The Twelfth Card

Naturally a homeless dude’d rather scrounge in West Harlem than in Central.
    How much farther?
    Jax the homeless dude looked up and squinted. Two blocks to the girl’s apartment.
    Almost there. Almost done.
    *   *   *
    He felt an itch.
    In Lincoln Rhyme’s case this could be literal—he had sensation on his neck, shoulders and head, and, in fact, this was a nondisabled, sensate condition hecould do without; for a quadriplegic, not being able to scratch an itch was the most fucking frustrating thing in the world.
    But this was a figurative itch he was feeling.
    Something wasn’t right. What was it?
    Thom asked him a question. He didn’t pay attention.
    “Lincoln?”
    “I’m thinking. Can’t you see?”
    “No, that happens on the inside,” the aide retorted.
    “Well, be quiet.”
    What was the problem?
    More scans of the evidence charts, the profile, the old letters and clippings, the curious expression on the inverted face of The Hanged Man . . . But somehow the itch didn’t seem to have anything to do with the evidence.
    In which case he supposed he should just ignore it.
    Get back to—
    Rhyme cocked his head. Almost grabbed the thought. It jiggled away.
    It was some anomaly, words someone had said recently that didn’t quite mesh.
    Then:
    “Oh, goddamn it,” he snapped. “The uncle!”
    “What?” Mel Cooper asked.
    “Jesus, Geneva’s uncle.”
    “What about him?”
    “Geneva said he was her mother’s brother.”
    “And?”
    “When we just talked to him, he said that he’d talked to his brother.”
    “Well, he probably meant brother-in-law.”
    “If you mean brother-in-law, that’s what you say . . . . Command, dial Bell.”
    *   *   *
    The phone rang and the detective answered on the first note of the cell phone tone that meant the call was from Lincoln Rhyme’s town house.
    “Bell here.”
    “Roland, you’re at Geneva’s?”
    “Right.”
    “Your cell doesn’t have a speaker, does it?”
    “No. Go ahead.” The detective instinctively pulled his jacket aside and unsnapped the thong holding the larger of his two pistols. His voice was as steady as his hand, though his heart ratcheted up a few beats per second.
    “Where’s Geneva?”
    “Her room.”
    “Uncle?”
    “Don’t know. He just went to the store.”
    “Listen. He flubbed the story about how he’s related to her. He said he’s her father’s brother. She said he’s her mother’s.”
    “Hell, he’s a ringer.”
    “Get to Geneva and stay with her until we figure it out. I’m sending another couple of RMPs over there.”
    Bell walked fast to the girl’s room. He knocked but got no response.
    Heart pumping fast now, he drew his Beretta. “Geneva!”
    Nothing.
    “Roland,” Rhyme called, “what’s going on?”
    “Just a second,” the detective whispered.
    In a combat shooting crouch, he pushed the door open and, lifting his weapon, stepped inside.
    The room was empty. Geneva Settle was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Five
    “Central, I have a ten twenty-nine, possible abduction.”
    In his calm drawl Bell repeated the ominous message and gave his location. Then: “Vic is a black female, age sixteen, five-two, one hundred pounds. Suspect is a black male, stocky, early to mid forties, short hair.”
    “Roger. Units en route, K.”
    Bell clipped his radio to his belt and sent Martinez and Lynch to search the apartment building itself while he hurried downstairs. The street in front of the building had been under surveillance by Lynch, while Martinez had been on the roof. But they’d been expecting Unsub 109 or his accomplice to be heading toward the building, not going away from it. Martinez thought he’d seen a girl and a man, who could have been the uncle, walking away from the apartment about three minutes ago. He hadn’t paid attention.
    Scanning the street, Bell saw no one but a few businesspeople. He jogged down the service alley beside the building. He noticed a homeless man pushing a grocery cart but he was two blocks away. Bell’d talk to him in a minute and find out if he’d seen the girl. Now, he opted for the other possible witnesses, some young girls playing double-Dutch jump rope.
    “Hi.” The rope went slack as they looked up at the detective.
    “Hey there. I’m a police officer. I’m looking for this teenage girl. She’s black, thin, got short hair. She’d be with an older man.”
    The sirens from the responding officers’ cars filled the air, growing