The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(28)

“That’s why I think we’re dealing with something else here, some other motive.”

“What do you think that could be?” dear Cindi asked.

“I couldn’t speculate. Maybe he had a separate reason to kill the diamond cutter and took some of the gems to make the police think it was just a robbery.”

But isn’t that speculating, Doctor? Rostov thought. Hack.

Cindi jumped in. “Or are you saying maybe the couple was the target? That would be William Sloane and Anna Markam, of Great Neck, New York.”

Pictures of them, smiling, appeared briefly on the screen. Rostov washed a mouthful of fries down with Coke.

“That’s a possibility, Cindi. But from what I’ve heard, there was no motive for their deaths. No criminal connections. It appeared they were just bystanders. But you’re right, the killer may have picked them on purpose.”

Rostov enjoyed the way they kicked back and forth “are you saying” and “you’re right” like soldiers lobbing hand grenades. Wanting to make sure the other was responsible for the irresponsible speculation.

“A young couple like that. Any thoughts on why?”

“They were there to pick up their engagement ring. We don’t know if their killer knew that but then he could have figured it out.”

“He’s targeting engaged couples?”

Hand grenade away.

“All I can say is in my practice I’ve found it’s not uncommon for psychopathic killers to harbor resentment against those who have what they don’t.”

Successfully dodged.

“You’re thinking maybe he was jilted, left at the altar. Or he suffered because his parents had a difficult marriage.”

The doctor smiled patiently. “Well, we’d really have to learn more. But it is clear that this doesn’t fit the mold for professional diamond larceny.”

A commercial popped up. Rostov tapped the newscast off and sent his Dell to sleep.

He mopped up ketchup with the last of the fries, and—some balance still remaining—used his fingers for the rest of the condiment. After licking, he cleaned the digits by dunking them in his water glass and drying them with a napkin. He rose and bought several more sandwiches, these to go—so he could both eat and smoke, like normal people did (his sole gripe with Putin was that he had banned smoking in much of the dear Motherland). Rostov paid and stepped out into the cool gray March morning.

Well, Doctor, you are the fucking clever fellow, aren’t you?

We’d like to come visit, my box cutter and me.

Rostov had an image of the pitch and duration of the squealing sounds the doctor might make when he took the razor blade to the bony man’s fingers or ears. But like the sweaty bout of sex with the mother whose hips swayed à la an amusement park ride, this was pure imagination.

Coughing gently, Rostov walked steadily down the untidy sidewalk, alternating between bits of the heavenly sandwich and drags on his pungent Russian cigarette. Unable to decide which was the more delicious.





Chapter 13



Dismayed at the sight, Amelia Sachs pulled her Torino to the curb on this quiet street in Long Island City, tossed the NYPD sign onto the dash and climbed out.

Four blue-and-whites were there. One unmarked. And an ambulance. Which was now unnecessary, as the polyvinyl tarp covering the body in the front hallway explained.

The body of Saul Weintraub.

Her first thought: What could they have done differently to save his life?

No answers came to her.

The killer would have spent his time since the killing in Midtown tracking down Weintraub. His canvassing had been just a bit better than theirs. The instant they’d learned his name, she’d called. Lock the doors. Don’t let any strangers in. And the local precinct, the 114, had gotten a car there as fast as they could.

That Weintraub himself should have called them the minute he learned of Patel’s death wasn’t a factor. No cop can blame potential witnesses for duck-and-cover.

Her phone hummed. Rhyme.

“I’m here,” she said.

“Got something interesting, Sachs. Text from a burner phone, now dead, of course. It went to a half-dozen TV and radio stations in the area. It’s all over the news. I just sent it.”

She minimized the phone screen and went to texts.

The concept of engagement is based on a binding promise to wed by the man to his betrothed. Now I have promise too. I am looking for YOU, I am looking every where. Buy ring, put on pretty finger but I will find you and you will bleed for your love.

—The Promisor



“Jesus, Rhyme. You think it’s Forty-Seven? Or just a copycat?”

“I don’t know. I’m having somebody from downtown, a linguist, look at it. Not that’ll tell us much, I think. My gut says it’s from him. But you know how much I trust that. Well, run the scene there and we’ll talk more when you’re back.”

She started toward the home, a modest row house, painted white, in need of more paint, and windowsills lined with empty brown flower boxes, like droopy lower eyelids. Instinctively, she tapped her Glock—the Gen4 FS—to orient herself to the weapon’s exact position. There was a large crowd. It wasn’t impossible for Unsub 47 to be among them—here to learn of the police’s progress. Sachs eyed those on the street—fifty or sixty people—and the TV stations’ vans. Was the unsub among the spectators? Street Crime officers were canvassing. If anybody seemed suspicious or left quickly, they’d pursue the lead. Still, she suspected that the man’s business was completed and he’d fled after the murder. A shooting this time, she’d learned. No knife work. The victim had, however, been beaten.