The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(117)

“I gave Detective Sellitto my number. If you hear anything…” Now Adeela’s voice cracked. She controlled it instantly. “If you hear about him, please call.”

“I will. Yes.”

The young woman disconnected.

Sachs veered onto the shoulder to wait, earning two horns and a middle finger. Ignored them all.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered, a plea to Lon Sellitto. Her leg bobbed impatiently and she resolved not to stare at her phone.

She stared at her phone.

Then put it facedown on the bucket seat beside her.

Three excruciating minutes later Sellitto called back. Schoal had told him that all the stone scrap and drilling residue from the Northeast Geo operation in Brooklyn was hauled to C&D Transfer Station #4. On the water, east of Cobble Hill. He explained, “Hundreds of companies use it, from all over the city.”

“Got it,” she said. She slammed the shifter forward into first and popped the clutch, hitting the flow of traffic in three seconds and exceeding it in five.

She knew the scrapyard and barge dock. They were south of the Brooklyn Bridge Park Piers, about five minutes away—at least in the Torino—if traffic cooperated. Which it decidedly was not doing. She set the blue flasher on her dash, downshifted and returned to the shoulder. She accelerated again, hoping fervently that nobody would have a flat and swerve in front of her.

“Lon, my ETA’s five minutes, I hope. Get uniforms and ESU to the scrapyard. Silent roll-up.”

“Will do, Amelia.”

She didn’t bother to shut off the phone, letting Sellitto disconnect. Sachs didn’t dare remove her hands from the wheel as she sped along the rough shoulder, with side-view mirrors inches from the concrete abutment on the right and traffic on the left.

Thinking: Am I too late?

She traded sixty miles an hour for eighty.





Chapter 62



Sachs beat the blue-and-whites and ESU to the debris transfer station.

She skidded into the site—a sprawling yard, which she remembered as a dusty, shimmering sprawl in the summer but was now forbidding and gray. The large gate was open and she saw no security. There was no parking lot, per se, but as she cruised around, the Torino bounding over the rough ground, she came upon a level area, free of scrap, between two large mounds of shattered concrete and rotting wood and plaster. A Ford was parked here, by itself; all the other vehicles were dump trucks and bulldozers. The few personal vehicles were pickup trucks and SUVs.

She skidded to a stop and climbed out. Drawing her weapon, she made her way cautiously to the Ford. Nobody inside.

She reached inside, pulled the trunk release.

A huge relief seeing the empty space.

Vimal Lahori was, possibly, still alive.

A flash of motion caught her eye. Two squad cars from the local precinct sped up and stopped nearby. Four officers, all in uniform, climbed out.

“Detective,” one said, his voice soft. She knew the slim, sandy-haired officer. Jerry Jones, a ten-year, or so, veteran.

“Jones, call in the tag.”

He fitted an earbud—to keep his Motorola quiet—and put in the request. Adding, “Need it now. We’re in a tactical situation. K.”

She nodded to him and the others—two white men and an African American woman. “You got the description of our perp?”

They all had.

Sachs said, “We’ve got one of his weapons but assume he’s armed again. Glock Nines may be his weapon of choice. No evidence of long guns. He’ll have a knife too. Box cutter. Remember that the younger man with him is a hostage. Indian, dark hair, twenty-two. I don’t know what he’s wearing. The suspect was last seen in a tan overcoat but he’s worn dark outer clothes, too. We want this perp alive, if there’s any way. He’s got information we need.”

Jones said, “He’s planted those gas bombs, right?”

“Yeah. It’s him.”

“What’s he want here?” the woman officer asked.

“A pile of rock.”

The uniforms glanced toward one another.

No time to explain further.

“Jones, you and I go west, to the docks. You three, south. You’re going to stand out in your uniforms, against the landscape—” It was beige and light gray. “—So keep your eye out for sniping positions. He’ll kill to take out witnesses. No reason to think he won’t target us.”

“Sure, Detective,” one of the uniforms called and the trio started off.

She and Jones moved perpendicular to them, toward the water.

Jones’s radio gave a quiet clatter. He listened. She couldn’t hear the transmission. A moment later he told her, “ESU, ten minutes away.”

The two of them moved quickly through the valleys between the piles of rock and refuse. Jones cocked his head—he’d be receiving a transmission through his earbud. And whispered, “K.” He then turned to Sachs. “Vehicle on monthlong lease from a dealer in Queens. Lessee is Andrew Krueger. South African driver’s license. Address in Cape Town. Gave an address in New York but it’s a vacant lot.”

The uniform lifted his phone and showed an image of the driver’s license photo. “That him?”

Confirming that Krueger had been acting the role of Ackroyd all along. She nodded.