The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(38)

He was pierced with disappointment and desperation. “But—”

“Vimal, I’m sorry. I could lend you a hundred dollars.”

Vimal closed his eyes briefly. His shoulders slumped. He stared at the stone, turning it over and over in his hand. There were tiny flashes, rough diamonds. He supposed Mr. Nouri was right: The extraction process was only profitable on a mass scale.

“No, I don’t want a loan. Thank you.” He shoved the stone into his pocket.

He started to turn but Mr. Nouri, looking at him with sympathy, said, “Wait. I’ll tell you what. Do a cut for me. I’ll pay you a thousand.”

That wouldn’t go very far in starting a new life. But he was desperate. “Yes, please. But I don’t have much time.”

“This won’t take long. Some people, yes. You? No. Come with me.”





Chapter 18



I thought they were dead, Rhyme.”

“Who?”

Sachs said, “Mikey O’Brien. Emma Sanders.”

“Again, who?”

“The couple in Gravesend.”

“Dead?”

She’d just returned from the two crime scenes: Weintraub’s house in Queens and the attack in Brooklyn. “You said victims.”

“I only heard from the precinct that there was a shooting. Two vics, the captain was telling me. Something about the perp following them from a jewelry store.”

“No, from a wedding planner.”

“Ah.”

Sellitto nodded her way. He was on the phone with the officers canvassing in Gravesend for witnesses who had seen the perp. The detective held the mobile in one hand and a Danish in his other. He’d cut the pastry in half and eaten the first portion, then, it seemed, given in to temptation and started nibbling on the remainder.

Rhyme had little interest in psychological profiling. Sachs, on the other hand, was more a self-proclaimed people cop and felt the mental mechanism of perps was helpful in tracking them down. He didn’t fully agree but he respected her. And was curious about the diagnosis.

Crazy…

She explained to Rhyme and Cooper what the couple had said about their escape, how their hands had been bound but not their legs. Mikey had kicked the perp and they’d fled. He’d fired one shot but missed. By the time he started after them, the woman was outside, screaming. Forty-Seven didn’t stay around and got out the back door.

“It was our boy, for sure?” Rhyme asked.

“Oh, yeah. No doubt about it: Unsub Forty-Seven and the Promisor are one and the same. Just before he tried to cut that girl’s finger off, he explained why he killed the couple at Patel’s.”

Disconnecting his phone, Sellitto looked up. “Got away in Gravesend. Canvass reports nothing.”

Rhyme shrugged at the discouraging news, then told the detective that Sachs had confirmed their unsub was in fact the Promisor.

The doorbell rang and Thom went to get it. He returned with Edward Ackroyd, the insurance adjuster. Thom took his beige overcoat—because the man was Brit, Rhyme thought of it as a greatcoat, though he had no idea if the English used that expression, or ever had. “Tea?” the aide asked.

The man smiled—perhaps at the aide’s assumption of beverage choice—and declined, but asked for coffee.

“Filtered? Cappuccino?”

Ackroyd picked the latter.

The aide hung the man’s coat up and retreated to the kitchen.

“Thanks for coming in,” Sellitto said.

“Of course.”

“Don’t know if you saw the news. Our unsub got to a witness. His name was Saul Weintraub. He was shot and killed.”

“Oh, no.” Ackroyd sighed. “Did he get a chance to say anything before he died?”

Sachs said, “Not much. Just that he didn’t know Patel well. I sent a car to bring him in, interview him some more. But…” Her grim face acknowledged how this plan had so badly failed.

“How did the suspect find him?” Ackroyd wondered.

Sellitto said, “We think he got his name by torturing Patel. But not his address. There are a lot of Saul Weintraubs in the city. He did some detective work and tracked him down. Now there’s a second witness we’re sure he’s after too. His initials, we think, are VL. He’s young, Indian, maybe Patel’s assistant or protégé. We’re hoping you can help us find him. Before the unsub does.”

Sachs said to Cooper, “Call up the picture.”

“Security footage. Just after he got away.”

Ackroyd looked over the fuzzy image from the loading dock, squinting closely. “Early, mid-twenties. Not tall. Five six, eight. Slim. South Asian.”

“I’m thinking,” Rhyme said, “you’ll have to be discreet. Maybe not mention the initials, when you call. Just ask about protégés of Patel.”

The Englishman nodded. “Yes, of course, in case the suspect gets in touch with one of my contacts.”

“Another thing you should know,” Sachs said. “He just assaulted another engaged couple—in Gravesend. A neighborhood of Brooklyn.”

“Good Lord, he did?” Ackroyd asked, clearly surprised. “So soon after Weintraub? Are they dead?”

“No. They survived. Not badly injured.”