The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

In the persona of Steve Macy again, Ashberry explained that he was an author from Philadelphia, doing research at the Lehman Library--the Columbia facility devoted to social science and journalism (the Sanford Foundation had given a lot of money to libraries and schools like this one. Ashberry had attended benefits there; he could describe it if he had to). He then said that one of the librarians had heard Mathers had been looking into nineteenth-century New York history, particularly the Reconstruction era. Was that right?

The professor gave a surprised laugh. "I am, as a matter of fact. It's not for me, actually. I'm helping out a high school student. She's with me right now."

Thank God. The girl was still there. I can get it all over with now, get on with my life.

Ashberry said that he'd brought quite a lot of material up from Philly. Would he and this student be interested in taking a look?

The professor said they definitely would, thanked him then asked what would be a convenient time to come by.

When he was seventeen Billy Ashberry had held a box cutter against the thigh of an elderly shopkeeper and reminded him that the man's protection payments were past due. The razor was going to cut one inch for every day the payment was late unless he paid up instantly. His voice had been as calm then as it was now, saying to Mathers, "I'm leaving tonight but I could drop by now. You can make copies if you want. You have a Xerox machine?"

"I do, yes."

"I'll be there in a few minutes."

They hung up. Ashberry reached into the box and clicked the safety button on the shotgun to the off position. Then he hefted the carton and started toward the building, through a swirl of autumn leaves spun in tiny cyclones by the cold breeze.

Chapter Forty

"Professor?"

"You're Steve Macy?" The dowdy professor, sporting a bow tie and tweed jacket, was sitting behind piles of papers covering his desk.

He smiled. "Yes, sir."

"I'm Richard Mathers. This is Geneva Settle."

A short teenage girl, her skin as dark as the professor's, glanced at him and nodded. Then she looked eagerly at the box he carted. She was so young. Could he really kill her?

Then an image of his daughter's wedding on the dock of his summer house flashed through his mind, followed by a series of fast thoughts: the Mercedes AMG his wife wanted, his membership at the Augusta golf course, the dinner plans he had this evening at L'Etoile, to which The New York Times had just given three stars.

Those images answered his question.

Ashberry set the box on the floor. No cops inside, he noticed with relief. He shook Mathers's hand. And thought: Fuck, they can lift fingerprints from flesh. After the shootings he'd have to take the time to wipe off the man's palms. (He remembered what Thompson Boyd had told him: When it came to death, you did everything by the book, or you walked away from the job.) Ashberry smiled at the girl. Didn't shake her hand. He looked around the office, judging angles.

"Sorry for the mess," Mathers said.

"Mine isn't any better," he said with a faint laugh. The room was filled with books, magazines and stacks of photocopies. On the wall were a number of diplomas. Mathers was, it turned out, not a history but a law professor. And a well-known one, apparently. Ashberry was looking at a photo of the professor with Bill Clinton and another with former mayor Giuliani.

As he saw these photos, the remorse raised its head again but it was really nothing more than a faint blip on the screen by now. Ashberry was comfortable with the fact that he was in the room with two dead people.

They chatted for a few minutes, with Ashberry talking in vague terms about schools and libraries in Philadelphia, avoiding any direct comments about what he was looking into. He stayed on the offensive, asking the professor, "What exactly're you researching?"

Mathers deferred to Geneva, who explained that they were trying to find out about her ancestor, Charles Singleton, a former slave. "It was pretty weird," she said. "The police thought that there was this connection between him and some crimes, ones that just happened. That turned out to be pretty wack, I mean, it was wrong. But we're all curious about what happened to him. Nobody seems to know."

"Let's take a look at what you've got," Mathers said, clearing a spot on a low table in front of his desk. "I'll get another chair."

This is it, Ashberry thought. His heart began pounding fast. He then recalled the razor knife slipping into the shopkeeper's flesh, cutting two inches for the two days of missed juice, Ashberry hardly hearing the man's screams.

Recalled all the years of backbreaking work to get to where he was today.

Recalled Thompson Boyd's dead eyes.

He was instantly calm.

As soon as Mathers stepped into the hallway, the banker glanced out the window. The policeman was still in the car, a good fifty feet away, and the building was so solid he might not even hear the gunshots. With the desk between himself and Geneva, he bent down, shuffling through the papers. He gripped the shotgun.

"Did you find any pictures?" Geneva asked. "I'd really like to find more about what the neighborhood looked like back then."