The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(103)

Though one crime he was guilty of, no debate on that: Rhyme hadn’t told her about taking on the assignment for El Halcón’s defense team. This cut her deeply.

Welcome to married life, she thought—even more cynical now.

But Sellitto was right in one sense: Rhyme—and Ron Pulaski too—would need to find an attorney. And, from the urgent tone of Dellray’s call, they needed one immediately.

He said, “I’ve got some names. Ballbusters who’ve represented some high-profile perps I’ve collared. I don’t like ’em, but they’re top-notch. I’ll start calling now.”

Sachs heard some noise in the back of the town house. Pots and pans. Water running.

She sighed. “And I’ll tell Thom.”

*



Andrew Krueger sipped his soft drink.

He scowled at Rostov. “All right. Granted Dobprom wanted to make sure nobody learned about the lode. But what the hell was that ‘Promisor’ crap? What, you heard that I used a razor knife and wore a ski mask at Patel’s, and you went out and bought the same things?”

Rostov said proudly, “Of course! I am clever fucker! No?”

“Then going on and on, nobody treats diamonds right? They’re the soul of the earth? You made that girl swallow her ring? Cutting fingers off? What kind of bullshit was that?”

Rostov’s eyes turned savvy. “What kind bullshit? Hm. Bullshit whole world believe! After Promisor arrive, nobody thinking Patel got killed because kimberlite or diamonds is in Brooklyn. CNN says crazy man attacking pretty little fiancées, so has to be true.”

Krueger could hardly argue.

Then the Russian leaned forward, and he spoke in a low, steady voice. “But, kuritsa, tell me the true word. You know what most diamond companies do: Cut up beautiful stone into pieces of shit for shopping malls. Ruin lovely rough to make little bastard diamonds for girls’ fat fingers.” His eyes grew dark and angry. “A fucking crime.” He waved for another drink and was silent until it arrived. A fast sip. “Yes, yes, Dobprom, my wonderful employer, they sell to dealers like that. They pay my fucking salary. But I bitch about it anyways. And you, my friend? I know you thinking, in that heart of yours, yes, yes, Promisor is right. Make those kur who don’t know diamond from a piece of glass hurt, make them cry.”

Another shot of liquor. “Okay, okay. I am fucked up. Gone to stone. But maybe little part of you crazy like me?”

Andrew Krueger wanted to argue. But he had to admit that Rostov was right on this point too. Diamonds were the most perfect thing on earth. How could you not feel some contempt for those who treated them shabbily?

But he too was on a salary. There was work to be done. He pushed his soda aside and said in a low voice, “Now our problem.”

A scowl from Rostov now. “Yes, yes, they are knowing your earthquakes was fake. But you made it that Greenpeace asshole did everything.”

Krueger said, “Not Greenpeace. One Earth.”

“Ach. They all assholes.”

Once Rhyme and Amelia learned that the earthquakes were sabotage, Krueger needed a fall guy. He had seen the ranting Shapiro at the site and decided to pick him. He’d broken into the man’s house, planted some incriminating material there and, when Shapiro returned, cracked his skull. He’d then called Lincoln Rhyme and said he’d learned that Shapiro was targeting Jatin Patel for cutting compromised diamonds.

Then he’d driven to Palisades Park in Shapiro’s car. After flinging him over the edge, Krueger had taken a bus to the George Washington Bridge transit hub, for a subway trip back to his place.

“So, genius plan guy? What we are going to do?”

Krueger said, “It’s not as bad as it seems. The man at the site who helped me rig the explosions?”

“Yes, I saw in your emails.”

Krueger gave him a sour look.

“So this guy, where he is?”

“Dead. He told me most of the shafts are drilled. There won’t be that much kimberlite dug up anymore. I can find it and get rid of it. The big problem is the boy, Vimal. On Saturday, those samples he was carrying with him? He didn’t get them at the drilling site—I’d cleared it by then. Either somebody else gave them to him—maybe another assayer, like Weintraub—or he got them at another location. We have to find him. Get him to tell us where the samples came from and if anybody else knows.”

The last of Krueger’s appetite vanished at the sight of Rostov’s enthusiastically digging between his teeth with a fingernail to excavate bits of food. “So?”

Krueger leaned forward. “Here’s my thought. This Amelia? She knows where Vimal is. We’ll get her to tell us. We can’t kill her—she’s police. That’s too much.”

Rostov asked, “But hurt, okay?”

“Hurting is fine.”

Rostov’s face brightened. “Yes, yes, I will say. I am not so happy with her. I had little kuritsa Vimal very close. And she fucked me up. How we get to her?”

“I told her and the other cops there’s a dealer in Manhattan who’s got good information. I’ll tell Amelia he’ll agree to meet her, only her, in private. We’ll find a quiet shop somewhere—not one in the Diamond District. We go there first, you and me, kill the dealer. You take his place, and when she comes in, you do what you want to find out where Vimal is and how we can get to him. We take care of the problem and you and I go home, get our bonuses.”