The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(93)

“Why? I—”

“Now!” the older sister commanded.

Taalia’s round face—darker than Adeela’s—nodded slowly, eyes filled with fear. She was looking at the knife.

Holding the girl’s hand, Adeela sped out the back door and into the garage.

There, Vimal was looking out the window. He said, “I hear sirens. What’s that—” He stopped speaking as he turned and saw the blade and Taalia in tears.

Adeela raged in a whisper, “He was here. That man was here.”

“That man?”

She spat out, “You know who I mean!”

“No! Where is he?”

“He drove off. I called the police.”

“Are you all right?”

In an even softer, even angrier voice, she said, “After a knife fight, yeah. I’m great.”

“What?” He stared.

She glanced out the window—to make sure the intruder hadn’t circled back.

“We have to go. Get away. Now. We’ll drive to Westchester. You come with me for now, drop me at a train station.”

“No,” she said.

“Yes, get in the car. Please. Hey, Taal, want to go for a drive?” He had forced a smile on his face.

Taalia stepped behind her sister, wiping her tears. “What’s going on?”

“It’s okay,” Vimal said kindly.

“No, it’s not okay,” Adeela whispered.

Vimal opened the garage door, looked out.

“It’s clear,” he said, dropping into the driver’s seat of the car. “Get in. Get your phone and purse.” Nodding toward the workbench. “We’ll call the police and your parents on the way.”

“No,” she whispered.

“I have to go! I don’t want to leave you here.”

She gave him a soft smile. She walked to the window. And bent down.

He said, “You’re not coming?”

“No.”

She leaned forward and kissed him.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” she said.

And plunged the knife into the car’s front tire, which gave a slight shudder and hiss and then settled down to the rim.





Chapter 47



Vimal Lahori was in protective custody. Finally.

The Promisor, aka Unsub 47, had learned the address of his girlfriend and had gone there to, apparently, torture her into giving up the boy’s whereabouts. But the young woman had had the presence of mind—and grit—to summon police and fight him off.

In his parlor, Rhyme was learning these details from Amelia Sachs, who was relaying the conversation she’d had with the young man in an NYPD safe house on Staten Island.

Sachs added that the officers arriving on the scene moments later had radioed for assistance in locating the man’s car—a red Toyota, model unknown—and then detained Vimal.

The young man was sullen but cooperative, Sachs reported. She’d interviewed him in the Staten Island safe house where she’d stashed him. He couldn’t, however, provide any helpful additional insights. He explained that his failure to come forward had been out of fear, though Rhyme suspected it had also to do with the soap opera drama of his family life, as Sachs had suggested. He’d too had in his pocket, Sachs had reported, some chunks of stone—the kimberlite, it appeared. They had bits of crystals, possibly diamonds, in them, and Rhyme wondered if it was some of Patel’s inventory that he’d kept for himself. The fact he’d taken the stones that weren’t his would also have made him reluctant to go to the police.

As for the day of the killing on 47th Street, he’d returned from running an errand for Mr. Patel when he walked in on the horrible scene. He’d called 911 and told them what he’d seen.

She added that Vimal knew nothing of the rough that was stolen, nor had there been any discussions with his mentor, Patel, about recent security issues. The man never mentioned to his protégé concerns about anyone casing the place or unusual calls. There’d been no drop-in customers who might be inquiring about diamonds but who seemed more interested in cameras or guards. Patel had never, as far as Vimal knew, had any rivalries in the business that might give rise to such violence. While Vimal didn’t know for certain, it was ludicrous that Patel had had any connection to organized crime or had borrowed money from a loan shark.

In answer to Sachs’s question, Vimal confirmed what they’d deduced: He was an amateur sculptor, hoping to make it big in the art world. This explained the other trace found at the scene: the jade and lapis.

A search of Adeela’s house for evidence shed by Unsub 47 during his home invasion revealed nothing. Nor had there been any sightings of the red Toyota.

Other inquiries, to use Edward Ackroyd’s charming Scotland Yard word, were not proving successful either. A check of hotel registrations revealed no guests under the name of Dobyns, nor any of the other aliases the AIS had discovered that Unsub 47 had used.

Homeland Security and the bureau had continued to check out terrorist threats—of which there were plenty but none involving C4 or lehabah devices smuggled into the country, fake earthquakes in downtown Brooklyn or fires nearby.

A systematic search for future targets—wood-based apartments and buildings within a half mile of the drilling site—revealed no lehabahs on the gas lines.