The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(59)

Coughing fiercely, consumed by pain from chest to temple, Judith Morgan struggled down the corridor and then up the stairs, heading for the Kieslowski apartment on the second floor.

Praying they had not gone out but were sitting on their lumpy sofa in front of the TV, with takeout, catching up on the twisted plottings of the House Lannister and the House Stark.





Chapter 28



Another attack.

At eight p.m. Rhyme was listening to a detective from the 19, on the Upper East Side.

“Yessir, Captain,” the man told him. “That same perp’s been in the news. Vic’s okay, she’ll live. But—can you believe this one?—he made her swallow her engagement ring. She’s in surgery now.”

“Scene’s secure?”

“Yessir. We’ve called the CS bus from Queens but since you’re the task force on this one, thought you might want to send one of your people.”

“We will. Have the techs wait outside the scene. Address?”

Rhyme memorized it. “Canvass?” he then asked.

“Five blocks all around. And counting. Nothing. And best the vic could say was white male, blue eyes, ski mask, knife and handgun. Or she nodded in response to my questions. Weird accent she couldn’t figure out. All I could get. We only had a few minutes ’fore they got her to the hospital.”

Rhyme thanked him. Then he disconnected and called Ron Pulaski.

“Lincoln.”

“We’ve got another scene. Upper East Side.”

“I heard some squawk on the radio. Was it our boy?”

“Yep.”

“The vic’s okay, I heard.”

“Alive. I don’t know about okay.” What did swallowing a sharp piece of jewelry do to you? Rhyme gave the younger officer the address. “The bus is on its way. I need you to walk the grid and get back here with whatever you can find ASAP. There’ll be uniforms and a detective from the One-Nine there. Find out what hospital the vic’s in and interview her. And take a pad and pen for the vic to write with. She can’t talk.”

“She…what?”

“Move, Rookie.”

They disconnected.

The doorbell to the town house sounded and Thom answered it, returning a moment later with the insurance investigator Edward Ackroyd, who nodded, almost formally, to Rhyme and Cooper.

The aide took the man’s greatcoat—no, Rhyme thought, changing his opinion of the garment once more. It should be called a mackintosh.

“Another cappuccino?” Thom asked.

“Don’t mind if I do, actually.”

“No, no, no,” Rhyme said fast. “A single-malt.”

“Well…now that you mention it, I will do. Save the coffee for another time.”

Thom poured the drinks, pitifully small. Both Rhyme and Ackroyd added just a hint of water to the glass.

“Glenmorangie,” Ackroyd said, after sipping. He pronounced it correctly, emphasis on the second syllable. He held up the glass and eyed the amber liquid as if in a commercial. “Highlands. You know there is a difference in taste between lowland whisky and highland, subtle and I’m not sure I could detect it. However, there are many more highland distilleries than low. Do you know why?”

“No idea.”

“It’s not because of the peat or the process but because the Scottish distilleries kept moving north to escape the English excise tax. Or that’s what I’ve heard.”

Rhyme tucked the trivia away, tilted the glass toward the Englishman and sipped the smoky liquor.

Ackroyd took a seat, with that perfect posture of his, in one of the wicker chairs not far from Rhyme.

He told the Brit about the new attack.

“No! Swallowed her engagement ring? Good heavens. How is she?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“And payback for buying a cut stone? My, this man’s barking mad.” His face seemed bewildered. Then he added, “Now, let me tell you a few things I’ve found. I did hear back from my friend in Amsterdam. You recall?”

The dealer who’d received a call from an anonymous number about selling some rough. A nod.

“The seller in New York, with the fifteen carats? He called Willem back. He’s legitimate. A diamond broker from Jerusalem. He was in New York and bought a phone at the airport. Didn’t want to use the minutes on his personal phone. So, dead end there. Now, I’ve talked to scores of diamantaires and nobody has heard any inkling of selling the Grace-Cabot rough or rumors of a major underground cut going on. It’s absurd but I suppose he really must believe he’s saving the stone from the dire fate of being cut into jewelry.

“But, more to the point: About an hour ago I was making calls to dealers and some other people I know, asking about Patel’s assistant? Well, one of them, in Brooklyn, told me that it was curious: Someone else had called him earlier today, asking about an associate or assistant who worked for Patel. Initials VL. The dealer couldn’t help him and they hung up.”

Rhyme lowered his scotch and looked Ackroyd’s way. “He didn’t identify himself, of course.”

“No. And, naturally, it was from a blocked number. But here’s the important news: The dealer is Russian, and he recognized the caller’s accent. He’s Russian too. And almost certainly born there and learned English at school in Russia. He worked that out from some of the constructions and choices of words. Probably a Muscovite, or nearby. And he’s come here recently. He didn’t know the word ‘borough’ or that Brooklyn and Queens were part of New York City. He thought the city was only Manhattan.”