The Twelfth Card Read Online Free PDF Page A

priorities. But I think you’re right. This’s more important.”
    It was the aide who asked, “Your helpful nature have anything to do with the fact you’ll have to postpone your hospital visit?”
    “Of course not. I didn’t even think about that . But now you mention it, I guess we better cancel. Good idea, Thom.”
    “It isn’t my idea—you engineered it.”
    True, he was thinking. But he now asked indignantly, “Me? You make it sound like I’ve been attacking people in Midtown.”
    “You know what I mean,” Thom said. “You can have the test and be back before Amelia’s through with the crime scene.”
    “There might be delays at the hospital. Why do I even say ‘might’? Always are.”
    Sachs said, “I’ll call Dr. Sherman and reschedule.”
    “Cancel, sure. But don’t reschedule. We have no idea how long this could take. The perp might be an organized offender.”
    “I’ll reschedule,” she said.
    “Let’s plan on two, three weeks.”
    “I’ll see when he’s available,” Sachs said firmly.
    But Lincoln Rhyme could be as stubborn as his partner. “We’ll worry about that later. Now, we’ve got a rapist out there. Who knows what he’s up to at the moment? Probably targeting somebody else. Thom, call Mel Cooper and get him in here. Let’s move. Every minute we delay is a gift to the perp. Hey, how’s that expression, Lon? The genesis of a cliché—and you were there.”

Chapter Three
    Instinct.
    Portables—beat cops—develop a sixth sense for knowing when somebody’s concealing a gun. Veterans on the force’ll tell you it’s really nothing more than the way the suspect carries himself—less a matter of a pistol’s heaviness in pounds than the weight of consequences of having it close to you. The power it gives you.
    The risk of getting caught too. Carrying an unlicensed weapon in New York comes with a Cracker Jack prize: an automatic stint in jail. You carry concealed, you do time. Simple as that.
    No, Amelia Sachs couldn’t say exactly how she understood it, but she knew that the man leaning against a wall across the street from the Museum of African-American Culture and History was armed. Smoking a cigarette, arms crossed, he gazed at the police line, the flashing lights, the officers.
    As she approached the scene Sachs was greeted by a blond NYPD uniform—so young he had to be a rookie. He said, “Hi, there. I was the first officer. I—”
    Sachs smiled and whispered, “Don’t look at me. Keep your eyes on that garbage pile up the street.”
    The rookie looked at her, blinked. “Sorry?”
    “Garbage,” she repeated in a harsh whisper. “Not me.”
    “Sorry, Detective,” said the young man, who sported a trim haircut and a nameplate on his chestthat read R. Pulaski. The tag had not a single ding or scratch on it.
    Sachs pointed to the trash. “Shrug.”
    He shrugged.
    “Come on with me. Keep watching it.”
    “Is there—?”
    “Smile.”
    “I—”
    “How many cops does it take to change a lightbulb?” Sachs asked.
    “I don’t know,” he said. “How many?”
    “I don’t know either. It’s not a joke. But laugh like I just told you a great punch line.”
    He laughed. A little nervous. But it was a laugh.
    “Keep watching it.”
    “The trash?”
    Sachs unbuttoned her suit jacket. “Now we’re not laughing. We’re concerned about the garbage.”
    “Why—?”
    “Ahead.”
    “Right. I’m not laughing. I’m looking at the trash.”
    “Good.”
    The man with the gun kept lounging against a building. He was in his forties, solid, with razor-cut hair. She now saw the bulge at his hip, which told her it was a long pistol, probably a revolver, since it seemed to swell out where the cylinder would be. “Here’s the situation,” she said softly to the rookie. “Man on our two o’clock. He’s carrying.”
    Bless him, the rookie—with spiky little-boy hair as shiny beige as caramel—kept looking at the garbage. “The perp? You think it’s the