The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(114)

Laughing softly, he thought: Paper covers rock.

He crouched and studied the stone at his feet. On this block the walk was bluestone—laid a hundred years ago, maybe more. The name came not from the original color at the quarry—it was gray—but from aging. Over time the rock had transformed to reveal azure shades and sometimes green and red tones. He pressed a hand against one, wondering what it would be like to carve. In this particular piece he saw a bas-relief—a shallow three-dimensional figure of a fish. It would be a good complement to his sculpture The Wave. It would be an easy thing to sculpt. He would simply, like Michelangelo, remove the portions of the slab that were not the koi.

Rising to his feet again, he continued toward his house.

The pleasant thoughts of the fish and of his carving tools awaiting him at home were suddenly, and inevitably, dislocated by another image: Mr. Patel’s feet motionless on the floor of his studio, angling toward the ceiling. This memory kept recurring. Hour after hour. Then that image was in turn displaced by the memories of his own father locking him into the studio, Mr. Nouri’s son’s betrayal, Mr. Weintraub’s death, the police.

Diamonds. Diamonds were to blame.

He shivered briefly in anger.

Then the question rose once again: What now?

In a few minutes Vimal would see his father. What would the man say? Vimal’s desire to leave town was undiminished. But now he didn’t have the excuse to escape—the excuse that a killer was after him…and the excuse that he would be arrested for “stealing” Mr. Patel’s kimberlite, which apparently had no value, after all. The horror was over. And his father would put on the pressure to stay. Would Vimal have the courage to say no?

Safe from the killer. And yet no comfort. How cruel was this?

Well, he would say no. His stomach tightened at the thought. But he’d do it. He would.

He found himself walking more and more slowly. This subconscious braking almost amused him.

About two blocks from his house, he passed a driveway that ran to the back of a brick bungalow. He heard a man’s voice calling out. “Somebody, can you help me? I fell!”

Vimal glanced up the alley. It was the businessman he’d seen a moment ago. He was lying on the ground beside his car.

Yesterday he would’ve been suspicious. But now, with that Russian man dead, he wasn’t worried for his own safety. Not here. In Manhattan, in the Diamond District, he was always on guard. But in this part of Queens, no.

Muggers rarely looked like accountants and wore nice overcoats.

The man had slipped. His leg was bent and he was gripping the limb and moaning. He glanced toward Vimal and said, “Oh, thank God. Please, can you reach my phone? I dropped it under the car.” He winced.

“Sure. Don’t worry. Is it broken? Your leg?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But it hurts to move it.”

Vimal was nearly to the man when he saw something in the bushes. It was a square of white.

A metal sign. He paused and leaned in. He read:

For Sale

Under Contract



The name of the brokerage firm was underneath it.

He glanced at the windows of the house. They were dark.

In a second, he understood that the man didn’t live here at all! It was a trap! He’d pulled the sign out of the front yard and hidden it so he could lure Vimal here.

Shit. Vimal turned fast but by then the man was on his feet and snagging him, spinning him around. He wasn’t a large man, and his eyes, the color of yellow agate, were placid. Still, when he slammed Vimal into the side of the car, the blow stunned him. The assailant easily dodged Vimal’s sloppy, swinging fist and dropped him to his knees with a fierce blow to the gut. Vimal held up a wait-a-minute hand and vomited.

The man looked around to make sure they were alone. He said, “You going to be sick again?” An oddly accented voice.

Vimal shook his head.

“You’re sure?”

Who was this? A friend of the Russian?

“What do you—”

“Are you sure you’re not going to be sick?”

“No.”

The man bound his hands with silver duct tape and pulled him to the trunk. He seemed to be debating taping his mouth too but was probably worried that he might in fact puke once more and choke to death. He chose not to gag him.

Apparently the assailant was determined to keep him alive.

At least for the time being.





Chapter 60



Driving through a rugged part of industrial Queens, looking for a suitable place for what was next on the schedule.

Andrew Krueger knew, since he’d been released by the police, that they didn’t suspect him. And while he supposed Rhyme and Amelia were quite capable of figuring out the entire scheme given enough time, he knew that didn’t enter into their thoughts much at all, since they were frantically trying to find the next gas bomb. He had placed that one in an old wooden residential building—a literal tinderbox. The fake earthquake would rattle windows soon and not long after, the gas line would start to leach its delightful vapor. Then the explosion.

But Krueger no longer cared about scorched flesh; his only concern was the final question: Where had Vimal found the kimberlite he’d been carrying on Saturday?

Krueger pulled his rented Ford into an industrial park area and found a deserted parking lot of cracked asphalt and weeds. He looked about. No one nearby. No cars, no trucks. No CCTV, though he hardly expected any; the warehouse’s roof had collapsed years ago.