The Twelfth Card

But was there any proof? A tall order a hundred and forty years later—talk about cold cases . . . Well, there was some evidence. The Exeter Strongbow safes—the type that Charles allegedly broke into at the Freedmen’s Trust—they were made in England so I called a friend at Scotland Yard. He talked to a forensic locksmith, who said it’d be impossible to break into a nineteenth-century Exeter safe with only a hammer and chisel, which is what they found at the scene. Even steam-powered drills of that era would take three or four hours—and the article about the theft said that Charles was inside the trust for only twenty minutes.
    “Next conclusion: Somebody else robbed the place, planted some of Charles’s tools at the scene and then bribed a witness to lie about him. I think that the actual thief was a man we found buried in the basement of the Potters’ Field tavern.” He explained about the Winskinskie ring and the man who’d worn it—that he was an officer in the corrupt Tammany Hall political machine.
    “He was one of Boss Tweed’s cronies. And another one was William Simms, the detective who arrested Charles. Simms was later indicted for graft and planting false evidence on suspects. Simms, the Winskinskie man, and the judge and prosecutor engineeredCharles’s conviction. And they kept the money from the trust that wasn’t recovered.
    “So, we’ve established Charles owned a huge estate in Gallows Heights and he was set up so somebody could steal it.” His eyebrow rose. “The next logical question? The big one?”
    No takers.
    “Obviously: Who the hell was the perp ?” Rhyme snapped. “Who robbed Charles? Well, given that the motive was to steal his farm, all I had to do was find out who took title to the land.”
    “Who was it?” Hanson asked, troubled but seemingly caught up in the historical drama.
    The assistant smoothed her skirt and suggested, “Boss Tweed?”
    “No. It was a colleague of his. A man who was seen regularly at the Potters’ Field tavern, along with some of the other notorious figures back then—Jim Fisk, Jay Gould and Detective Simms.” A glance at each of the people across the table. “His name was Hiram Sanford.”
    The woman blinked. After a moment she said, “The founder of our bank.”
    “The one and only.”
    “This is ridiculous,” said Cole, the attorney. “How could he do that? He was one of the pillars of New York society.”
    “Just like William Ashberry?” the criminalist asked sarcastically. “The business world wasn’t really any different then than it is now. Lots of financial speculation—one of Charles’s letters quoted the New York Tribune referring to the ‘bursting bubbles’ on Wall Street. Railroads were the Internet companies of the 1800s. Their stocks were overvalued and crashed. Sanford probably lost his fortune when that happened and Tweed agreed to bail himout. But, being Tweed, he naturally wanted to use somebody else’s money to do it. So the two of them set up Charles, and Sanford bought the orchard at a rigged auction for a fraction of its value. He tore down Charles’s house and built his mansion on it, where we’re sitting right now.” A nod out the window toward the blocks nearby. “And then he and his heirs developed the land or sold it off little by little.”
    “Didn’t Charles claim he was innocent, tell them what happened?” Hanson asked.
    Rhyme scoffed, “A former slave against the anti-black Tammany Hall Democratic machine? How successful would that have been? Besides, he’d killed the man in the tavern.”
    “So he was a murderer,” the attorney, Cole, pointed out quickly.
    “Of course not,” Rhyme snapped. “He needed the Winskinskie man alive—to prove his innocence. The death was self-defense. But Charles had no choice but to hide the body and cover up the shooting. If they’d found out, he’d be hanged.”
    Hanson shook his head. “Only there’s one thing that doesn’t make any sense: Why would what Hiram Sanford did way back then affect Bill Ashberry? Granted it’s bad PR—a bank founder stealing a former slave’s property? That’d be an ugly ten minutes on the nightly news. But frankly there are spin doctors who can handle that sort of thing. It’s not worth killing somebody for.”
    “Ah.” Rhyme nodded. “Very good question . . . We’ve done a little research. Ashberry was in charge of your real estate division, right?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And if it