The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

"Can't I have e. e. cummings?" she asked. "Or John Cheever?"

"It's our African-American sequence, Gen," her language arts teacher pointed out, smiling.

"Then Frank Yerby," she bargained. "Or Octavia Butler."

"Ah, they're wonderful authors, Gen," her teacher said, "but they don't write about Harlem. That's what we're studying in this segment. But I gave you McKay because I thought you'd like him. He's one of the most controversial writers to come out of the Renaissance. McKay took a lot of flak because he looked at the underside of Harlem. He wrote about the primitive aspects of the place. That upset DuBois and a lot of other thinkers at the time. It's right up your alley."

Maybe her father could help her interpret, she thought cynically, since he loved the neighborhood and its patois so much.

"Try it," the man offered. "You might like it."

Oh, no, I won't, Geneva thought.

Outside the school, she joined her father. They came to the bus stop and both closed their eyes as a swirl of chill, dusty air swept around them. They'd reached a detente of sorts and she'd agreed to let him take her to a Jamaican restaurant that he'd been dreaming about for the past six years.

"Is it even still there?" she asked coolly.

"Dunno. But we'll find something. Be an adventure."

"I don't have much time." She shivered in the cold.

"Where's that bus?" he asked.

Geneva looked across the street and frowned. Oh, no . . . . There was Lakeesha. This was so her; she hadn't even listened to what Geneva'd said and had come here anyway.

Keesh waved.

"Who's that?" her father asked.

"My girlfriend."

Lakeesha glanced uncertainly toward her father and then gestured for Gen to cross the street.

What's wrong? The girl's face was smiling but it was clear she had something on her mind. Maybe she was wondering what Geneva was doing with an older man.

"Wait here," she told her father. And she started toward Lakeesha, who blinked and seemed to take a deep breath. She opened her purse and reached inside.

What's the 411 on this? Geneva wondered. She crossed the street and paused at the curb. Keesha hesitated then stepped forward. "Gen," she said, her eyes going dark.

Geneva frowned. "Girl, what's--"

Keesh stopped fast as a car pulled to the curb past Geneva, who blinked in surprise. Behind the wheel was the school counselor, Mrs. Barton. The woman gestured the student to the car. Geneva hesitated, told Keesh to wait a minute and joined the counselor.

"Hey, Geneva. I just missed you inside."

"Hi." The girl was cautious, not sure what the woman knew and didn't about her parents.

"Mr. Rhyme's assistant told me that they caught the man who tried to hurt you. And your parents finally got back."

"My father." She pointed. "That's him right there."

The counselor regarded the stocky man in the shabby T-shirt and jacket. "And everything's okay?"

Out of earshot, Lakeesha watched them with a frown. Her expression was even more troubled than before. She'd seemed cheerful on the phone, but now that Geneva thought about it, maybe she'd been fronting. And who was that guy she'd been talking to?

Nobody . . .

I don't think so.