The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(107)

She now turned off this very same High Noon street—the Bowery—and made her way through the labyrinth until she came to a shadowy canyon. Those same tenements that had survived for 150 years still rose five stories toward the rectangle of, today, gray sky. The tall buildings bristled with fire escapes. One featured a real, old-fashioned laundry line, on which ghosts of shirts and jeans and skirts fluttered. Maybe to lessen, in a small, small way, a carbon footprint.

The street was mostly residential, but there were some ground-floor retail stores. A dry cleaner. A “vintage” (that is, used) clothing shop. A secondhand bookstore, specializing largely in the occult.

And Blaustein’s Jewelry.

She parked half on the sidewalk, tossed the NYPD placard on the dash and climbed out. The cool day kept people home and the absence of much to do on this street kept the sightseers elsewhere. The sidewalk was deserted.

She walked to the front of the store. There was a Closed sign on the door, but Edward Ackroyd had told her that Abe Blaustein was expecting her. She peered inside. The showroom, filled with display cases, was empty and dark but there was a light in the back and she saw some motion there. A man in a dusty black suit and wearing a yarmulke glanced up and waved her in.

The door wasn’t locked and she pushed inside.

Sachs got no more than three feet. She tripped over something she hadn’t seen and fell forward, landing hard on the old, oak floor with a grunt of pain.

Just as she was noting with shock the thick wire strung at ankle level, the man charged forward and dropped onto her back, his knee knocking the air from her lungs, filling her with nausea. Pain consumed her and she cried out. The yarmulke was gone and he’d donned the familiar ski mask.

As she reached for her weapon, he fished it from her holster and pocketed it, along with her phone. His hands were encased in cloth gloves. Then he snapped her own cuffs around her wrists, behind her. And, unnecessarily, slammed a fist into her lower back. She cried out as a new agony radiated through her body, next door to the pain from the fall against the plank at the jobsite.

The man paused, as he had a coughing fit. She felt his breath and spittle on her neck. The smell was of liquor and garlic and copious, sweet aftershave.

She was aware of the assailant leaning close. She tensed, waiting for his fist again. But, no, this was weird. He was only rubbing the third finger of her left hand, as if he was studying her wedding or engagement ring.

She began, “People know I’m here. This is a bad idea—”

“Shhh, little kuritsa,” came the Russian-accented voice. “Shhh.”

She then was half carried, half dragged into the back of the shop. He deposited her hard on the carpeted floor of the office, right next to the still, pale body of a man, surely Abraham Blaustein, the owner. From his pocket, the Russian extracted a utility knife and worked the thumb button, to slide out a shiny razor blade.

And she recalled what Lincoln Rhyme had said.

I won’t make that mistake again…

The last words he would ever speak to her.





Chapter 55



Poor Abe,” the Russian was muttering.

He was looking through her wallet, her shoulder bag, clumsily because of the gloves. None of the contents seemed to interest him. He tossed everything aside.

“Poor kuritsa. Abe-ra-ham. Poor Jew. Did stupid things, talking about Ezekiel Shapiro and me.” He clicked his tongue. “I saw him talking to asshole insurance man. Was stupid, don’t you think he was stupid?”

He crouched beside her. “Now, now. I am needing some things. I need to know where to find boy, Vimal? You know him, yes, you do. And insurance man. Abraham told me—after we play a few games.” A nod at the knife. “He told me he was talking to this Edward. You tell me where Vimal and this Edward’s last name and where to find them…and all good. All good for you.”

A trap, of course. The unsub had forced Blaustein to call Ackroyd and arrange a meeting with the police. But not just anyone. The unsub wanted her. She knew where Vimal Lahori was.

The pain assaulted from all directions, her ribs, her head—and her wrists. She realized she’d never been cuffed before and the steel was tight against bone and skin. Sachs was helpless. Still stunned and in searing pain from the crippling drop of his knee into her back. It had emptied her lungs. She still was struggling for breath.

Fainting…

No, can’t faint.

Not acceptable.

He had, it seemed, realized just then that he was still in disguise. He brusquely pulled Blaustein’s jacket off and tossed it aside.

“Jew jacket.” He coughed briefly. Wiped his mouth and looked at the napkin. “Good, good. All good.”

She looked past the disgust and tried to analyze her situation. She could smell liquor but he didn’t seem drunk. Not drunk enough to be careless. How much time did she need to buy? Long enough for Rhyme to call her phone to ask what she had found? Without an answer, he’d get uniforms here in three or four minutes. The precinct wasn’t that far away.

But that would be a very long three or four minutes.

He leaned close. “Now, you…”

He looked again at her ID.

“You, Policewoman A-melia. You are helpful girl. You can help me. Good for you. You help me and you go free.”

“What’s your name?” she ventured.