The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(22)

She slung her bag over her shoulder and turned, walking in that slow, sensuous stride of hers, toward the West 4th Street subway station, leaving Vimal Lahori to reflect that the police probably could protect him from the killer.

But that was hardly enough.





Chapter 10



At 8 p.m. Lincoln Rhyme wheeled closer to one of the high-def screens in his parlor. “Run them.”

Mel Cooper typed and a video appeared.

The footage was from a camera focused on an underground loading dock behind the building where Patel’s office was located. The ramp from the dock exited onto 46th Street.

At 12:37 that afternoon, according to the time stamp, that door pushed open and a man with thick dark hair, head down and wearing a dark jacket, was seen walking quickly down the stairs and up the ramp onto the street. His face was not clearly visible but appeared to be Indian—which was logical if he was, in fact, an associate of Patel. He was slim, and short in stature, to judge by a Dumpster he passed. His age was impossible to determine for certain but the impression was that he was young, possibly twenties.

“He’s hurt,” Sachs said.

He was clutching his midsection. The freeze frame showed a hint of something light-colored between his fingers, maybe the paper bag that had been shot. Cooper hit Play and the young man moved on, out of the scene.

The tech said, “And here’s the second.”

This tape was of 47th Street, a camera in the window of a jewelry store next to Patel’s building. At 12:51, a man in a short black or navy-blue jacket and dark baggy slacks and stocking cap passed the store. It was impossible to see his face; he was looking away. His left hand held a briefcase; his right was in his pocket.

“Holding a weapon?”

“Could be,” Sachs answered Rhyme.

“And one more,” Cooper said. “Two doors west on Forty-Seven. One minute later.”

The same man had been caught on another jewelry store’s camera. His head down and turned away again, he was on his mobile phone.

Sellitto muttered, “Son of a bitch knew he was on Candid Camera. Looking away.”

Sachs said, “Run it again. Zoom on the phone.”

Cooper did this, to no avail. They could make out no details. “Check for pings from the cell towers?”

“The Theater District and Times Square on a matinee day?” Sellitto shot him a wry look. “Drum up fifty officers to check out records and dedicate a week to it, hey, I’m on board with that.”

“Just a thought.”

“We know that the wit’s young, male, black hair. Dark-complexioned, probably Indian. Jacket, black or navy. Slacks dark.”

She continued, “And he’s mobile. Whatever damage the rock fragments did, it didn’t seem that serious.”

“Our mysterious VL?” Sellitto asked.

“Could be,” she replied.

Could be. Maybe. Not necessarily.

The doorbell rang and Rhyme looked at the intercom.

He and Sachs glanced each other’s way. She said, “Insurance man?”

She’d called the New York representative of the insurance company covering the gems. The cool-hearted Llewellyn Croft had already sent the company a notice of loss and the claims investigator had offered to come over tonight, even though the hour was late.

A five-million-dollar potential loss is a good motivator, Rhyme supposed.

“Let him in,” he instructed Thom.

A moment later the aide directed the man into the parlor. He nodded greetings and blinked in double take as he examined the forensic equipment. “My,” he said under his breath.

The name was Edward Ackroyd. He was senior claims examiner with Milbank Assurance, on Broad Street, which was in lower Manhattan.

The man exuded medium. Average height, average weight, average amount of neatly trimmed, toffee-colored hair. Even his eyes were hazel, a shade that managed to be both unusual and undistinguished. Appropriately, he was somewhere in the middle of middle age.

“What an abject tragedy this is,” the man said in an accent that might trip from the tongue of a BBC announcer, Rhyme imagined. “Jatin Patel…murdered. And that couple too. Their whole future ahead of them. Destroyed.”

At least Ackroyd’s first reaction was loss of life, rather than of the gems.

Thom took Ackroyd’s beige overcoat. The man wore a gray suit, with a vest, rare in the United States nowadays. His shirt was starched, and his tie appeared to be as well, though that had to be Rhyme’s imagination. Given the nice garb, and the hour, maybe he’d been interrupted at a fancy dinner or a night at the theater. He wore a wedding ring.

Introductions were made. He gave only a minor reaction to Rhyme’s condition—he was more surprised by the full-sized gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer in the corner—and when Rhyme offered his working hand, the right, Ackroyd gripped it, though carefully.

“Have a seat?” Sachs offered.

“No, thank you, Detective. I can’t stay long. Just wanted to introduce myself.” He looked around. “I was expecting…I suppose, a police station.”

Sellitto said, “We run some investigations out of here. Lincoln was head of Crime Scene, now he’s a consultant.”

“Rather like our own Sherlock Holmes.”

Rhyme gave a weary half smile. He’d heard the simile, oh, about five hundred times.