The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

The banker had explained what he needed and they'd arranged for payment--a quarter million dollars (even that figure hadn't gotten a rise out of Boyd; he seemed more interested--you couldn't say excited--about the prospect of killing a young girl, as if he'd never done that before).

It looked for a time like Boyd would be successful and the girl would die, and all of Ashberry's problems would be over with.

But then, disaster: Boyd and his accomplice, that Frazier woman, were in jail.

Hence, the debate: Yes, no . . . Should Ashberry kill Geneva Settle himself?

With his typical approach to business, he considered the risks.

Despite his zombie personality, Boyd had been as sharp as he was frightening. He knew the business of death, knew ab

out investigating crimes too, and how you could use motive to point the police in the wrong direction. He'd come up with several phony motives to mislead the cops. First, an attempted rape, which hadn't worked. The second was more subtle. He'd planted seeds where they'd be sure to grow nowadays: a terrorist connection. He and his accomplice had found some poor raghead who delivered Middle Eastern food to carts and restaurants near the jewelry exchange, the building that was across the street from where Geneva Settle was to be killed. Boyd located the restaurant he worked for and staked out the place, learned which van was his. Boyd and his partner set up a series of clues to make it seem that the Arab loser was a terrorist planning a bombing and that he wanted Geneva dead because she'd seen him planning the attack.

Boyd had gone to the trouble of stealing sheets of scrap office paper from the trash behind the exchange. He'd drawn a map on one sheet and on another written a note about the girl in Arabic-tinted English (an Arabic language website had been helpful there)--to fool the cops. Boyd was going to leave these notes near crime scenes but it'd worked out even better than that; the police found them in Boyd's safe house before he'd planted them, which gave more credibility to the terrorism hook. They'd used Middle Eastern food for clues and called in fake terrorist bomb threats to the FBI from pay phones around the area.

Boyd hadn't planned to go any further with the charade than this. But then a goddamn policewoman--that Detective Sachs--showed up right here, at the foundation, to dig through their archives! Ashberry still remembered how he'd struggled to stay calm, making small talk with the beautiful redhead and offering her the run of the stacks. He'd used all his willpower to keep from heading downstairs himself and casually asking her what she was looking into. But there was too great a chance that this would arouse suspicion. He'd agreed to let her take some materials and when he looked over the log after she left, he didn't see anything too troubling.

Still, her presence alone at the foundation and the fact she wanted to check out some materials told the banker that the cops hadn't caught on to the terrorist motive. Ashberry had immediately called Boyd and told him to make the story more credible. The hitman had bought a working bomb from the arsonist who'd put Ashberry in touch with Boyd. He'd planted the device in the delivery van, along with a ranting letter to the Times about Zionists. Boyd was arrested just after that but his partner--that black woman from Harlem--had detonated the bomb, and finally the police got the message: terrorism.

And, since the raghead was dead, they'd pull back the protection on the girl.

This gave Alina Frazier the chance to finish the job.

But the police had outsmarted her too, and she'd been caught.

The big question now was: Did the police believe the threat to the girl was finally gone, with the mastermind dead, and the two professional killers arrested?

He decided they might not be completely convinced, but their defenses would be lowered.

So what was the level of risk if he went ahead?

Minimal, he decided.

Geneva Settle would die.

Now, he only needed an opportunity. Boyd had said she'd moved out of her apartment in West Harlem and was staying someplace else. The only connection Ashberry had was her school.

He rose, left his office and took the ornate elevator downstairs. Then walked to Broadway and found a phone kiosk. ("Always pay phones, never private landlines. And never, ever mobile phones." Thank you, Thompson.)

He got a number from Directory Assistance and placed the call.

"Langston Hughes High," the woman answered.

He glanced at the side of a nearby retail-store delivery truck and said to the receptionist, "This is Detective Steve Macy with the police department. I need to speak to an administrator."

A moment later he was put through to an assistant principal.

"How can I help you?" the harried man asked. Ashberry could hear a dozen voices in the background. (The businessman himself had detested every minute he'd spent in school.)

He identified himself again and added, "I'm following up on an incident that involved one of your students. Geneva Settle?"

"Oh, she was that witness, right?"

"Yep. I need to get some papers to her this afternoon. The district attorney's going to be indicting some of the people involved in the case and we need her signature on a statement. Can I speak to her?"

"Sure. Hold on." A pause as he asked someone else in the room about the girl's schedule. Ashberry heard something about her being absent. The administrator came back on. "She's not in school today. She'll be back Monday."

"Oh, is she at home?"