The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(132)

Vimal held back on the monologue he was prepared to deliver and took the envelope. He glanced into his father’s eyes.

The man’s shrug said, Open it.

Vimal did. He looked at what was inside and his breath stopped momentarily. He looked to his father then back to the contents.

“This is—” He actually choked.

“Yes, a check from Dev Nouri’s company.”

Payable to Vimal Lahori. Only to him.

“Papa, it’s almost one hundred thousand dollars.”

“You will have to pay tax on it. But you’ll still keep about two-thirds.”

“But…”

“The rough that you cut for him. That parallelogram.” The word came awkwardly from his mouth. “Dev sold it at private auction for three hundred thousand dollars. He was going to give you ten percent.”

A talented diamond cutter in the New York area could expect to make around fifty thousand dollars a year. The thirty that Mr. Nouri had offered for a one-day job was very generous by any standard throughout the world.

“But I said no. He and I had some discussions. He agreed, as you can see, to thirty-three percent. It’s less than an even one hundred, because he insisted on subtracting the money he’d already paid you. I thought we could not object to that.”

Vimal could not help but smile.

“Open an account, deposit it. It’s your money. You can do with it as you like. Now, I will say something else. You will be getting many phone calls. There is not a single diamantaire in the New York area that does not want you to work for them. I have heard from a number of them who would want you to apprentice to them. They have all heard of the parallelogram. Some people are calling it the Vimal Cut.”

The news was interesting—he was not a pariah— but it was also disheartening. The pressure from his father was back. More subtle, but pressure nonetheless.

Papa muttered, “You can get a job at any one of them and they will pay very well. But before you do that, think about this.” He offered the larger envelope.

Vimal removed from it a college catalog, for an accredited, four-year university on Long Island. A yellow Post-it was stuck in the middle. Vimal opened to the page, which described the MFA, master in fine arts, program. There was a track for sculpting, which included a semester abroad in Florence and Rome.

Feeling his heart stutter, he looked up to his father.

The man said, “So. I have been the messenger. The rest is up to you. You may want a different school, of course. Though your mother and I were hoping that if you do, we would prefer you become the Michelangelo of Jackson Heights, rather than of Los Angeles. But, as I say, it’s up to you, son.”

Vimal had no intention of flinging his arms around his father but he couldn’t help himself.

The awkwardness faded quickly, and the embrace lasted considerably longer than he and, he guessed, his father anticipated. Then they stepped away.

“We will leave for Mr. Patel’s sister’s at five.” He turned and started for the stairs. “Oh, and why don’t you invite Adeela?”

Vimal stared. “How did…?”

The look on his father’s face was cryptic but the message might very well have been: Never underestimate the intelligence—in both senses of the word—of one’s parents.

His father left the studio and trooped upstairs. Vimal picked up the lapis lazuli and began turning it over and over and over in his hands once more, waiting for the stone to speak.





Chapter 72



Barry.” Rhyme was in his parlor, on the speakerphone.

“Lincoln. I’m pissed off at you, you know that.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I was a bottom-shelf kinda guy. You turned me on to real scotch. The pricey stuff. Actually, Joan is pissed at you. Me, not so much.”

A pause.

Then Rhyme said, “We nailed him, Barry. He’s going away forever. El Halcón.”

“Jesus. I thought the case was dicey.”

“It became undicey.”

More silence.

“And we got his partner. The American.”

Rhyme could hear the man breathing.

“You have anything to do with that?”

“Not much. A little.”

Sales laughed. “Bullshit. I’m not believing that.”

“Well, believe what you want.”

“That’s the Lincoln Rhyme I know and love.” Then, diverting from the edge of maudlin, Sales said, “Hey. Talked to my sister? She had an idea. I’m getting a temporary prosthesis. Just a hook, you know. She’s going to bring the kids over and, guess what? We’ll do the Wolverine thing. They’ll love it.”

“The what thing?”

“The movie. You know.”

“There’s a movie about wolverines?”

“You don’t get out much, do you, Lincoln?”

“Well, I’m happy it’s working out.”

“We’ll get together soon. I’ll buy the whisky.”

They disconnected and Rhyme was wheeling back to the evidence table when his mobile hummed with an incoming call.

He hit Answer.

“Lincoln,” came the voice through the phone, obscured by a cacophony of electric guitar licks.