The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

He explained, "It looks like the man who attacked you didn't leave, after all. Or he came back. He killed the head librarian and--"

"Mr. Barry?" A gasp from Geneva Settle. She stopped moving, simply froze.

"That's right."

"Shit," Lakeesha whispered. She closed her eyes and shivered.

A moment later Geneva's mouth tightened and she looked down. She set the cocoa on a table. "No, no . . . "

"I'm sorry," Rhyme said. "Was he a friend of yours?"

She shook her head. "Not really. He was just helping me with my paper." Geneva sat forward in her chair. "But it doesn't matter if he was a friend or not. He's dead--that's so terrible." She whispered angrily, "Why? Why did he do it?"

"He was a witness, I'd guess. He could identify the man who attacked you."

"So he's dead because of me."

Rhyme muttered some words to her, no, how could it be her fault? She didn't plan on being attacked. It was just bad luck for Barry. Wrong time, wrong place.

But the reassurance had no effect on the girl. Her face grew taut, her eyes cold. Rhyme didn't have a clue what to do next. It wasn't enough that he had to endure the presence of teenagers--now he had to comfort them, get their minds off this tragedy. He wheeled closer to the girls and pushed his patience to its limit by making small talk.

Chapter Five

An endless twenty minutes later, Sachs and Sellitto arrived at Rhyme's, accompanied by a young, blond patrol officer named Pulaski.

Sellitto explained that he'd requisitioned the kid to cart the evidence back to Rhyme's and help with the investigation. Clearly a rookie, he had "eager" written on his smooth forehead. He'd obviously been briefed about the criminalist's disability; he was overly oblivious to the fact that the man was paralyzed. Rhyme hated these fake reactions. He infinitely preferred Lakeesha's brashness.

Just, you know, damn . . .

The two detectives greeted the girls. Pulaski looked them over sympathetically and asked in a kid-friendly voice how they were doing. Rhyme noted a nicked wedding ring on his finger and deduced a high school marriage; only having children of your own could produce this kind of look.

Lakeesha answered, "Messed up is what I be. Buggin' . . . Some asshole tryin' to bust up my girlfriend. Whatta you think?"

Geneva said she was doing all right.

"I understand you're staying with a relative?" Sachs asked.

"My uncle. He's living at our place till my folks get back from London."

Rhyme happened to look at Lon Sellitto. Something was wrong. He'd changed dramatically in the past two hours. The boisterous mood had vanished. His eyes were spooked and he was fidgety. Rhyme noticed too that his fingers repeatedly touched a particular spot on his cheek. He'd rubbed it red.

"Get dinged by some lead?" Rhyme asked, recalling that the detective had been right next to the librarian when the perp had shot him. Maybe Sellitto had been hit by a bullet fragment or bit of stone if a slug had passed through Barry and struck a building.

"What?" Then Sellitto realized he'd been rubbing his skin and dropped his hand. He said in a soft voice, so the girls couldn't hear, "I was pretty close to the vic. Got spattered by some blood. That's all. Nothing."

But a moment later he absently started the rubbing again.

The gesture reminded Rhyme of Sachs, who had the habit of scratching her scalp and worrying her nails. The compulsion came and went, linked somehow to her drive, her ambition, the indefinable churning inside most cops. Police officers hurt themselves in a hundred different ways. The harm ranged from the minor inflictions of Sachs's, to destroying marriages and children's spirits with harsh words, to closing your lips around the tangy barrel of your service pistol. He'd never seen it in Lon Sellitto, though.

Geneva asked Sachs, "There was no mistake?"

"Mistake?"

"About Dr. Barry."

"I'm sorry, no. He's dead."

The girl was motionless. Rhyme could feel her sorrow.