The Twelfth Card

older women moved quickly down the hall. Bell saw them knock on a door. It opened and there were some hushed voices, then the face of an elderly black woman looked out. The women vanished inside, the door closed and the sound of chains and locks followed. The detective and the girl hurried down the stairs, with Bell pausing at every landing to make sure the lower level was cleared, his large, black automatic in hand.
    Geneva said nothing. Her jaw was set; fury had blossomed inside her once again.
    They paused in the lobby. The detective directed Geneva into the shadows behind him. He shouted, “Luis?”
    “This level’s clear, boss, for now at least,” the cop called in a harsh whisper from halfway up the dim corridor that led to the back door.
    Barbe’s calm voice said, “Pulaski’s still alive. I found him holding his gun—he got off one round. That was the shot we heard. No sign he hit anything.”
    “What’s he say?”
    “He’s unconscious.”
    So maybe the guy’s rabbited, Bell thought.
    Or maybe he planned something else. Was it safer to wait here for backup? That was the logical answer. The real issue, though: Was it the right answer to the question of what Unsub 109 had in mind?
    Bell made a decision.
    “Luis, I’m taking her out of here. Now. Need your help.”
    “With you, boss.”
    *   *   *
    Thompson Boyd was once again in the burnt-out building across the street from the tenement Geneva Settle and the cops had gone into.
    So far, his plan was working.
    After beaning the cop, he’d ejected a shell from the man’s Glock. This he’d rubber-banded to a lit cigarette—a fuse, in effect—and set the homemade firecracker in the alley. He’d placed the gun in the unconscious cop’s hand.
    He’d stripped off the mask, slipped through another alley, east of the building, into the street. When the cigarette burned down and detonated the bullet, and the two plainclothes cops disappeared, he’d run to the Crown Victoria. He had a slim jim to pop the door but hadn’t needed it; the car had been unlocked. From the shopping bag he took several of the items he’d prepared last night, then assembled and hid them under the driver’s seat and carefully closed the car door.
    The improvised device was quite simple: a low, wide jar of sulfuric acid, in which rested a short glass candleholder. And sitting on top of that was a foil ball containing several tablespoons of finely ground cyanide powder. Any motion of the car would roll the ball into the acid, which would melt the foil and dissolve the poison. The lethal gas would spread upward and overcome the occupants before they had time to open a door or window. They’d be dead—or brain dead—soon after.
    He peeked out through the crack between the billboard and what was left of the building’s front wall. On the porch was the brown-haired detective who seemed to be in charge of the guard detail. Beside him was the male plainclothes cop and between them the girl.
    The trio paused on the porch as the detective scanned the street, the rooftops, cars, alleys.
    A gun was in his right hand. Keys in his other. They were going to make a run for the deadly car.
    Perfect.
    Thompson Boyd turned and left the building quickly. He had to put some distance between himself and this place. Other cops were already on their way; sirens were growing louder. As he slipped out of the back of the building he heard the detective’s car start. The squeal of tires followed.
    Breathe deep, he thought to the occupants of the car. He thought this for two reasons: First, of course, he wanted this hard job over with. But he also sent the message to them for another reason: Dying by cyanide can be extremely unpleasant. Wishing them a speedy, painless death was what a person with feeling would think, a person who was no longer numb.
    Grape, cherry, milk . . .
    Breathe deep.
    *   *   *
    Sensing the wild rattle of the engine—it shook her hands and legs and back—Amelia Sachs sped toward Spanish Harlem. She was doing sixty before she shifted into third gear.
    She’d been at Rhyme’s when they got the report: Pulaski was down, and the killer had managed to get some sort of device into Roland Bell’s car. She’d run downstairs, fired up her red 1969 Camaro and hurried toward the scene of the attack in East Harlem.
    Roaring through green lights, slowing to thirty or so at the reds—check left, check right, downshift, punch it!
    Ten minutes later she skidded