The Twelfth Card

as his knowledge of the area suspects inhabit—the geology, sociology, history, pop culture, employment . . . everything.
    Lincoln Rhyme was thinking how little he knew about the world that Geneva Settle lived in: Harlem. Oh, he’d read the stats, of course: The majority of the population were an equal mix of African black (both longtime and recent immigrants) and black and nonblack Hispanic (mostly Puerto Rican, Dominican, Salvadoran and Mexican) followed by white and some Asian. There was poverty and there were gangs and drugs and violence—largely centered around the projects—but much of the neighborhood was generally safe, far better than many parts of Brooklyn, the Bronx or Newark. Harlem had more churches, mosques, community organizations and concerned-parents groups than any other neighborhood in the city. The place had been a mecca for black civil rights, and for black and Hispanic culture and art. It was now the center of a new movement: for fiscalequality. There were dozens of economic redevelopment projects currently under way and investors of all races and nationalities were speeding to sink money into Harlem, taking particular advantage of the hot real estate market.
    But these were New York Times facts, NYPD facts. They didn’t help Rhyme one bit in his understanding of why a professional killer wanted to murder a teenage girl from this neighborhood. His search for Unsub 109 was severely hampered by this limitation. He ordered his phone to make a call, and the software obediently connected him to a number at the FBI’s office downtown.
    “Dellray here.”
    “Fred, it’s Lincoln. I need some help again.”
    “My friendly fella down in the District help you out?”
    “Yep, sure did. Maryland too.”
    “Glad to hear it. Hold on. Lemme shoo somebody on outa here.”
    Rhyme had been to Dellray’s office several times. The tall, lanky black agent’s digs in the federal building were filled with books of literature and esoteric philosophy, as well as coatracks of the various clothes he’d wear while working undercover, though he didn’t do much fieldwork anymore. Ironically, it was on those costume racks that you’d find FBI Brooks Brothers suits and white shirts and striped ties. Dellray’s regular dress was—to put it kindly—bizarre. Jogging outfits and sweats with sports jackets, and he favored green, blue and yellow for his suits. At least he avoided hats, which could make him look like a pimp out of a seventies blaxploitation film.
    The agent returned to the phone and Rhyme asked, “How’s the bomb thing going?”
    “Another anonymous call this morning, about the Israeli consulate. Just like last week. Only my snitches—even the golden boys—can’t tell me one solid little thing. Pisses me off. Anyways, what else you got cookin’?”
    “The case is taking us to Harlem. You work it much?”
    “I stroll through the place some. But I’m no encyclopedia. BK born and bred.”
    “BK?”
    “Brooklyn, originally the Village of Breuckelen, brought to us courtesy of the Dutch West India Company in the 1640s. First official city in the state of New York, if you care. Home of Walt Whitman. But you ain’t spending a quarter to talk trivia.”
    “Can you get away and do a little scrounging on the streets?”
    “I’ll fitcha in. But I can’t promise I’ll be much help.”
    “Well, Fred, you’ve got one advantage over me, as far as blending in Uptown.”
    “Right, right, right—my ass ain’t sitting in any bright red wheelchair.”
    “Make that two advantages,” replied Rhyme, whose complexion was as pale as the rookie Pulaski’s blond hair.
    *   *   *
    Charles Singleton’s other letters arrived from Geneva’s.
    They hadn’t been stored very well over the years and were faded and fragile. Mel Cooper carefully mounted them between two thin sheets of acrylic, after chemically treating the creases to make sure the paper didn’t crack.
    Sellitto walked over to Cooper. “Whatta we got?”
    The tech focused the optical scanner on the first letter, hit a button. The image appeared on several of the computer monitors throughout the room.
    My most darling Violet:
    I have but a moment to set down a few words to you in the heat and calm of this early Sunday morning. Our regiment, the 31st New York, has come such a long way since we were unseasoned recruits assembling on Hart’s Island. Indeed, we now are engaged in the momentous task of pursuing Gen. Robert E. Lee