The counter girl dropped a plate of dishes into the busboy pan with a huge crash. As the diners turned to look, Wilson felt something tap his leg under the booth. He touched the envelope, slipped it into his bell-bottoms pocket. It seemed surprisingly thin to be holding $5,000. But Wilson knew it was all there. One thing about Boyd: He paid what he owed, and he paid on time.
A moment passed. So, they weren't eating together. They were sitting and Boyd was drinking tea and Wilson was being hungry. Even though Boyd had to leave in a "minute or two."
What was this about?
Then he got the answer. Boyd glanced out the window and saw a battered, unmarked white van slow and turn into the alley that led to the back of the restaurant. Wilson got a glimpse of the driver, a small man with light brown skin and a beard.
Boyd's eyes watched it closely. When it disappeared into the alley he rose, hefting the shopping bag. He left money on the table for his bill and nodded to Wilson. Then he started toward the door. He stopped, turned back. "Did I thank you?"
Wilson blinked. "Did you--"
"Did I thank you?" A nod down to the bag.
"Well, no." Thompson Boyd smiling and thanking people. Must be a fucking full moon.
"I appreciate it," the killer said. "Your hard work, I mean. Really." The words came out as if he were a bad actor. Then, this was odd too, he winked a good-bye to the counter girl and walked out the door onto the bustling streets of the financial district, circling through the alley to the back of the restaurant, with the heavy bag at his side.
Chapter Twenty-Four
On 118th Street, Roland Bell eased his new Crown Victoria up in front of Geneva's building.
Barbe Lynch nodded from her guard station: the Chevy Malibu, which Bell had returned to them. He hustled Geneva inside and hurried up the stairs to the apartment, where her uncle gave her a big hug and shook Bell's hand again, thanking him for looking out for the girl. He said he was going to pick up a few things at the grocery store and stepped outside.
Geneva went on to her room. Bell glanced in and saw her sitting on the bed. She opened her book bag and rummaged through it.
"Anything I can do for you, miss? You hungry?"
"I'm pretty tired," she said. "I think I'll just do my homework now. Maybe take a nap."
"Now that's a fine idea, after all you've been through."
"How's Officer Pulaski?" she asked.
"I talked to his commander earlier. He's still unconscious. They don't know how he'll be. Wish I could tell you different, but there it is. I'm going to go stop by and check in on him later."
She found a book and handed it to Bell. "Could you give him this?"
The detective took it. "I will, you bet . . . . Don't know that, even if he wakes up, he'll be in any shape to read it, I oughta say."
"We'll hope for the best. If he does wake up, maybe somebody could read it to him. Might help. Sometimes it does. Just hearing a story. Oh, and tell him or his family there's a good luck charm inside."
"That's right kind of you." Bell closed her door and walked to the living room to call his boys and tell them that he'd be home in a little while. He then checked with the other guards on his SWAT team, who reported that all was secure.
He settled down in the living room, hoping that Geneva's uncle was doing some serious grocery shopping. That poor niece of his surely needed some meat on her bones.
*
On his route to Geneva Settle's apartment, Alonzo "Jax" Jackson slowly made his way down one of the narrow passages separating the brownstones in western Harlem.
He wasn't, however, at this particular moment Jax the limpin' ex-con, the blood-spraying Graffiti King of Harlem past. He was some unnamed, wack homeless dude in dusty jeans and a gray sweatshirt, pushing a perped grocery cart, which held five dollars' worth of newspapers, all wadded up. And a bunch of empties he'd racked from a recycling bin. He doubted that up close anybody would buy the role--he was a little too clean for your typical homeless guy--but there were only a few people he needed to fool: like the cops staying steady on Geneva Settle.
Out of one alleyway, across the street, into another. He was about three blocks from the back door of the apartment building that poor-ass Kevin Cheaney had pointed out.
Nice place, damn.
Feeling shitty again, thinking of his own plans for family gone bad.
Sir, I must talk to you. I am sorry. The baby . . . We could not save him.
Was a him?
I'm sorry, sir. We did what we could, I promise you but . . .
It was a him . . . .
He pushed those thoughts away. Fighting a bum wheel on the cart, which kept veering to the left, talking to himself a bit, Jax moved slowly but with determination, thinking: Man, funny if I got nailed for jacking a shopping cart. But then he decided, no, it wouldn't be so funny at all. It'd be just like a cop to decide to roust him for something little like that and find the gun. Then run the ID and he'd get his ass violated back to Buffalo. Or someplace even worse.
Clatter, clatter--the littered passageway was hell on the broken wheel of the cart. He struggled to keep it straight. But he had to stick to this dark canyon. To approach a nice town house from the sidewalk, in this fancy part of Harlem, would flag him as suspicious. In the alley, though, pushing a cart wasn't that wack. Rich people throw their empties out more'n the poor. And as for the garbage, it was a better quality round here. Naturally a homeless dude'd rather scrounge in West Harlem than in Central.
How much farther?
Jax the homeless dude looked up and squinted. Two blocks to the girl's apartment.
Almost there. Almost done.
*
He felt an itch.
In Lincoln Rhyme's case this could be literal--he had sensation on his neck, shoulders and head, and, in fact, this was a nondisabled, sensate condition he could do without; for a quadriplegic, not being able to scratch an itch was the most fucking frustrating thing in the world.
But this was a figurative itch he was feeling.
Something wasn't right. What was it?
Thom asked him a question. He didn't pay attention.
"Lincoln?"
"I'm thinking. Can't you see?"
"No, that happens on the inside," the aide retorted.
"Well, be quiet."
What was the problem?
More scans of the evidence charts, the profile, the old letters and clippings, the curious expression on the inverted face of The Hanged Man . . . But somehow the itch didn't seem to have anything to do with the evidence.
In which case he supposed he should just ignore it.
Get back to--
Rhyme cocked his head. Almost grabbed the thought. It jiggled away.
It was some anomaly, words someone had said recently that didn't quite mesh.
Then:
"Oh, goddamn it," he snapped. "The uncle!"
"What?" Mel Cooper asked.
"Jesus, Geneva's uncle."
"What about him?"
"Geneva said he was her mother's brother."
"And?"
"When we just talked to him, he said that he'd talked to his brother."
"Well, he probably meant brother-in-law."
"If you mean brother-in-law, that's what you say . . . . Command, dial Bell."
*
The phone rang and the detective answered on the first note of the cell phone tone that meant the call was from Lincoln Rhyme's town house.
"Bell here."
"Roland, you're at Geneva's?"
"Right."
"Your cell doesn't have a speaker, does it?"
"No. Go ahead." The detective instinctively pulled his jacket aside and unsnapped the thong holding the larger of his two pistols. His voice was as steady as his hand, though his heart ratcheted up a few beats per second.
"Where's Geneva?"
"Her room."
"Uncle?"
"Don't know. He just went to the store."
"Listen. He flu
bbed the story about how he's related to her. He said he's her father's brother. She said he's her mother's."
"Hell, he's a ringer."
"Get to Geneva and stay with her until we figure it out. I'm sending another couple of RMPs over there."
Bell walked fast to the girl's room. He knocked but got no response.
Heart pumping fast now, he drew his Beretta. "Geneva!"
Nothing.
"Roland," Rhyme called, "what's going on?"
"Just a second," the detective whispered.
In a combat shooting crouch, he pushed the door open and, lifting his weapon, stepped inside.
The room was empty. Geneva Settle was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Central, I have a ten twenty-nine, possible abduction."
In his calm drawl Bell repeated the ominous message and gave his location. Then: "Vic is a black female, age sixteen, five-two, one hundred pounds. Suspect is a black male, stocky, early to mid forties, short hair."
"Roger. Units en route, K."
Bell clipped his radio to his belt and sent Martinez and Lynch to search the apartment building itself while he hurried downstairs. The street in front of the building had been under surveillance by Lynch, while Martinez had been on the roof. But they'd been expecting Unsub 109 or his accomplice to be heading toward the building, not going away from it. Martinez thought he'd seen a girl and a man, who could have been the uncle, walking away from the apartment about three minutes ago. He hadn't paid attention.
Scanning the street, Bell saw no one but a few businesspeople. He jogged down the service alley beside the building. He noticed a homeless man pushing a grocery cart but he was two blocks away. Bell'd talk to him in a minute and find out if he'd seen the girl. Now, he opted for the other possible witnesses, some young girls playing double-Dutch jump rope.
"Hi." The rope went slack as they looked up at the detective.
"Hey there. I'm a police officer. I'm looking for this teenage girl. She's black, thin, got short hair. She'd be with an older man."
The sirens from the responding officers' cars filled the air, growing closer.
"You got a badge?" one girl asked.
Bell tamped down his anxiety, kept smiling and flashed his shield.
"Wow."
"Yeah, we saw 'em," one tiny, pretty girl offered. "They went up that street there. Turned right."
"No, left."
"You weren't looking."
"Was too. You gotta gun, mister?"
Bell jogged to the street they'd pointed to. A block away, to his right, he saw a car pulling away from the curb. He grabbed his radio. "Units responding to that ten two nine. Anybody close to One One Seven Street . . . there's a maroon sedan moving west. Stop it and check occupants. Repeat: We're looking for a black female, sixteen. Suspect is black male, forties, K. Assume he's armed."
"RPM Seven Seven Two. We're almost there, K . . . . Yeah, we've got a visual. We'll light him up."
"Roger, Seven Seven Two."
Bell saw the squad car, its lights flashing, speed toward the maroon sedan, which skidded to a stop. His heart beating fast, Bell started toward them, as a patrolman climbed from the squad car, stepped to the sedan's window and bent down, his hand on the butt of his pistol.
Please, let it be her.
The officer waved the car on.
Damn, Bell said to himself angrily as he jogged up to the officer.
"Detective."
"Wasn't them?"
"No, sir. A black female. In her thirties. She's alone."
Bell ordered the RMP to cruise up and down the nearby streets to the south, and radioed the others to cover the opposite directions. He turned and picked another street at random, plunged down it. His cell phone rang.
"Bell here."
Lincoln Rhyme asked what was happening.
"Nobody's spotted her. But I don't get it, Lincoln. Wouldn't Geneva know her own uncle?"
"Oh, I can think of a few scenarios where the unsub could get a substitute in. Or maybe he's working with the unsub. I don't know. But something's definitely wrong. Think about how he speaks. Hardly sounds like the brother of a professor. He's got some street in him."
"That's true . . . . I want to check with my team. I'll call you back." Bell hung up then radioed his partners. "Luis, Barbe, report in. What'd y'all find?"
The woman said that the people she'd canvassed on 118th hadn't seen either the girl or the uncle. Martinez reported that they weren't in any of the common areas of the building and there'd been no sign of intruders or forced entry. He asked Bell, "Where're you?"
"Block east of the building, heading east. I got RMPs sweeping the streets. One of y'all get over here with me. The other keep the apartment covered."
"K."
"Out."
Bell jogged across a street and looked to his left. He saw the homeless man again, pausing, glancing toward him then bending down and scratching his ankle. Bell started in his direction to ask if he'd seen anything.
But then he heard the sound of a car door slamming shut. Where had it come from? The sound reverberated off the walls and he couldn't tell.
An engine began grinding.
In front of him . . . He started forward.
No, to the right.
He sprinted up the street. Just then he saw a battered gray Dodge pull away from the curb. It started forward but skidded to a stop as a patrol car cruised slowly into the intersection. The driver of the Dodge put the car into reverse and rolled backward over the curb, into a vacant lot, out of sight of the RMP. Bell believed he saw two people inside . . . . He squinted. Yes! It was Geneva and the man who'd claimed to be her uncle. The car bucked slightly as he put it in gear.
Bell grabbed his radio and called the RMPs, ordering them to blockade both intersections.
But the patrolman at the wheel of the closest squad car turned into the street, rather than just barricading it; Geneva's uncle saw him. He slipped his car into reverse, flooring the accelerator and skidding in a circle around the vacant lot and into the alley behind a row of buildings. Bell lost sight of the Dodge. He didn't know which way it had turned. Sprinting toward where he'd last seen the car, the detective ordered the squad cars to circle the block.
He ran into the alley and looked to his right, just in time to see the rear fender of the car disappearing. He raced for it, pulling his Beretta from his holster. He sprinted at full speed and turned the corner.
Bell froze.
Tires squealing, the old Dodge was racing in reverse right toward him, escaping from the squad car that was blocking the man's escape route.
Bell stood his ground. He lifted the Beretta. He saw the uncle's panicked eyes, Geneva's horrified expression, her mouth open in a scream. But he couldn't fire. The squad car was directly behind the Dodge. Even if he hit the kidnapper, the jacketed rounds could go right through their target and the car and hit the officers.
Bell jumped aside, but the cobblestones were slick with garbage and he went down hard on his side, grunting. He lay directly in the path of the Dodge. The detective tried to pull himself to safety. But with the car going so fast he wasn't going to make it.
But . . . but what was happening?
The uncle was hitting the brakes. The car skidded to a stop five feet from Bell. The doors flew open and both Geneva and her uncle were out, running to him, the man shouting, "You all right? You all right?"
"Detective Bell," Geneva said, frowning, bending down and helping him up.
Wincing in pain, Bell trained the big gun on the uncle and said, "Don't move a damn muscle."
The man blinked and frowned.
"Lie down. And your arms--stretch 'em out."
"Detective Bell--" Geneva began.
"Just a minute, miss."
The uncle did as he was told. Bell cuffed him, as the uniforms from the RMP trotted through the alley.
"Frisk him."
"Yes, sir."
The uncle said, "Look, you don't k
now what you doin', sir."
"Quiet," Bell said to him and took Geneva aside, put her in a recessed doorway so she'd be out of the line of fire from anyone on rooftops nearby.
"Roland!" Barbe Lynch hurried down the alley.
Bell leaned against the brick wall, catching his breath. He glanced to the left, seeing the homeless guy he'd noticed earlier squint uneasily at the police and turn around, then head in the opposite direction. Bell ignored him.
"You didn't need to do that," Geneva said to the detective, nodding at the cuffed man.
"But he's not your uncle," the detective said, calming slowly, "is he?"
"No."
"What was he doing with you just now?"
She looked down, a sorrowful expression on her face.
"Geneva," Bell said sternly, "this's serious. Tell me what's going on."
"I asked him to take me someplace."
"Where?"
She lowered her head. "To work," she said. "I couldn't afford to miss my shift." She opened her jacket, revealing a McDonald's uniform. The cheery name tag read, Hi, my name's Gen.
Chapter Twenty-Six
"What's the story?" Lincoln Rhyme asked. He was concerned but, despite the fright at her disappearance, there was no accusation in his voice.
Geneva was sitting in a chair near his wheelchair, on the ground floor of the town house. Sachs stood beside her, arms crossed. She'd just arrived with a large stack of material she'd brought from the Sanford Foundation archives where she'd made the Potters' Field discovery. It sat on the table near Rhyme, ignored now that this new drama had intruded.
The girl looked defiantly into his eyes. "I hired him to play my uncle."
"And your parents?"
"I don't have any."
"You don't--"
"--have any," she repeated through clenched teeth.
"Go on," Sachs said kindly.
She didn't speak for a moment. Finally: "When I was ten, my father left us, my moms and me. He moved to Chicago with this woman and got married. Had himself a whole new family. I was torn up--oh, it hurt. But deep down I didn't really blame him much. Our life was a mess. My moms, she was hooked on crack, just couldn't get off it. They'd have these bad fights--well, she fought. Mostly he tried to straighten her out and she'd get mad at him. To pay for what she needed she'd perp stuff from stores." Geneva held Rhyme's eyes as she added, "And she'd go to girlfriends' places and they'd have some men over--you know what for. Dad knew all about it. I guess he put up with it for as long as he could then moved on."