The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(104)

Rostov gave an exaggerated frown. “Bonus? You fucker, Guatemalan bastards pay bonus?”

“Doesn’t Dobprom?”

Rostov laughed sourly. Then he leaned forward and rested a creepy hand on Krueger’s forearm. “This Amelia, this kuritsa…You have seen ring she wears? Is diamond, no?” His eyes were narrow and his voice suggested this was a very important question. “Not fucking sapphire?”

He said, “Yes. Diamond.”

Rostov asked, “What is grade?”

The Gemological Institute of America graded diamonds according to the four C’s: carat weight, color, cut and clarity. Krueger told Rostov, “I haven’t seen it up close but I’d say two carats, a blue, brilliant, and I’m guessing a VV1 or -2.”

Which meant it wasn’t flawless but only had very slight inclusions, invisible to the naked eye. A respectable stone.

“Why are you asking?” Krueger wondered, though he supposed he had an idea of what the madman had in mind.

“We need to hurt her and I need a souvenir.” He eyed Krueger narrowly. “You are not minding that?”

“All I care about is you finding Vimal. Whatever you want to do short of killing her, that’s up to you.”





Chapter 53



Rhyme was looking around the town house, aware that Sellitto and Sachs were elsewhere. That was curious. They hadn’t left—their coats were hung on a nearby rack.

He wanted them here, to keep examining the evidence charts, to see if the notations might reveal any more clues about the whereabouts of their Russian unsub or the next bomb. The whiteboards, decorated with careful jottings, remained silent and far more cryptic, and coy, than usual.

As he was about to summon his wife and the detective back to the parlor, there came a pounding on the door.

Rhyme and Ron Pulaski looked at the security camera monitor: four men, in suits. One was holding something up to the video camera. It seemed to be an ID card.

Rhyme squinted.

FBI.

Ah, got it.

Sachs, Sellitto and Thom all appeared quickly from the back of the town house. Rhyme noted their expressions. And he thought: They knew about El Halcón.

“The hell’s going on, Lincoln?” Mel Cooper asked.

“I’m not completely sure but I think the Rookie and I’re about to be arrested.”

“What?” Pulaski barked.

“Well, open the door, Thom. We hardly want them to kick it in, now, do we?”

The four people stepped quickly into the lobby and then the parlor. Three were FBI agents and were properly diverse, like the actors in an ad for a consulting company: white woman and a black and Asian man. They were humorless but that was a plus quality in a lot of professions, law enforcement ranking high among those. They would know that there was likely no threat from the occupants but their quick eyes took in everyone, assessing risks.

The fourth of the foursome was Henry Bishop, the lean federal prosecutor from the Eastern District. He towered over everyone in the room.

“Lincoln Rhyme.” The special agent speaking to him was an athletic-looking young man named Eric Fallow.

To him, Rhyme said, “Can’t raise my hands. Sorry.”

Neither the agent, nor anyone else in the room, gave a reaction to the joke.

Bishop said to Fallow, “I’ll speak to Mr. Rhyme. You secure Officer Pulaski.”

Fallow stepped to the younger man. “Officer, just keep your hands where we can see them. I’m going to take control of your weapon.”

Pulaski faced him. “Hell you are. What’s this about?”

Though his perplexed expression rang false. He knew exactly what it was about.

“Linc,” Sellitto said, then fell silent. He and Sachs had probably been briefed by Dellray—if he was indeed the one who’d delivered the news about Rhyme’s assignment for El Halcón—to play dumb. Rhyme looked to Sachs, but she was avoiding his eyes.

Understandably.

The other two agents stepped forward. One took Pulaski’s Glock.

Fallow said, “Hands behind your back please.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Rhyme said in a voice that was perhaps a bit too singsongy. The patina was mockery. Which was a tad unfair.

Fallow cuffed Pulaski anyway.

“Answer me, Bishop. What’s going on?” Sellitto had recovered and was offering a credible performance of surprise.

“Really,” Rhyme said. “Unnecessary.”

Bishop said, “Mr. Rhyme, you and Officer Pulaski are in a great deal of trouble. We’re placing you both under arrest for felony obstruction of justice and conspiracy, unauthorized use of evidentiary information.”

The Rookie’s eyes turned slowly to Rhyme.

How much trouble can you get into when your mission is a higher cause…?

The prosecutor continued, “You’ve been helpful in the past, Lincoln. I admit it.”

Only helpful? Rhyme reflected sourly.

“And that will be taken into account in the future, when we come to plea discussions. But now, Agent Fallow, read Officer Pulaski and Mr. Rhyme their rights.”

Sellitto gave up. “Is it true, Linc?” A sheen of dismay on his face.

Rhyme noted too Sachs’s tight lips. The look in her eyes.