The Twelfth Card

been any more word from her parents. She said that they were at Heathrow now, awaiting the next flight.
    Bell, a father of two boys, had some opinions about parents who left their daughter in the care of an uncle while they traipsed off to Europe. (This uncle in particular. No lunch money for the girl? That was a tough row.) Even though Bell was a single father with a demanding job, he still made his boys breakfast in the morning, packed them lunch and made supper most nights, however lame and starchy the meals might be (“Atkins” was not a word to be found in the Roland Bell encyclopedia of cuisine).
    But his job was to keep Geneva Settle alive, not comment on parents who weren’t much skilled at child-rearing. He now put aside thoughts of personal matters and stepped outside, hand near his Beretta, scanning the facades and windows and rooftops of nearby buildings and cars, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
    The relief squad car pulled up outside and parked,while Martinez and Lynch climbed into the Chevrolet, around the corner from Geneva’s apartment.
    Into his Handi-Talkie, Bell said, “Clear. Bring her out.”
    Pulaski appeared, hustling Geneva into the Crown Victoria. He jumped in beside her, and Bell took the driver’s seat. In tandem, the two cars sped across town and eventually arrived at an old tenement east of Fifth Avenue, in el barrio .
    The majority of this area was Puerto Rican and Dominican, but other Latin nationalities lived here too, those from Haiti, Bolivia, Ecuador, Jamaica, Central America—both black and nonblack. There were also pockets of new immigrants, legal and otherwise, from Senegal, Liberia and the Central African nations. Most of the hate crimes here weren’t white versus Hispanic or black; they were American-born versus immigrant, of whatever race or nationality. The way of the world, Bell reflected sadly.
    The detective now parked where Geneva indicated and he waited until the other officers climbed out of the squad car behind them and checked out the street. A thumbs-up from Luis Martinez and together they hustled Geneva inside.
    The building was shabby, the lobby smelling of beer and sour meat. Geneva seemed embarrassed about the condition of the place. As at the school she again suggested the detective wait outside, but it was half-hearted, as if she expected his response, “Prob’ly better I go with you.”
    On the second floor she knocked and an elderly voice asked, “Who there?”
    “Geneva. I’m here to see Auntie Lilly.”
    Two chains rattled and two deadbolts were undone. The door opened. A slight woman in a faded dress looked at Bell cautiously.
    “Morning, Mrs. Watkins,” the girl said.
    “Hi, honey. She’s in the living room.” Another uncertain glance at the detective.
    “This’s a friend of mine.”
    “He yo’ friend?”
    “That’s right,” Geneva told her.
    The woman’s face suggested that she didn’t approve of the girl spending time in the company of a man three times her age, even if he was a policeman.
    “Roland Bell, ma’am.” He showed his ID.
    “Lilly said there was something about the police,” she said uneasily. Bell continued to smile and said nothing more. The woman repeated, “Well, she’s in the living room.”
    Geneva’s great-aunt, a frail, elderly woman in a pink dress, was staring at the television through large, thick glasses. She looked over at the girl and her face broke into a smile. “Geneva, darling. How are you? And who’s this?”
    “Roland Bell, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”
    “I’m Lilly Hall. You’re the one interested in Charles?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I wish I knew more. I told Geneva everything I know ’bout him. Got hisself that farm, then got arrested. That was all I heard. Didn’t even know if he went to jail or not.”
    “Looks like he did, Auntie. We don’t know what happened after that. That’s what we want to find out.”
    On the stained floral wallpaper behind her were three photographs: Martin Luther King, Jr., John F. Kennedy and the famous picture of Jackie Kennedy in mourning with young John John and Caroline beside her.
    “There’s the boxes right there.” The woman noddedtoward three large cartons of papers and dusty books and wooden and plastic objects. They sat in front of a coffee table whose leg had been broken and duct-taped together. Geneva stooped and looked through the largest box.
    Lilly watched her. After a moment the woman said, “I feel him