The Twelfth Card (42 page)

But logic had nothing to do with the real reason for his being here. Seeing his hand rise once more compulsively to his cheek and worry the phantom bloodstain, and knowing that he was reliving the accidental discharge of his weapon yesterday, and Dr. Barry’s being shot to death right in front of him,
Sachs understood: This was Lon Sellitto’s knuckle time.

The expression had come from her father, who’d done plenty of courageous things on the force but had probably been the bravest during his last fight, against the cancer that ended his life, though hardly defeated him. His girl was a cop by then and he’d taken to giving her advice about the job. Once, he’d told her that sometimes she’d find herself in situations where there was nothing to do but stand up to a risk or challenge all by yourself. “I call it ‘knuckle time,’ Amie. Something you’ve got to muscle your way through. The fight might be against a perp, it might be against a partner. It might even be against the whole NYPD.”

Sometimes, he’d said, the hardest battle was within your own soul.

Sellitto knew what to do. He
had
to be the first man through the door.

But after the incident at the museum yesterday he was paralyzed with fear at the thought.

Knuckle time . . . Would he stand up or not?

Haumann now divided his entry officers into three teams and sent several others to the street corners to halt traffic and another one into the shadows beside the building’s front door to intercept anybody who happened to be entering the building—and to be prepared to take down Boyd himself if he happened to wander outside on an errand, unsuspecting. One officer climbed up to the roof. Several more ESU cops secured the apartments next door to Boyd’s—in case he tried to escape the way he’d done on Elizabeth Street.

Haumann then glanced at Sachs. “You’re going in with us?”

“Yup,” she replied. “Somebody from Crime Scene’s
got to secure the place. We still don’t know who hired this SOB and we’ve got to find out.”

“Which team you want to be on?”

“With whoever’s going through the front door,” she said.

“That’d be Jenkins’s.”

“Yes, sir.” She then explained about the residences across the street and reminded them that Boyd might target the civilians living there in an attempt to escape. Haumann nodded. “I need somebody to clear those places, at least get people away from the front windows and keep ’em off the streets.”

Nobody wanted this job, of course. If ESU cops had been cowboys, Haumann was asking for somebody to volunteer to be cook.

The silence was broken by a voice. “Hell, I’ll take it.” It was Lon Sellitto. “Perfect for an old guy like me.”

Sachs glanced at him. The detective had just flunked his knuckle time. His nerve had broken. He gave a carefree grin, maybe the saddest smile Sachs had ever seen in her life.

Into his mike the ESU head said, “All teams, deploy to holding perimeter. And S and S, let me know the minute there’s a change in the premises, K.”

“Roger. Out.”

Sachs said into her microphone, “We’re going in, Rhyme. I’ll let you know what happens.”

“Got it,” he said tersely.

Nothing more was said between them. Rhyme didn’t like her going into combat. But he knew how driven she was, how any threat to an innocent infuriated her, how it was important for her to make sure people like Thompson Boyd didn’t get away. This was part of her nature and he’d never suggested she stand down at times like this.

Didn’t mean he was going to be cheerful about it, though.

But then thoughts of Lincoln Rhyme faded as they started into position.

Sachs and Sellitto were walking up the alley, she to join the entry team, he to continue on to the residences across the street and get the people there under cover. The lieutenant’s phony grin was gone. The man’s face looked puffy and was dotted with sweat, despite the cool temperature. He wiped it, scratched the invisible bloodstain and noticed her looking at him. “Fucking body armor. Hot.”

“Hate it,” Sachs said. They continued steadily down the alley, until they got close to the back of Boyd’s apartment, where the troops were deploying. Suddenly she grabbed Sellitto’s arm and pulled him back. “Somebody’s watching . . . ” But as they stepped close to the building, Sachs tripped over a trash bag and went down hard on her leg. She gasped, wincing and cradling her knee.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she said, climbing to her feet with a grimace. She called into her radio, in a breathless voice, “Five Eight Eight Five, I saw movement in a second-floor window, rear of the building. S and S, can you confirm?”

“No hostiles. That’s one of our people you’re seeing, K.”

“Roger. Out.”

Sachs started forward, limping.

“Amelia, you’re hurt.”

“Nothing.”

“Tell Bo.”

“It’s not a problem.”

The fact that she suffered from arthritis was well known to the inner circle—Rhyme, Mel Cooper
and Sellitto—but that was about it. She went to great lengths to hide her malady, worried that the brass would sideline her on a medical if they found out. She reached into her slacks pocket and pulled out a packet of painkillers, ripped it open with her teeth and swallowed the pills dry.

Over the radio they heard Bo Haumann’s voice: “All teams form up, K.”

Sachs moved forward to the main entry team. The limp was worse.

Sellitto pulled her aside. “You can’t go in.”

“It’s not like I’m going to run him to ground, Lon. I’m just going to secure the scene.”

The detective turned toward the CP truck, hoping he’d find someone to ask about the situation, but Haumann and the others had already deployed.

“It’s better. It’s fine.” She limped forward.

One of the officers on Team A called in a whisper to Sachs, “Detective, you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“No, she’s not.” Sellitto turned to the officer. “She’s getting the civvies out of the way. I’m going in with you guys.”

“You?”

“Yeah, me. There a fucking problem?”

“No, sir.”

“Lon,” she whispered, “I’m fine.”

The big detective responded, “I know enough about crime scenes to secure the place. Rhyme’s been busting my chops for years to get it right.”

“I’m not going to be sprinting.”

“Yeah, maybe not, but could you drop into a combat pose if he lights you up with that fucking gun of his?”

“Yes, I could,” she answered firmly.

“Well, I don’t think so. So quit arguing and get the
civvies safe.” He cinched his body armor tighter and drew his revolver.

She hesitated.

“That’s an order, Detective.”

She looked at him darkly. But as independent as Sachs was—some would use the word “renegade”—the portable’s daughter knew her place in the ranks of the New York City Police Department. She said, “All right . . . but here, take this.” She drew her fifteen-round Glock and handed it to him, along with an extra clip. She took his six-shot revolver.

He looked down at the large black automatic. It was a gun with a trigger pull as delicate as a moth’s wing. If he handled this weapon wrong, like he’d done on Elizabeth Street yesterday, he could easily kill himself or somebody on the entry team. Rubbing his cheek once more, Sellitto glanced at the apartment. And hurried to join the others.

Crossing the street to clear the apartments and houses, Sachs glanced back and watched them go. She turned and continued on to the apartments and houses across the street.

The limp was gone.

In fact, she was fine. The only pain she felt was disappointment that she wasn’t on point with the entry team. But she’d had to fake the fall and injury. For Lon Sellitto’s sake. She couldn’t think of any way to save him except by forcing him to take on the job. She’d assessed the risk of his going in on a team and decided that there was minimal threat to him or to anybody else—there’d be plenty of backup, everybody was in armor and they were catching their perp by surprise. Sellitto also seemed to have some measure of control over his fear. She recalled the deliberation with which he’d held and examined the Glock, how his quick eyes had looked over the perp’s building.

But in any event there really was no choice. Sellitto was a great cop. But if he stayed skittish he’d cease to be any kind of cop at all and his life would be over with. Those splinters of self-doubt had a way of infecting your entire soul. Sachs knew; she battled them constantly herself. If he didn’t go back into combat now, he’d give up.

She picked up her pace; after all, she
did
have an important job here, clearing the residences across the street, and she had to move fast; the entry team was going inside at any minute. Sachs started ringing doorbells and getting people out of front rooms and making sure they stayed inside for the time being behind locked doors. She radioed Bo Haumann on the secure tactical frequency and told him that the immediate houses were clear; she’d keep going with those that were farther away, up and down the street.

“Okay, we’re going in,” the man said tersely and disconnected.

Sachs continued along the street. She found her fingernail digging into her thumb. Reflecting on the irony: Sellitto fidgeted going into a fight; Amelia Sachs was edgy when she had to stay out of harm’s way.

Lon Sellitto followed the four officers up the dim stairs, to the second-floor landing of the apartment.

Breathing hard from the climb, he paused, caught his breath. The tactical cops huddled, waiting for word from Haumann that the electricity to the apartment had been cut—they didn’t want any more electrocutions.

While they waited the big detective had a talk with himself: Are you ready for this?

Think about it. Now’s the time to decide. Leave or stay?

Tap, tap, tap . . .

It all swirled around in his mind: the blood spattering him obscenely, the needles from the bullet ripping apart flesh. The brown eyes that were filled with life one second and then glazed with death a moment later. The icy rush of absolute panic when that basement door on Elizabeth Street opened and his gun went off with a huge, kicking explosion, Amelia Sachs cringing, reaching for her weapon, as the bullet dug chunks of stone out of the wall just a few feet from her.

The bullet from my own goddamn gun!

What was happening? he wondered. Was his nerve gone? He laughed grimly to himself, comparing the kind of nerve he was thinking of to Lincoln Rhyme’s, whose physical nerve, the one in his spine, was literally destroyed. Well, Rhyme fucking well dealt with what happened to him. Why can’t I?

It was a question that had to be answered, because if he stepped up now and he caved or flubbed the takedown again, people might die. Probably would, given the stone-cold perp they were after.

If he stayed back, took himself off the detail, his career would be over, but at least he wouldn’t’ve jeopardized anyone else.

Can you do it? he asked himself.

The leader of the team said, “Detective, we’re going in in about thirty seconds. We’ll batter the door, spread out and clear the apartment. You can come in and secure the crime scene after. That all right with you?”

Leave or stay? the lieutenant asked himself. You can just walk downstairs. That’ll be it. Give up your shield, hire on as a security consultant with some corporation. Double your salary.

Never get shot at again.

Tap, tap, tap . . .

Never see eyes wincing and going lifeless inches from yours.

Tap . . .

“Is that okay?” the leader repeated.

Sellitto glanced at the cop “No,” he whispered. “No.”

The ESU officer frowned.

The detective said, “Take the door out with the ram, then I’ll go in. First.”

“But—”

Sellitto muttered, “You heard Detective Sachs. This perp isn’t working alone. We need anything we can find that’ll lead us to the prick who hired him. I’ll know what to look for and I can save the scene if he tries to fuck it up.”

“Let me call in,” the ESU man said doubtfully.

“Officer,” the detective said calmly, “that’s the way it is. I’m senior here.”

The team leader looked at his second in command. They shrugged.

“It’s your . . . decision.”

Sellitto supposed the third word of that sentence was originally going to be “funeral.”

“As soon as they pull the juice we go in,” the ESU officer said. He put on his gas mask. The team pulled on theirs, Sellitto too. He gripped Sachs’s Glock—kept his finger
outside
the trigger guard—and stepped to the side of the door.

In his earpiece he heard: “We’re cutting the electricity in three . . . two . . . one.”

The leader tapped the shoulder of the officer with the battering ram. The big man swung it hard and the door crashed open.

Flying on adrenaline, forgetting everything but the perp and the evidence, Sellitto charged inside, the tactical officers behind, covering him, kicking doors open and searching the rooms. The second team came in from the kitchen.

No immediate sign of Boyd. On a small TV a sitcom played—the source of the voices and most likely the source of heat and noise that S and S had found.

Most likely.

But maybe not.

Glancing left and right as he entered the small living room, seeing no one, Sellitto headed straight for Boyd’s desk, piled high with evidence: sheets of paper, ammunition, several envelopes, bits of plastic wire, a digital timer, jars of liquid and of white powder, a transistor radio, rope. Using a tissue, Sellitto carefully checked a metal cabinet near the desk for traps. He found none and opened it, noting more jars and boxes. Two more guns. Several stacks of new bills—nearly $100,000, the detective estimated.

“Room’s clear,” one of the ESU officers called. Then another, from a different room.

Finally a voice: “Team Leader A to CP, we’ve cleared the scene, K.”

Sellitto laughed out loud. He’d done it. Confronted whatever the fuck it was that’d been torturing him.

But don’t get too cocky, he told himself, pocketing Sachs’s Glock. You came along on this sleigh ride for a reason, remember? You got work to do. So secure the fucking evidence.