The Twelfth Card

time.” Statistically cops had a much higher chance of being shot by their own or fellow cops’ bullets than by a perp’s.
    The heavyset detective shook his head. “I just . . . ” He didn’t know where to go from there.
    Silence for a long moment as they walked to the bus. Finally Sachs said, “One thing, Lon. Word’ll go around. You know how that is. But nobody civilian’ll hear. Not from me.” Not being hooked into the wire—the network of police scuttlebutt—Lincoln Rhyme would only learn about the incident from one of them.
    “I wasn’t going to ask that.”
    “I know,” she said. “Just telling you how I’m going to handle it.” She started unloading crime scene equipment.
    “Thanks,” he said in a thick voice. And realized that the fingers of his left hand had returned to the stigmata of blood on his cheek.
    Tap, tap, tap . . .
    *   *   *
    “It’s a lean one, Rhyme.”
    “Go ahead,” he said through the headset.
    In her white Tyvek suit, she was walking the grid in the small apartment—a safe house, they knew, because of its sparseness. Most pro killers had a place like this. They kept weapons and supplies there and used it as a staging spot for nearby hits and a hidey-hole if a gig went bad.
    “What’s inside?” he asked.
    “A cot, bare desk and chair. Lamp. A TV hooked up to a security camera mounted in the hall outside. It’s a Video-Tect system but he’s removed the serial number stickers so we don’t know when and where it was bought. I found wires and some relays for the electric charge he rigged on the door. The electrostatics match the Bass walking shoes. I’ve dusted everywhere and can’t find a single print. Wearing gloves inside his hidey-hole—what’s up with that?”
    Rhyme speculated, “Aside from the fact he’s goddamn smart? Probably he wasn’t guarding the place very carefully and knew it’d get tossed at some point. I’d just love to get a print. He’s definitely on file someplace. Maybe a lot of places.”
    “I found the rest of the tarot card deck, but there’re no store labels on it. And the only card missing is number twelve, the one he left at the scene. Okay, I’m going to keep searching.”
    She continued walking the grid carefully—even though the apartment was small and you could see most of it simply by standing in the center and turning three-sixty. Sachs found one piece of hidden evidence: As she passed the cot she noticed a small sliver of white protruding from under the pillow. She lifted it out, opened the folded sheet carefully.
    “Got something here, Rhyme. A map of the street the African-American museum’s on. There’re a lot details of the alleys and entrances and exits for all the buildings around it, loading zones, parking spaces, hydrants, manholes, pay phones. Man’s a perfectionist.”
    Not many killers would go to this much trouble for a hired clip. “Stains on it too. And some crumbs. Brownish.” Sachs sniffed. “Garlic. Crumbs look like food.” She slipped the map into a plastic envelope and continued the search.
    “I’ve got some more fibers, like the other ones—cotton rope, I’d guess. A bit of dust and dirt. That’s it, though.”
    “Wish I could see the place.” His voice trailed to silence.
    “Rhyme?”
    “I’m picturing it,” he whispered. Another pause. Then: “What’s on the surface of the desk?”
    “There’s nothing. I told—”
    “I don’t mean what’s sitting on it. I mean, is it stained with ink? Doodles? Knife marks? Coffee cup rings?” He added acerbically, “When perps are rude enough not to leave their electric bill lying around, we take what we can get.”
    Yep, the good mood was officially deceased.
    She examined the wooden top. “It’s stained, yes. Scratched and scarred.”
    “It’s wood?”
    “Yes.”
    “Take some samples. Use a knife and scrape the surface.”
    Sachs found a scalpel in the examination kit. Just like the ones used in surgery it was sterilized and sealed in paper and plastic. She carefully scraped the surface and placed the results in small plastic bags.
    As she glanced down she noticed a flash of light from the edge of the table. She looked.
    “Rhyme, found some drops. Clear liquid.”
    “Before you sample them, hit one with some Mirage. Go with Exspray Two. This guy likes deadly toys way too much.”
    Mirage Technologies makes a convenient explosives detection system. Exspray No. 2 would detect Group B explosives, which include