct to relay the order to the cop still on duty at the crime scene and then called Warrants to have them issue a phone record subpoena on the museum’s and Barry’s personal phones.

Rhyme looked over the slim girl and decided that he had no choice; he had to deliver the tough news. “You know what all this might mean, don’t you?”

A pause, though he could see in Sachs’s troubled glance at Geneva that the policewoman at least knew exactly what it meant. It was she who said to the girl, “Lincoln’s saying that it’s likely that he’s probably still after you.”

“That’s wack,” Geneva Settle offered, shaking her head.

After a pause, Rhyme replied solemnly, “I’m afraid it’s anything but.”

*   *   *

Sitting at the Internet access station in a quick-copy shop in downtown Manhattan, Thompson Boyd was reading through the local TV station website, which updated news every few minutes.

The headline of the article he read was:
MUSEUM OFFICIAL MURDERED; WITNESS IN ASSAULT ON STUDENT
.

Whistling, almost silently, he examined the accompanying picture, which showed the library director he’d just killed talking to a uniformed policeman on the street in front of the museum. The caption read,
Dr. Donald Barry speaks with police shortly before he was shot to death.

Because of her age, Geneva Settle wasn’t identified by name, though she was described as a high school student living in Harlem. Thompson was grateful for that information; he hadn’t known which borough of the city she lived in. He hooked his phone to the USB port on the computer and transferred the picture he’d taken of the girl. This he then uploaded to an anonymous email account.

He logged off, paid for his time—in cash, of course—and strolled along lower Broadway, in the heart of the financial district. He bought a coffee from a vendor, drank half of it, then slipped the microfiche plates he’d stolen into the cup, replaced the lid and dropped them into a trash basket.

He paused at a phone kiosk, looked around and saw no one was paying him any attention. He dialed
a number. There was no outgoing message from the voice mail service, only a beep. “Me. Problem with the Settle situation. I need you to find out where she goes to school or where she lives. She’s a high school student in Harlem. That’s all I know. I’ve sent a picture of her to your account . . . . Oh, one thing—if you get a chance to take care of her yourself, there’s another fifty thousand in it for you. Give me a call when you get this message. We’ll talk about it.” Thompson recited the number of the phone where he stood then hung up. He stepped back, crossed his arms and waited, whistling softly. He’d gotten through only three bars of Stevie Wonder’s “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” before the phone started to ring.

The criminalist looked at Sellitto. “Where’s Roland?”

“Bell? He delivered somebody into witness protection upstate but he should be back by now. Think we should give him a call?”

“Yes,” Rhyme said.

Sellitto called the detective’s mobile phone and, from the conversation, Rhyme deduced that Bell would leave Police Plaza immediately and head uptown.

Rhyme noticed Geneva’s frown. “Detective Bell’s just going to look out for you. Like a bodyguard. Until we get everything sorted out . . . Now, do you have any idea what Charles was accused of stealing?”

“The article said gold or money or something.”

“Missing gold. Ah, that’s interesting. Greed—one of your better motives.”

“Would your uncle know anything about it?” Sachs asked her.

“My uncle? Oh, no, he’s my mother’s brother. Charles was from my father’s side of the family. And Dad just knew a few things. My great-aunt gave me a few letters of Charles’s. But she didn’t know anything more about him.”

“Where are they? Those letters?” Rhyme asked.

“I have one with me.” She fished in her purse and pulled it out. “And the others’re at home. My aunt thought she might have some more boxes of Charles’s things but she wasn’t sure where they
were.” Geneva fell silent as the brows in her dark, round face furrowed and she said to Sachs, “One thing? If it’s helpful?”

“Go ahead,” Sachs said.

“I remember from one of the letters. Charles talked about this secret he had.”

“Secret?” Sachs asked.

“Yeah, he said it bothered him not to be able to reveal the truth. But there’d be a disaster, a tragedy, if he did. Something like that.”

“Maybe it was the theft he was talking about,” Rhyme said.

Geneva stiffened. “I don’t think he did it. I think he was framed.”

“Why?” Rhyme asked.

A shrug. “Read the letter.” The girl started to hand it to Rhyme, then caught herself and gave it to Mel Cooper, unapologetic about the faux pas.

The tech placed it in an optical reader and a moment later the elegantly scripted words from the nineteenth century were scrolling across flat-screen monitors from the twenty-first.

Mrs. Violet Singleton

In care of

Mr. & Mrs. William Dodd

Essex Farm Road

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

July 14, 1863

My dearest Violet:

News has surely reached you of the terrible events in New York of late. I can now report that peace has returned, but the cost was great.

The climate here has been incendiary, with hundreds of thousands of less fortunate citizens
still reeling from the economic panic of several years ago—Mr. Greeley’s Tribune reported that unconscionable stock speculation and imprudent lending had led to the “bursting bubbles” of the world’s financial markets.

In this atmosphere, it took merely a small spark to ignite the recent rioting: the order to draft men into the Federal army, which was acknowledged by many to be necessary in our fight against the Rebels, owing to the enemy’s surprising strength and resilience. Still, the opposition to the draft was sturdier, and more deadly, than any had anticipated. And we—Coloreds, abolitionists and Republicans,—became the target of their hate, as much as the conscription provost and his men, if not more so.

Rioters, largely Irishmen, swept through the city, attacking any Colored they might see, sacking houses and places of work. I had by happenstance been in the company of two teachers and the director of the Colored Children’s Orphanage when a mob attacked the building and set it aflame! Why, more than 200 children were inside! With God’s help, we were able to lead the little ones to safety at a nearby police station, but the rioters would have killed us all if they had had their way.

Fighting continued throughout the day. That evening the lynchings began. After one Negro was hanged, his body was set on fire, and the rioters danced around it in drunken revels. I was aghast!

I have now fled to our farm up north and will henceforth keep my attention fixed on my mission of educating children in our school, working the orchard and furthering, however I can, the cause of freedom of our people.

My dearest wife, in the aftermath of these terrible events, life to me seems precarious and fleeting, and—if you are inclined to the journey,—it is my desire that you and our son now join me. I am enclosing herewith tickets for you both, and ten dollars for expenses. I will meet your train in New Jersey and we will take a boat up the river to our farm. You can assist me in teaching, and Joshua can continue his studies and help us and James in the cider mill and shop. Should anyone ask your business and destination, respond as do I: say only that we are caretakers of the farm, tending it for Master Trilling in his absence. Seeing the hatred in the eyes of the rioters has brought home to me the fact that nowhere is safe, and even in our idyllic locale, arson, theft and pillaging might very likely ensue, should it be learned that the owners of the farm are Negroes.

I have come from a place where I was held in captivity and considered to be merely a three-fifths man. I had hoped that moving North would change this. But, alas, that is not yet the case. The tragic events of the past few days tell me that you and I and those of our kind are not yet treated as whole men and women, and our battle to achieve wholeness in the eyes of others must continue with unflagging determination.

My warmest regards to your sister and William, as well as their children, of course. Tell Joshua I am proud of his achievement in the subject of geography.

I live for the day, now soon, I pray, when I will see you and our son once again.

Yours in love,
Charles
         

Geneva took the letter off the optical scanner. She looked up and said, “The Civil War Draft Riots of 1863. Worst civil disturbance in U.S. history.”

“He doesn’t say anything about his secret,” Rhyme pointed out.

“That’s in one of the letters I have at home. I was showing you this so you’d know he wasn’t a thief.”

Rhyme frowned. “But the theft was, what, five years
after
he wrote that? Why do you think that means he’s not guilty?”

“My point,” Geneva said, “is that he doesn’t
sound
like a thief, does he? Not somebody who’s going to steal from an education trust for former slaves.”

Rhyme said simply, “That’s not proof.”

“I think it is.” The girl looked over the letter again, smoothed it with her hand.

“What’s that three-fifths-man thing?” Sellitto asked.

Rhyme recalled something from American history. But unless information was relevant to his career as a criminalist, he discarded it as useless clutter. He shook his head.

Geneva explained, “Before the Civil War, slaves were counted as three-fifths of a person for the purpose of representation in Congress. It wasn’t an evil Confederate conspiracy, like you’d think; the
North
came up with that rule. They didn’t want slaves counted at all, because that would give the South more representatives in Congress and the electoral college. The South wanted them counted as full people. The three-fifths rule was a compromise.”