The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(18)

Sachs asked, “Partners? Employees? She have any idea who that witness was?”

“She didn’t really know. He owned the place himself. No full-time employees—he was too cheap and didn’t trust anybody else to work on the stones. Except, his sister thought, some young man worked there occasionally, apprenticing to be a diamond cutter. They asked about S and VL. But zip.”

Sachs said, “Probably paid in cash, off the books, to save money; no payroll information to help us track him down.”

A team from Crime Scene in Queens had searched Patel’s modest apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where he’d lived alone since his wife passed away of cancer some years ago. There was no evidence of a break-in, and—as Rhyme had wondered—the Grace-Cabot diamonds were not there.

Neither was Patel’s phone, so their contact at the NYPD Computer Crimes Unit was presently getting a list of numbers, incoming and outgoing, from the provider. They hoped one of these would prove to be a call to or from S or VL.

Sachs stepped away to take a call and, nodding absently as she had a conversation, jotted a few notes. Then gave the caller her email address.

A moment later a computer sounded with an incoming message and she disconnected and called it up.

“Movie time,” she said. “Security company for the building. This’s the security video of the floor this morning.” She downloaded it and began playing the grainy black-and-white footage.

Rhyme wheeled closer. Patel had arrived for work at about eight thirty this morning. Nothing happened until a few minutes before eleven. A man appeared, bearded and in a black overcoat and a short-brimmed hat, possibly with short dark hair. He pushed a button on the intercom of Patel’s shop, was admitted and stayed about twenty minutes.

“Probably S—Patel’s eleven o’clock.”

Five minutes later he left, according to the time stamp, some black speckles began to appear in the image and for a fraction of a second you could see a gloved hand and a shape of a head in the ski mask as the unsub sprayed black paint at the lens, while staying largely out of sight. The fuzzy images—literally thirteen frames—revealed nothing.

Rhyme looked to Cooper, who anticipated his question. “I ran the paint. It’s generic. No source.”

The criminalist grunted.

She reminded, “Patel’s security footage is gone. Forty-Seven took it with him but some Midtown North uniforms’re collecting video from the street. Most of the stores’ cameras are interior but there’re a few outside. We’ll see what they turn up. They’re checking the loading dock on Forty-Six too; that’s where the fire exit leads to.”

She asked Cooper for the clearest screenshot of S, from the hallway outside Patel’s. He processed the image and sent it to her via email. “I’ll get it to the canvassers. See if they can get a name.” She sat down at a nearby terminal, logged in and uploaded the shot for citywide distribution.

Mel Cooper turned to the others. “I’ve ID’d the stones that the apprentice, or whoever he was, was carrying—what the bullet hit. Looks like it’s in the serpentinite family—it’s called that because of the coloring and mottled texture; looks like snakeskin. If it’s got garnets or diamonds in it it’s kimberlite. That’s what this is. I can see little flecks of crystal that could be diamonds. Patel probably cuts and polishes it into necklaces or earrings.”

The parlor landline rang. The caller ID was a country code Rhyme did not recognize.

Sachs glanced at it. “South Africa.”

She hit Speaker and answered. “Yes?”

“Yes, hello. I’m trying to reach a Detective Amelia Sachs.” The accent was that melodic blend of Dutch and English.

“This is Detective Sachs.”

The caller identified himself as Llewelyn Croft, the managing director of Grace-Cabot Mining, Ltd., in Cape Town.

“Mr. Croft, you’re on speakerphone with Lieutenant Lon Sellitto, New York Police, and Lincoln Rhyme, a consultant.”

“I got your message. You said there’s been a theft that might involve us?”

“That’s right. I didn’t leave details on the phone but I’m sorry to tell you the diamond cutter who had the stones, Jatin Patel, was killed in the robbery.”

They heard a gasp.

“No! Oh, no. I saw him just last week. No, this is terrible.” His voice faded. “I can’t…killed?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“We’ve worked with him for years. He was one of the best diamond cutters in New York. Well, in the world.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and continued, “Are you saying our diamonds were stolen? Are you sure?”

“No, not for certain. One of the reasons I’m calling. I found an empty box with a receipt for a shipment of four items, ID numbers GC-one through -four.”

“Yes,” he said, sounding dismayed. “Those are ours.”

“In rands they’re worth about sixty eight million?”

A sigh. Then nothing.

“Sir?”

“Yes, that’s the insured value. They were rough so when finished they would have sold for much more.”

“This is Detective Lon Sellitto. As far as you know then, Patel had the stones with him? Could he’ve sent them out to be worked on?”