The Twelfth Card (14 page)

He then saluted us and said it was his privilege to have served with us in this God-sanctioned campaign to reunite our nation.

A hu-rah went up from the 31st the likes of which I have never heard.

And now, darling, I hear drums in the distance and the crack of the four- and eight-pounders, signaling the beginning of battle. Should these be the last words I am able to impart to you from this side of the River of Jordan, know that I love you and our son beyond words’ telling. Hold fast to our farm, keep to our fabrication of being caretakers of the land, not owners, and deflect all offers to sell. I wish the land to pass intact to our son and his issue; professions and trades ebb and flow, the financial markets are fickle, but the earth is God’s great constant—and our farm will ultimately bring to our family respectability in the eyes of those who do not respect us now. It will be our children’s salvation, and that of the generations that will follow. Now, my dear, I must once again take up my rifle and do as God has bid, to secure our freedom and preserve our sacred country.

Yours in eternal love,
Charles                     
April 9, 1865              
Appomattox, Virginia

Sachs looked up. “Phew. That’s a cliff-hanger.”

“Not really,” Thom said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we
know
they held the line.”

“How?”

“Because April ninth’s the day the South surrendered.”

“Not really concerned about History 101 here,” Rhyme said. “I want to know about this secret.”

“That’s in this one,” Cooper said, scanning the second letter. He mounted it on the scanner.

My dearest Violet:

I miss you, my dear, and our young Joshua too. I am heartened by the news that your sister has weathered well the illness following the birth of your nephew and thankful to our Lord Jesus Christ that you were present to see her through this difficult time. However, I think it best that you remain in Harrisburg for the time-being. These are critical times and more perilous, I feel, than what transpired during the War of Secession.

So much has happened in the month you have been away. How my life has changed from simple farmer and school teacher to my present situation! I am engaged in matters that are difficult and dangerous and—dare I say,—vital for the sake of our people.

Tonight, my colleagues and I meet again at Gallows Heights, which has taken on the aspects of a castle under siege. The days seem endless, the travel exhausting. My life consists of arduous hours and coming and going under cover of darkness, and avoiding too those who would do us harm, for they are many—and not just former Rebels; many in the North are hostile to our cause as well. I receive frequent threats, some veiled, some explicit.

Another night-mare awakened me early this morning. I don’t recall the images that plagued my sleep, but after I awoke, I could not return to my slumbers. I lay awake till dawn, thinking how
difficult it is to bear this secret within me. I so desire to share it with the world, but I know I cannot. I have no doubt the consequences of its revelation would be tragic.

Forgive my somber tone. I miss you and our son, and I am terribly weary. Tomorrow may see a rebirth of hope. I pray that such is the case.

Yours in loving    
affection, Charles
May 3, 1867
         

“Well,” Rhyme mused, “he
talks
about the secret. But what is it? Must have something to do with those meetings in Gallows Heights. ‘Sake of our people.’ Civil rights or politics. He mentioned that in his first letter too . . . What the hell
is
Gallows Heights?”

His eyes went to the tarot card of The Hanged Man, suspended from a gallows by his foot.

“I’ll look it up,” Cooper said and went online. A moment later he said, “It was a neighborhood in nineteenth-century Manhattan, Upper West Side, centered around Bloomingdale Road and Eightieth Street. Bloomingdale became the Boulevard and then Broadway.” He glanced up with a raised eyebrow. “Not far from here.”

“Gallows with an apostrophe?”

“No apostrophe. At least in the hits I found.”

“Anything else about it?”

Cooper looked over the historical society website. “A couple things. A map from 1872.” He swung the monitor toward Rhyme, who looked it over, noting that the neighborhood encompassed a large area. There were some big estates owned by old-family New York magnates and financiers as well as hundreds of smaller apartments and homes.

“Hey, look, Lincoln,” Cooper said, touching part of the map near Central Park. “That’s your place. Where we are now. It was a swamp back then.”

“Interesting,” Rhyme muttered sarcastically.

“The only other reference is a
Times
story last month about the rededication of a new archive at the Sanford Foundation—that’s the old mansion on Eighty-first.”

Rhyme recalled a big Victorian building next to the Sanford Hotel—a Gothic, spooky apartment that resembled the nearby Dakota, where John Lennon had been killed.

Cooper continued, “The head of the foundation, William Ashberry, gave a speech at the ceremony. He mentioned how much the Upper West Side has changed in the years since it was known as Gallows Heights. But that’s all. Nothing specific.”

Too many unconnected dots, Rhyme reflected. It was then that Cooper’s computer binged, signaling an incoming email. The tech read it and glanced at the team. “Listen to this. It’s about
Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated.
The curator of Booker T. Washington College down in Philly just sent me this. The library had the only complete collection of the magazine in the country. And—”

“ ‘Had’?” Rhyme snapped. “Fucking ‘had’?”

“Last week, a fire destroyed the room where it was stored.”

“What’d the arson report say?” Sachs asked.

“Wasn’t considered arson. It looks like a lightbulb broke, ignited some papers. Nobody was hurt.”

“Bullshit it wasn’t arson. Somebody started it. So, does the curator have any other suggestions where we can find—?”

“I was
about
to continue.”

“Well,
continue
!”

“The school has a policy of scanning everything in their archives and storing them in Adobe .pdf files.”

“Are we approaching good news, Mel? Or are you just flirting?”

Cooper punched more buttons. He gestured toward the screen. “Voilà—July twenty-third, 1868,
Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated.
”

“You don’t say. Well, read to us, Mel. First of all: Did Mr. Singleton drown in the Hudson, or not?”

Cooper typed and a moment later shoved his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, leaned forward and said, “Here we go. The headline is ‘Shame, the Account of a Freedman’s Crime. Charles Singleton, a Veteran of the War Between the States, Betrays the Cause of Our People in a Notorious Incident.’ ”

Continuing with the text, he read, “ ‘On Tuesday, July fourteenth, a warrant for the arrest of one Charles Singleton, a freedman who was a veteran of the War of Secession, was issued by the New York criminal court, on charges that he feloniously stole a large sum of gold and other monies from the National Education Trust for Freedmen’s Assistance on Twenty-third Street in Manhattan, New York.

“ ‘Mr. Singleton eluded a drag-net by officers throughout the City and was thought to have escaped, possibly to Pennsylvania, where his wife’s sister and her family lived.

“ ‘However, early on the morning of Thursday, the sixteenth, he was noticed by a police constable as he was making his way toward the Hudson river docks.

“ ‘The constable sounded the alarm and Mr. Singleton took flight. The police officer gave chase.

“ ‘The pursuit was soon joined by dozens of other law enforcers and Irish rag pickers and workers, doing their civic duty to apprehend the felon
(and encouraged by the promise of five dollars in gold to stop the villain). The attempted route of escape was through the warren of disreputable shanties close by the River.

“ ‘At the Twenty-third Street paint works, Mr. Singleton stumbled. A mounted officer approached and it appeared he would be ensnared. Yet he regained his footing and, rather than own up to his mischief, as a courageous man would do, continued his cowardly flight.

“ ‘For a time he evaded his pursuers. But his escape was merely temporary. A Negro tradesman on a porch saw the freedman and implored him to stop, in the name of justice, asserting that he had heard of Mr. Singleton’s crime and recriminating him for bringing dishonor upon all colored people throughout the nation. The citizen, one Walker Loakes, thereupon flung a brick at Mr. Singleton with the intent of knocking him down. However, Mr. Singleton avoided the missile and, proclaiming his innocence, continued to flee.

“ ‘The freedman was strong of body from working an apple orchard, and ran as fast as greased lightning. But Mr. Loakes informed the constabulary of the freedman’s presence and, at the piers near Twenty-eighth Street, near the tow boat office, his path was confounded by another contingent of diligent police. There he paused, exhausted, clinging to the Swiftsure Express Company sign. He was urged to surrender by the man who had led his pursuit for the past two days, Detective Captain William P. Simms, who leveled his pistol at the thief.

“ ‘Yet, either seeking a desperate means of escape, or convinced that his evil deeds had caught up with him and wishing to end his life, Mr. Singleton, by most accounts, hesitated for but a moment then
leapt into the River, calling out words that none could hear.’ ”

Rhyme interrupted, “That’s as far as Geneva got before she was attacked. Forget the Civil War, Sachs.
This
is the cliff-hanger. Keep going.”

“ ‘He disappeared from view under the waves and witnesses were sure he had perished. Three constables commandeered a skiff from a nearby dock and rowed along the piers to ascertain the Negro’s fate.

“ ‘They at last found him, half conscious from the fall, clutching a piece of driftwood to his breast and, with a pathos that many suggested was calculated, calling for his wife and son.’ ”

“At least he survived,” Sachs said. “Geneva’ll be glad about that.”

“ ‘He was tended to by a surgeon, taken away and bound over for trial, which was held on Tuesday last. In court it was proven that he stole the unimaginable sum of greenbacks and gold coin worth thirty thousand dollars.’ ”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Rhyme said. “That the motive here’s missing loot. Value today?”

Cooper minimized the window containing the article about Charles Singleton and did a web search, jotting numbers on a pad. He looked up from his calculations. “It’d be worth close to eight hundred thousand.”

Rhyme grunted. “ ‘Unimaginable.’ All right. Keep going.”

Cooper continued, “ ‘A porter across the street from the Freedmen’s Trust saw Mr. Singleton gain entry into the office by the back door and leave twenty minutes later, carrying two large satchels. When the manager of the Trust arrived soon after, summoned by the police, it was discovered that the Trust’s Exeter Strongbow safe had been broken
open with a hammer and crowbar, identical to those owned by the defendant, which were later located in proximity to the building.

“ ‘Further, evidence was presented that Mr. Singleton had ingratiated himself, at a number of meetings in the Gallows Heights neighbor-hood of the city, with such luminaries as the Hons. Charles Sumner, Thaddeus Stevens and Frederick Douglass, and his son Lewis Douglass, on the pretense of assisting those noble men in the furtherance of the rights of our people before Congress.’ ”

“Ah, the meetings Charles referred to in his letter. They
were
about civil rights. And those must be the colleagues he mentioned. Pretty heavy hitters, sounds like. What else?”

“ ‘His motive in assisting these famed personages, according to the able prosecutor, was not, however, to assist the cause of Negroes but to gain knowledge of the Trust and other repositories he might plunder.’ ”

“Was
that
the secret?” Sachs wondered.

“ ‘At his trial Mr. Singleton remained silent regarding these charges, except to make a general disclaimer and to say that he loved his wife and son.

“ ‘Captain Simms was able to recover most of the ill-gotten gains. It is speculated that the Negro secreted the remaining several thousand in a hiding place and refused to divulge its whereabouts. None of it was ever found, excepting a hundred dollars in gold coin discovered on Mr. Singleton’s person when he was apprehended.’ ”

“There goes the buried treasure theory,” Rhyme muttered. “Too bad. I liked it.”

“ ‘The accused was convicted expeditiously. Upon sentencing, the judge exhorted the freedman to return the rest of the purloined funds, whose location
he nonetheless refused to disclose, clinging still to his claim of innocence, and asserting the coin found on his person had been placed in his belongings after his apprehesion. Accordingly, the judge in his wisdom ordered that the felon’s possessions be confiscated and sold to make such restitution as could be had, and the criminal himself was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment.’ ”

Cooper looked up. “That’s it.”

“Why would somebody resort to murder just to keep the story under wraps?” Sachs asked.

“Yep, the big question . . . ” Rhyme gazed at the ceiling. “So what do we know about Charles? He was a teacher and a Civil War veteran. He owned and worked a farm upstate. He was arrested and convicted for theft. He had a secret that would have tragic consequences if it was known. He went to hush-hush meetings in Gallows Heights. He was involved in the civil rights movement and hobnobbed with some of the big politicians and civil rights workers of the day.”

Rhyme wheeled close to the computer screen, looking over the article. He could see no connection between the events then and the Unsub 109 case.

Sellitto’s phone rang. He listened for a moment. His eyebrow lifted. “Okay, thanks.” He disconnected and looked at Rhyme. “Bingo.”