The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(113)

“How’d that work, Linc?” Sellitto asked. “Amelia called Grace-Cabot Mining in South Africa.”

Sachs exhaled. Her face was taut and her words angry. “No, I didn’t. I called the number on the envelope for the rough. I didn’t look the company up online. Is it even a real company?”

“Well…” Rhyme cut an impatient glance to Pulaski. He nodded and found the Grace-Cabot receipt, then went to Google.

He was nodding. “It is a real diamond mine. But the office number isn’t the one on the receipt.” He tried that one. “It just says leave a message.”

“Llewellyn Croft?” Rhyme asked.

Pulaski scrolled through the site. “He is the managing director of Grace-Cabot.”

“If you found him, then Ackroyd—I mean our real unsub—could’ve found him too.”

Sachs continued, in a soft, disgusted tone, “The man we talked to, pretending to be Croft, was an associate of Ackroyd’s. Probably in one of those security companies Don was telling us about. He sent us to Milbank Assurance. Same thing, a real company but he faked his connection to it.”

Rhyme snapped, “Now. I want to find out now.”

The ensuing series of phone calls to Grace-Cabot and Milbank Assurance confirmed that the scam was just as they believed. Llewellyn Croft was managing director of the former but he assured them now that he’d never sent any rough to Patel for cutting. He himself hadn’t been in the United States for several years. Nor was Milbank their insurance carrier.

At Rhyme’s request, the FBI special agent Fred Dellray contacted someone in the State Department. They confirmed, from Customs and Border Protection, that Croft had not been in the country recently. Calls to Milbank bore out the fact that the insurance company had no connection to Grace-Cabot. Yes, the company had a senior investigator by the name of Edward Ackroyd and, yes, he was a former Scotland Yard inspector. But he had also been in London for the past week, at the company’s home office.

His face a sardonic mask, Lon Sellitto said, “Okay, for the slow guy: I’m lost. The fuck’s going on, Linc?”

“Some diamond-mining company learns about the kimberlite find and is worried a competitor’s going to start production. Ackroyd’s hired to set up the earthquakes and stop the geothermal drilling. And to find out who knows about the kimberlite and kill them too: Patel and Weintraub and Vimal. He murders the first two but the boy gets away. So Ackroyd claims that his client’s rough was stolen, to work his way into our investigation so he can find out where Vimal is.”

Sellitto asked, “How does Rostov fit in? Were they working together, for the Russians?”

Rhyme said sourly, “You don’t usually shoot your partner in the head.”

Sachs said, “No. Two different companies both heard about the kimberlite. One sent Ackroyd here and Dobprom sent Rostov. Ackroyd set up Rostov to take the fall, if everything went south.”

Rhyme muttered, “I should have seen it! Black polyester fibers at the Patel and Weintraub scenes. Only black cotton at the other. That meant maybe two different types of ski masks. Two different weapons. Glock and Smittie. Look.” He pointed to the recent evidence chart. “Rostov had some nine-millimeter rounds on him at Blaustein’s store but Ackroyd could have slipped those into his pocket.”

“Rhyme!” Sachs sounded alarmed.

He suddenly understood. “Hell. There’s another reason to kill Rostov.”

“Why?” Sellitto asked.

Sachs said, “To make it look like Unsub Forty-Seven’s dead—and Vimal is safe. So we’d release him from protective custody.”

“Is he out?” the lieutenant asked.

Sachs grimaced. “Hell, yes. I called the security detail on Staten Island and they were driving him to the ferry. And Vimal doesn’t have a phone anymore. There’s no way to get in touch with him. I’ll call his family.” She swept out her mobile.

Rhyme said to Sellitto, “And call the precinct in Brooklyn where they took Ackroyd. Tell them to detain him.”

“I’m on it.” The detective placed the call. He had a brief conversation, then, with a grimace, disconnected. “Ackroyd, or whoever he is, he’s been released without charges. His phone’s dead. And the address he gave the shield’s fake. Nobody knows where he is.”





Chapter 59



And now?

Vimal Lahori climbed to the street, out of the oppressive, salt-scented atmosphere of the subway. The tunnel had featured a hint—just a hint—of urine too.

He inhaled deeply. The air was chill and damp, the sky was gray. He was walking past single-family homes, modest homes with trim yards. Populated by husbands and wives and young children, he knew—though there was no visible evidence of the kids. In the suburbs, yards like these were repositories of tricycles and toys. Not in the city.

There weren’t many people on the street here—a woman in a yellow raincoat and carting a grocery bag. A businessman. Both had heads down and shoulders lifted against the chill breeze. What kind of homes were they returning to? Vimal wondered. Pleasant, comforting, he bet. That this was pure speculation didn’t matter; he envied them because he wanted to envy them.

Pausing, he watched a sheet of newspaper float past on the wind. It settled near him on the sidewalk.