The Twelfth Card

for footprints and, sure enough, she spotted Unsub 109’s Bass walker shoes right away. Still, she slipped rubber bands around the booties of the Tyvek overalls—a trick Rhyme invented to make certain that an officer exploring the crime scene didn’t confuse his or her own prints with those of the suspect. The detective started into the room, her Glock in hand.
    Following the unsub’s prints to the front, she paused from time to time, listening for noises. Sachs heard a skitter or two but, no stranger to the sound track of seamier New York, she knew immediately that the intruder was a rat.
    In the front she looked out through a gap in the plywood panels of the billboard where he’d stood and noticed that, yes, it provided a perfect view of the street. She collected some basic forensic equipment then returned and hit the walls with ultraviolet spray. Sachs turned the alternative light source wand on them.
    But the only marks she found were latex glove prints.
    She told Rhyme what she’d found and then said, “I’ll collect trace from where he stood but I don’t see very much. He’s just not leaving anything.”
    “Too professional,” Rhyme said, sighing. “Every time we outsmart him, he’s already outsmarted us. Well, bring in what you’ve got, Sachs. We’ll look it over.”
    *   *   *
    As they waited for Sachs to return, Rhyme and Sellitto made a decision: While they believed that Unsub 109 had fled the area around the apartment they still arranged to have Geneva’s great-aunt, Lilly Hall, and her friend moved to a hotel room for the time being.
    As for Pulaski, he was in intensive care, still unconscious from the beating. The doctors couldn’t say whether he’d live or not. In Rhyme’s lab, Sellitto slammed his phone shut angrily after getting this news. “He was a fucking rookie. I had no business recruiting him for Bell’s team. I should’ve gone myself.”
    A curious thing to say. “Lon,” Rhyme said, “you’ve got rank. You graduated from guard detail, when? Twenty years ago?”
    But the big cop wouldn’t be consoled. “Put him in over his head. Stupid of me. Goddamn.”
    Once again the hand rubbed at the hotspot on his cheek. The detective was edgy and looked particularly rumpled today. He usually wore pretty much what he wore now: light shirt and dark suit. Rhyme wondered, though, if these were the same clothes he’d had on yesterday. It seemed so. Yes, there was a dot of blood from the library shooting on the jacket sleeve—as if he were wearing the clothing as penance.
    The doorbell rang.
    Thom returned a moment later with a tall, lanky man. Pale skin, bad posture, unruly beard and brown, curly hair. He was dressed in a tan corduroy jacket and brown slacks. Birkenstocks.
    His eyes scanned the laboratory then glanced at Rhyme and looked him over. Unsmiling, he asked, “Is Geneva Settle here?”
    “Who’re you?” Sellitto asked.
    “I’m Wesley Goades.”
    Ah, the legal Terminator—who was not fictional, Rhyme was somewhat surprised to find. Sellitto checked his ID and nodded.
    The man’s long fingers continually adjusted thick wire-rimmed glasses or tugged absently at his long beard and he never looked anyone in the eye for more than a half second. The constant ocular jitters reminded Rhyme of Geneva’s friend, the gum-snapping Lakeesha Scott.
    He offered a card to Thom, who showed it to Rhyme. Goades was director of the Central Harlem Legal Services Corporation and was affiliated with the American Civil Liberties Union. The fine print at the bottom said that he was licensed to practice law in New York state, the federal district courts in New York and Washington, D.C., and before the U.S. Supreme Court.
    Maybe his days representing capitalist insurance companies had turned him to the other side.
    In response to the querying glances from Rhyme and Sellitto, he said, “I’ve been out of town. I got the message that Geneva called my office yesterday. Something about her being a witness. I just wanted to check on her.”
    “She’s fine,” Rhyme said. “There’ve been some attempts on her life but we have a full-time guard on her.”
    “She’s being held here? Against her will?”
    “Not held, no,” the criminalist said firmly. “She’s staying in her home.”
    “With her parents?”
    “An uncle.”
    “What’s this all about?” the unsmiling lawyer asked, his eyes flitting from face to face, taking in the evidence boards, the equipment, the