The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

"No, he's not. About your children, it probably would be best to--"

Oh, Jesus . . .

Looking past the woman, Amelia Sachs stared into a bedroom of the bungalow, which was in the process of being renovated. On the wall were some painted cartoon characters. One was from Winnie-the-Pooh--the character Tigger.

The orange shade of the paint was identical to the samples she'd found near Geneva's aunt's place in Harlem. Bright orange.

Then she glanced at the floor in the entry hall. On a square of newspapers was an old pair of shoes. Light brown. She could just see the label inside. They were Bass. About size 11.

Amelia Sachs understood suddenly that the boyfriend that the woman had referred to was Thompson Boyd and the apartment across the street wasn't his residence but was another of his safe houses. The reason it was empty at the moment, of course, was that he was somewhere in this very house.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Amelia Sachs, thinking: Get the woman outside. Her eyes aren't guilty. She's not part of it.

Thinking: Of course Boyd's armed.

Thinking: And I just traded my Glock for a fucking six-shooter.

Get her out of here. Fast.

Sachs's hand was easing toward her waistband, where Sellitto's tiny pistol rested. "Oh, one more thing, ma'am," she said calmly. "I saw a van up the street. I wonder if you could tell me whose it is."

What was that noise? Sachs wondered. Something from within the house. Metallic. But not like a weapon, a faint clatter.

"A van?"

"Yeah, you can't see it from here. It's behind that tree." Sachs stepped back, gesturing her forward. "Could you step outside and take a look, please? It'd be a big help."

The woman, though, stayed w

here she was, in the entryway, glancing to her right. Toward where the sound had come from. "Honey?" She frowned. "What's wrong?"

The clattering, Sachs understood suddenly, had been venetian blinds. Boyd had heard the exchange with his girlfriend and had looked out the window. He'd seen an ESU officer or squad car near his safe house.

"It's really important," Sachs tried. "If you could just . . . "

But the woman froze, her eyes wide.

"No! Tom! What're you--?"

"Ma'am, come over here!" Sachs shouted, drawing the Smith & Wesson. "Now! You're in danger!"

"What're you doing with that? Tom!" She backed away from Boyd but remained in the corridor, a rabbit in headlights. "No!"

"Get down!" Sachs said in a ragged whisper, dropping into a crouch and moving forward into the house.

"Boyd, listen to me," Sachs shouted. "If you've got a weapon, drop it. Throw it out where I can see it. Then get on the floor. I mean now! There're dozens of officers outside!"

Silence, except for the woman's sobbing.

Sachs executed a fast feint, looking low around the corner to the left. She caught a glimpse of the man, his face calm, a large, black pistol in his hand. Not the North American .22 magnum, but an automatic, which would have stopping-power bullets and a clip capacity of fifteen rounds or so. She ducked back to cover. Boyd'd been expecting her to present higher and the two slugs he fired missed her, though only by inches, blowing plaster and wood splinters into the air. The brunette was screaming with every breath, scrabbling away, looking from Sachs back to where Boyd was. "No, no, no!"

Sachs called, "Throw your weapon down!"

"Tom, please! What's going on?"

Sachs called to her, "Get down, miss!"