The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(16)

Rostov took a picture of the photograph too. He handed it and the license back to the man. He wasn’t able to put them back into the wallet, his hands were shaking so badly. Rostov did this himself and tucked the wallet back into the man’s breast pocket. Patted it three times. Hard.

“Now, I am needing to find some person. And why is not your interest. If you help, all will be good. And I won’t have to come to Fourteen Hundred Twenty-Two First Avenue, apartment five C, and pay your pretty family a call.”

“Yes.” The man was crying harder now. “I understand.”

Rostov had not asked if he understood.

“You are knowing Jatin Patel?”

“Are you the man—” His voice stopped cold.

Rostov lowered his head, fixed Nashim with his blue eyes. The dealer blurted, “Not well. I met him once. I knew about him. Everybody knew.”

“There are two peoples he knows. Someone, VL, also Indian, like him. Younger. May work for Patel. Or worked for Patel. And Jew named Saul Weintraub. He has business in diamond trade in someplace, Long Island City. But I would like his home place. Okay? So, easy for you. I make it easy. Who this VL is? And where I am finding Weintraub?”

“Oh, I would tell you if I could. I promise you! But I don’t know. I swear. We all work in the Diamond District, Jews and Indians and Chinese and us. But we don’t talk among ourselves so much. We sell to each other, we buy from each other. But that’s all. I don’t know who they might be, these people. Please don’t hurt me or my family! I can get you money.”

“I ask for money?”

“I’m sorry.”

Rostov believed him. And, on reflection, he decided it was helpful that the man was Iranian. He’d sell out a Jew in an instant and probably an Indian, as well.

“Nashim, Nashim…We are going to be playing game then. You like games?”

He was silent.

“Scavengering hunt. You know this?”

“I know what it is.”

“Here, now, my friend. Here. You are going to start asking questions. Be careful. You should not be obvious. But ask about this VL and this Saul Weintraub. Yes, yes! You are ready to play, my friend?”

“I will. I promise I will.”

“Give me your phone number.”

Rostov punched the number in and then hit dial. Nashim’s phone hummed. “Good, good. You are not fakey man. Okay. You get busy now, Nashim. I will call tomorrow and find out what you can tell me. And I will keep calling until you win scavengering hunt. I am rooting for you! Now I will go home and you go home.” Rostov clapped him on the back. He started away then paused. “Your daughters. What are their names?”

He suddently felt the urge, felt hungry.

Gone to the stone…

The Iranian was staring. “No! I will tell you nothing about them.”

Rostov shrugged. “Does not matter. I will make up my own. The tall one I think will be Scheherazade. And the younger one, prettier, I am saying, my opinion only…she will be Kitten. Good night, Nashim. Good night, my friend.”





Chapter 8



As dusk settled outside, those in Rhyme’s parlor laboratory were beginning their hunt for the man they’d dubbed Unsub 47, after the street where the robbery and murders had occurred.

He was watching the progress as Sachs and Mel Cooper—his prize NYPD lab man—analyzed what she’d returned with from Patel Designs.

Lon Sellitto was here too, presently on his mobile in the corner, fielding questions from his superiors. The press was having a field day with the story of the box-cutter-wielding killer in the Diamond District, the last thing that City Hall wanted. Like hungry zoo animals, the media would have to be fed something. This was not Rhyme’s concern, however. He kept his attention on the progress of the slightly built, admittedly nerdy lab technician and on Sachs as the two labored away.

The uniformed officer Ron Pulaski had been deployed. He was out in the Diamond District, canvassing. And having little success. He’d called in five minutes earlier and reported on his lack of results. Armed with a list of Jatin Patel’s clients and business associates, he was canvassing to see if anyone had heard about potential threats (or to assess if they themselves were the unsub).

Yet no one Pulaski or the other canvassing officers spoke to had any thoughts on who “S” or “VL” from Patel’s calendar were.

This lack of insight was true too of those in the stores and restaurants along 47th Street and nearby. “Nobody’s talking to me, Lincoln,” the young officer had said. “It’s like they’re afraid to be seen helping. As if the unsub is nearby, taking notes.”

“Keep at it, Rookie,” Rhyme said and hung up. He wasn’t enamored of witnesses in any event—their testimony, he felt, was aggressively unreliable—and was hoping mostly that someone might point Pulaski in the direction of evidence that the fleeing perp had discarded or accidentally shed.

He looked over the four-by-three-foot erasable whiteboard on which Sachs and Cooper were recording their results.

They knew a few things from the anonymous call (assuming it was accurate): The perp was probably white, male, his face obscured by a black cloth ski mask. He wore gloves and was armed. Average height. Another call had been made to 911, reporting that the killer had carried a black briefcase. It hadn’t been found at the scene, so he would have it with him possibly, unless he’d ditched it.