The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(88)

While he’d been talking to the detective in Brooklyn, Lon Sellitto had called.

Rhyme now called him back at One Police Plaza and hit Speakerphone.

“Got some news. Vimal sent his phone on a bus ride. Trooper tracked it down in Pennsylvania. Slipped it into the bag of some girl. So he’s back to being MIA. Damn smart kid.”

“Well.” Rhyme sighed. Smart indeed.

Sachs said, “He’s got a two-hour head start, wherever he’s going to. He’ll take Amtrak or public transit to Jersey, get to a smaller Greyhound station there. Or Westchester.”

Rhyme told him about the conversation with Mulbry. He had Cooper email the names of the four passports they suspected the unsub had used to travel here.

“K, Linc. I’ll order a canvass of hotels.”

Rhyme reminded him that their spy believed the unsub would have yet another identification, though.

Sellitto said, “Yeah, I’d guess. But we gotta do it.”

“Now, you’ll find this interesting, Lon.” Rhyme reported on the explosives that Mulbry had learned of.

“Israeli intelligence gas bombs? Fuck me.”

“Daryl’s still doing some looking.”

Sellitto said, “Well, one thing you should know, Linc: ESU and Bomb Squad talked to the mayor’s office. They decided not to send robots down the shafts at the geothermal site to try to render safe, but rather to just put bomb curtains over the openings. They think another explosion’ll at least give people in the vicinity ten minutes’ warning to evacuate. And the fire department’s sent extra trucks and crews to stage around the geothermal site—since it’s the hub of the attacks. If there’s another detonation, they’ll be ready to go at the first report of a fire. And…”

Silence.

“Lon?”

“Fucking hell,” the lieutenant muttered.

“What is it?”

“Just saw on the wire: Forty-Seven got another vic.”

Sachs asked, “Engaged couple?”

“No.” A pause, while Sellitto presumably read. “But it’s related. Somehow. Got to be. The vic was Kirtan Boshi. About Vimal’s age, Indian. Worked in the diamond business. An apprentice cutter. Just like Vimal. Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Circumstances?” Sachs asked.

“Basement of a coffee shop in the Fashion District. About a block from where he worked.” Sellitto paused. “Some employees just found the body but looks like he was killed around lunchtime today. Son of a bitch broke his windpipe. Killed him with the box cutter.”

“Kirtan was probably a friend of Vimal’s and knew where he lived. He probably gave the address up.”

“Yeah. He’d been tortured. A mess. And the unsub cut Kirtan’s ring finger off and put it in his mouth. Postmortem, but still.”

“Goddamn it,” Sachs muttered.

Rhyme looked her way.

“We canvassed for anybody who knew Vimal in every store in the Diamond District, Jackson Heights, other parts of Queens and Brooklyn. Never occurred to me to look for diamond cutters in the Fashion District. But Forty-Seven did. He outthought me.”

Us, Rhyme corrected silently. He outthought us. But he knew the words would mean little to her. Any failing to which she contributed, however small her part, she owned.

Sellitto said, “He’s got the Lahoris’ address now and he doesn’t know the boy’s on the run. Amelia, tell your security team at their house to stay out of sight and expect Forty-Seven might show up.”

“I will,” Sachs said. “Though I think he’s too smart to fall into a trap like that.” She sighed. “I’ll walk the grid at the coffee shop.”

Sellitto gave her the address and she hurried from the parlor, tugging her jacket on absently. A moment later Rhyme heard the engine of her big car fire up and a squeal as the tires slung her into traffic.

His eyes drifted toward the sounds out the window, gazing over the dun dusk.

So Unsub 47 had spent all day, last week, planting gas bombs meant to mimic the fires after earthquakes. Presumably more existed, and announcing that the authorities knew the quakes were being faked wouldn’t change the fact that they were timed to explode.

And even if his plans were now exposed, Unsub 47 would have no incentive whatsoever to remove the devices or let the police know where they were.





Chapter 44



The Promisor’s backup plan.

Vladimir Rostov steered the stolen Toyota carefully along the streets of Queens. East Elmhurst to be specific.

Somewhat carefully. He was used to driving in Moscow, where one didn’t need to be very careful; the congestion left little risk of high-speed collisions.

Here, though, the weaving was due to the fact he was digging beneath the passenger seat, as best he could. Making a sharp turn had catapulted his Roll N Roaster beef sandwich to the space between front passenger seat and door.

Where, where the hell, where?

Ah, he got a corner of the bag and pulled it out, ripped the paper apart with his teeth and began chewing the cold, but still tasty, sandwich.

Why the fuck don’t we have these in Moscow?

In three minutes the sandwich and fries were consumed. He belched and lit a cigarette. He noted that in America very few people smoked in cars any longer, unlike Russia. Of course, when he was through finding Vimal, the little kuritsa, and he was done with the car, he’d make sure it did plenty of smoking. This was a joke: The only way to get rid of the evidence in a vehicle was to burn it to the rims—which was, in fact, the source of an expression used in certain criminal circles in Russian. “Rim it,” a mob boss might say. Usually the automobile flambé contained merely evidence. Sometimes, a corpse. Sometimes, depending on your playful mood, the person might not yet be a corpse when you tied them up inside and set the gas tank ablazing.