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There was a Crown Vic, parked several doors away from the apartment--smart of them not to flag it. Around the corner was a second unmarked car near a hydrant. Thompson thought he saw some motion on the apartment roof. Sniper? he wondered. Maybe not, but somebody was definitely there, undoubtedly a cop. They were taking this case real serious.
Average Joe turned around and walked back to his average car, climbed in and started the engine. He'd have to be patient. It was too risky for an attempt here; he'd have to wait for the right opportunity. Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle" started to play on the radio. He shut it off but continued to whistle the tune to himself, never missing a single note, never a fraction of a tone off pitch.
*
Her great-aunt had found something.
In Geneva's apartment Roland Bell got a call from Lincoln Rhyme, who reported that Geneva's father's aunt, Lilly Hall, had found some boxes of old letters and souvenirs and artifacts in the storage space of the building where she was staying. She didn't know if there was anything helpful--her eyes were hopeless--but the cartons were chockablock with papers. Did Geneva and the police want to look through them?
Rhyme had wanted to have everything picked up but the aunt said, no, she'd only give it to her great-niece in person. She didn't trust anyone else.
"Police included?" Bell had asked Rhyme, who'd answered, "Police especially."
Amelia Sachs had then broken into the conversation to offer what Bell realized was the real explanation: "I think she wants to see her niece."
"Ah, yes'm. Got it."
Not surprisingly Geneva was more than eager to go. Roland Bell truly preferred guarding nervous people, people who didn't want to set foot on the concrete of New York City sidewalks, who liked to curl up with computer games and long books. Put them in an interior room, no windows, no visitors, no roof access and order out Chinese or pizza every day.
But Geneva Settle was unlike anybody he'd ever guarded.
Mr. Goades, please . . . . I was a witness to a crime, and I'm being held by the police. It's against my will and--
The detective arranged for two cars for security. There'd be Bell, Geneva and Pulaski in his Crown Vic. Luis Martinez and Barbe Lynch would be in their Chevy. A uniformed officer in another blue-and-white would remain parked near the Settles' apartment while they were gone.
As he waited for the second squad car to show up, Bell asked if there'd 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."
&nbs
p; 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?"
