The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(52)

“Minor. Three point nine—that’s the Richter scale.” With a scientist’s combination of knowledge and na?veté, he methodically explained that the famous scale everyone knew about was in fact outmoded for measuring most earthquakes; it was used nowadays only for classifying minor tremors. “Anything larger than five is rated according to the MM, or moment magnitude, scale.”

She didn’t want to ask for more information because she knew he would oblige.

But continue he did anyway. “This magnitude is typical of what we see in the Northeast. The faults in the New York area aren’t as active or as well defined as in California, say. Or Mexico or Italy or Afghanistan. That’s the good news: Quakes are very infrequent. But the bad news is the nature of the geology here is that if there were to be a bad earthquake the damage would be much more serious and would travel much farther. Also, our buildings aren’t made to withstand it. San Francisco’s pretty earthquake-proof nowadays. But here? A quake that registered six on the MM scale in New York City—which isn’t all that powerful—could leave ten thousand people dead, twice that buried in the rubble. Whole neighborhoods would have to be shut down because the buildings would be too unstable.”

Buried in the rubble…

Sachs again forced away the arms of panic. Barely.

“Where was the epicenter?” she asked.

“Nearby,” McEllis said. “Very nearby.”

Schoal was staring over Area 7, whose gate was still open. They could see the plastic-bag-covered shafts. The supervisor was somber. Sachs recalled that the protesters were complaining about fracking. Maybe Schoal was thinking, despite his comments earlier, that possibly their drilling had caused the quake.

Or maybe it was just that he’d be concerned the tremor would give the protesters ammunition in attacking the project.

Sachs took another bottle of water from the medic and, with a smile of thanks, tilted her head back so she was staring at the sky. She emptied the bottle into her hair. He fed her four more and by the last one, it felt that most of the mud was gone.

Better. Mud-wise and panic-wise.

She was ready. She called Lincoln Rhyme.

“You hear?”

“About what?”

“The earthquake.”

“What earthquake?”

That answered the question.

“Shook up the city, half hour ago.”

“Really? Hm.” His tone said his mind was elsewhere. “You find anything at the jobsite?”

“I think so. I’ll be back soon. Going to stop by my place.”

“Why?”

“Want to clean up first.”

“Don’t bother with that. Who cares? Just come on in.”

She said nothing for a moment. He must have wondered about the pause. “I won’t be long.”

Sachs disconnected before he could protest further.





Chapter 25



Vimal’s childhood bedroom—also his present bedroom—was small, on the second floor of the modest home in this modest Queens neighborhood, Jackson Heights. This particular area was a largely Indian community.

It was a two-story, single-family brick structure, with small front and backyards, neither of which was any good for football, except to practice footwork.

He’d lived here, within these four very claustrophobic walls, for all of his life. At least he had it to himself now. He’d had to share the space with his brother for a few years until Dada, his grandfather, passed, and Sunny moved into the old man’s room.

Upon returning home from Dev Nouri’s, Vimal had taken a spot bath—washcloths only—not wanting to disturb the wound that Adeela had so carefully dressed. An examination of his torso revealed that she’d done a good job. There was no more bleeding and still no infection. Now, back in his bedroom, he toweled his legs and chest with one hand and, with the other, manned the remote. He was searching the news on the Samsung.

The murder was a prominent story but it was not the lead; that would be the earthquake that had shaken up Brooklyn and much of the rest of the city.

When the anchor got to the deaths of Mr. Patel and the engaged couple, he said there were some new details about the “daring” robbery, though Vimal wasn’t sure how much balls it took to walk into a largely deserted office building, kill three unarmed individuals and run out.

He wrapped the towel around his thin waist and watched the screen. The next bit of news stunned him.

Saul Weintraub, the assayer and evaluator Mr. Patel used from time to time, had been killed, as well. The police believed there was some connection between the four murders.

Vimal closed his eyes briefly in dismay and sat, heavily, on the edge of his bed.

So the killer—the Promisor—believed Mr. Weintraub had seen something Saturday morning, that he was a witness. Vimal recalled that Mr. Patel said he was meeting with the man sometime that weekend.

How had the killer found where Mr. Weintraub lived?

Vimal recalled the newscast of the press conference on Saturday afternoon, the police spokesman’s urging anyone with knowledge of the killing to come forward immediately.

And Vimal’s reading between the lines.

For their own safety…

How safe was he?

Vimal felt pretty secure, thinking again of his minimal connection with Mr. Patel: being paid in cash and keeping nothing personal in the shop to identify him. And trying to track Vimal down by scouring the Diamond District wouldn’t be very productive. Unlike in years past, there were few diamond merchants left in the old, musty office building at 58 West 47th. Only one or two cutters, two jewelry stores. And Vimal was sure that no one in the building or on the street would know who he was. He kept to himself, preferring to get home to his studio at the end of the day. And most of the diamantaires and others in the business who might know him were here in Jackson Heights, miles—and a river—away from the Manhattan Diamond District. Vimal had acquaintances who worked in the galleries of SoHo or NoHo, or were studying art where he so wanted to be: Parsons, or Pratt in Brooklyn. But he wasn’t close to any of them.