The Twelfth Card

fine. Let’s go.”
    They walked to the garbage pile, concerned. But then they decided it was no threat and started back. Pulaski stopped suddenly. “Hey, how ’bout some coffee, Detective?”
    Overacting—he’d never be a guest on Inside the Actor’s Studio —but all things considered it was a credible performance. “Sure, thanks.”
    He doubled back then paused. Shouted: “How do you like it?”
    “Uhm, sugar,” she said.
    “How many sugars?”
    Jesus Lord . . . She said, “One.”
    “Got it. Hey, you want a Danish too?”
    Okay, cool it, her eyes told him. “Just coffee’s fine.” She turned toward the crime scene, sensing the man with the gun study her long red hair, tied in a ponytail. He glanced at her chest, then her butt.
    Why will he watch you?
    He just will.
    Sachs continued toward the museum. She glanced in a window across the street, checking out the reflection. When the smoker’s eyes swiveled back toward Pulaski she turned quickly and approached, jacket pulled aside like a gunfighter’s dust coat so she could get her Glock out fast if she needed to.
    “Sir,” she said firmly. “Please keep your hands where I can see them.”
    “Do as the lady says.” Pulaski stood on the other side of the guy, hand near his weapon.
    The man glanced at Sachs. “That was pretty smooth, Officer.”
    “Just don’t move those hands. Are you carrying a weapon?”
    “Yeah,” the man replied, “and it’s bigger than what I used to carry in the Three Five.”
    The numbers referred to a precinct house. He was a former cop.
    Probably.
    “Working security?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Let me see your ticket. With your left hand, you don’t mind. Keep your right where it is.”
    He pulled out his wallet and handed it to her. His carry permit and security guard’s license were in order. Still, she called it in and checked out the guy. He was legit. “Thanks.” Sachs relaxed, handing him back the papers.
    “Not a problem, Detective. You got yourself some scene here, looks like.” Nodding toward the squad cars blocking the street in front of the museum.
    “We’ll see.” Noncommittal.
    The guard put the wallet away. “I was Patrol for twelve years. Retired on a medical and was going stir crazy.” He nodded at the building behind him. “You’ll see a couple other guys carrying round here. This’s one of the biggest jewelry operations in the city. It’s an annex for the American Jewelry Exchange in the diamond district. We get a couple million bucks’ worth of stones from Amsterdam and Jerusalem every day.”
    She glanced at the building. Didn’t look very imposing, just like any other office building.
    He laughed. “I thought it’d be a piece of cake, this job, but I work as hard here as when I was on a beat. Well, good luck with the scene. Wish I could help, but I got here after the excitement.” He turned to the rookie and said, “Hey, kid.” He nodded toward Sachs. “On the job, in front of people, you don’t call her ‘lady.’ She’s ‘Detective.’ ”
    The rookie looked at him uneasily but she could see he got the message—one that Sachs herself had been going to deliver when they were out of earshot.
    “Sorry,” Pulaski said to her.
    “You didn’t know. Now you do.”
    Which could be the motto of police training everywhere.
    They turned to go. The guard called, “Oh, hey, rookie?”
    Pulaski turned.
    “You forgot the coffee.” Grinned.
    At the entrance to the museum Lon Sellitto wassurveying the street and talking to a sergeant. The big detective looked at the kid’s name tag and asked, “Pulaski, you were first officer?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “What’sa story?”
    The kid cleared his throat and pointed to an alley. “I was positioned across the street, roughly there, on routine patrol. At about oh-eight-thirty the victim, an African-American female, sixteen years of age, approached me and reported that—”
    “You can just tell it in your own words,” Sachs said.
    “Sure. Okay. What it was, I was standing right about there and this girl comes up to me, all upset. Her name’s Geneva Settle, junior in high school. She was working on a term paper or something on the fifth floor.” Pointing to the museum. “And this guy attacks her. White, six feet, wearing a ski mask. Was going to rape her.”
    “You know that how?” Sellitto asked.
    “I found his rape pack upstairs.”
    “You looked in it?” Sachs asked, frowning.
    “With a pen. That’s all. I