The Cutting Edge Page 8

  “‘Lincoln’ is fine. Really.”

  “Yes, Lincoln. Of course. Now, Mr. Croft has formally put my company on notice of the loss of the Grace-Cabot rough. Under the policy, if the stones are not recovered within thirty days, we will pay the insured value, nearly five million dollars. My company obviously would prefer to recover the gems within that thirty-day period. And I hope we shall. But if not and the claim is paid we would become subrogated. You are aware of that concept?”

  Mel Cooper offered, “I got hit by a runaway grocery cart when I was fifteen. Major stitches and a broken ankle.” His eyes remained on the computer screen. “Insurance company paid and then they sued the grocery store. They stepped into my shoes.”

  This digression grated and Rhyme glared. No one seemed to notice.

  “Exactly. And I’m sorry for your trouble.” Ackroyd seemed genuinely sympathetic.

  “It was a while ago.”

  “Under subrogation, after we pay the claim, Milbank, my company, would continue to try to recover the stolen goods, to sell them. Reimburse ourselves with the proceeds. So, clearly you and my company have a mutual interest in finding the diamonds. And, personally…” He was now speaking with a touch of anger. “…I would like to see the thief put away forever. Diamond heists have a gentlemanly quality. Violence of any sort is very rare. It’s not playing fair. And murder? Unimaginable. So I’ll help in any way I can. I’m at your service. And to that end I’ve found one thing that may be helpful.”

  A notebook appeared from his inside jacket pocket and his fingers, tipped with closely trimmed nails, flipped through it. “As soon as Mr. Croft called my boss and I was assigned the case I started making calls. A dealer who’s helped me out in the past, fellow in Amsterdam, said he had a call from a man in New York a few hours ago, offering some rough to sell. He said about fifteen carats total, which was about the Grace-Cabot weight. The dealer demurred—he wasn’t in a position to spend that much money—but he took the number anyway, possibly for the future. Here it is.”

  “Mel?” Rhyme asked.

  The tech jotted it down from the notebook Ackroyd displayed and made a phone call. He had a conversation with their specialist at the Computer Crimes Unit. Then Cooper was on hold for a moment. After another discussion he disconnected. “Whoever called your friend in Amsterdam used a burner phone with a New York mobile exchange that’s not active now. Could be destroyed or the batteries could be run down. They’ll keep it on the alert list if it goes live.”

  No probable cause for a warrant, Rhyme reflected. But if it was Unsub 47’s phone and he eventually turned it on they could possibly triangulate and pay him a visit.

  “Good. Appreciate that,” Sellitto said. “We were also wondering where the thief might try to fence the diamonds here. I was talking to some detectives and FBI agents who run stolen-jewelry cases—but most of them’re low-end and finished pieces. They don’t know anyone who could move five million worth of uncut diamonds.”

  Ackroyd said, “No, that’s quite the specialized market. I don’t know if Mr. Croft mentioned it but the thief took the rough because it would be much harder to trace. No serial number, as there would be on finished stones.”

  “Yes,” Rhyme said. “He told us that.”

  “Word has spread already about the theft, of course. Everyone in the business is aware of it. I have calls out to contacts here and overseas to let me know if anyone wants to sell the rough…or is looking for an underground cutter.”

  Rhyme said, “Croft said that was what he was most afraid of.”

  Ackroyd gave a reserved smile. “Mr. Croft…he is our client, of course, but I think even he would admit he gets a touch too attached to his products. You see, he’s part of the old school of diamond production. There’s a new trend called ‘branded’ diamonds, often cut with extra facets and in non-traditional sizes and depths. The manufacturers often do this to charge consumers more than the diamond is actually worth, claiming that the buyer is getting something unique—a special brand. But that’s spurious. The problem is that many of those companies don’t take into account the qualities that make diamonds great. Grace-Cabot would never do that. The rough they sent to Patel for cutting, well, those were going to be exceptional stones when finished. And, if they’re cut underground, they’ll end up in department stores and high street jewelers.”

  “These connections of yours?” Sachs asked. “Who are they?”

  “Oh, diamantaires, brokers, mining executives, jewelry retailers, precious metal and gemstone dealers, transport and security companies, investment companies too—diamonds, like gold, are hedge commodities. I don’t want to give the impression they’re all a wealth of information, though. Anyone in the trade tends to be distrustful of outsiders. As an insurer, I’ve worked hard to get one foot in the door, so to speak. I’ve made some headway over the years but even for me it’s an uphill battle, getting people to cooperate.”

  Rhyme recalled what Ron Pulaski had told him about the difficulties in finding merchants to aid in the search for the elusive VL. “We’re finding a lot of resistance to talking to our canvassing officers.”

  Ackroyd added, “And accentuating that natural reclusiveness, there’s the violence. I think people are simply afraid.”

  Box cutters will do that.

  “Well, it’s a pity the Amsterdam connection hit a roadblock. But the suspect may turn on his phone once again. We can hope. Now, I’ll keep making inquiries and will let you know what I find.”

  “If you would, sure,” Sellitto said. “Thanks.”

  Ackroyd took his coat from the rack where Thom had hung it and donned the garment. “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I must say at Milbank I have a pretty solid record of recovering the loot for my clients.” Another of his soft laughs. “Just occurred to me. ‘Loot’ comes from a Hindi word, lut. For ‘pillaged goods.’ And poor Jatin Patel—that was his ethnicity. Indian. Bit ironic, wouldn’t you say? Well then, I’ll keep in touch. Good evening.”

  * * *

  “And?” Rhyme asked.

  “Might be helpful,” Ron Pulaski said. “He’s the real deal.”

  Rhyme sighed at the expression. “Specifics would be good.”

  It had been an hour since Edward Ackroyd had left. Ron Pulaski had returned from his futile canvassing in the Diamond District, seeking leads to the witnesses S and VL and, of course, to Unsub 47 himself. Other officers were continuing the search.

  Pulaski, briefed about the insurance investigator, had been given the task of checking him out. He’d gone online and verified that Ackroyd’s company, Milbank Assurance, based in London, had offices in New York, San Francisco, Paris and Hong Kong. He’d also asked Fred Dellray, an FBI agent they sometimes worked with, to check with Scotland Yard. Yes, Edward Ackroyd had indeed made a name for himself as a detective in the burglary division before retiring from the force to join Milbank. Pulaski couldn’t verify that the company did insure Grace-Cabot—insurance coverage generally wasn’t public information—but Milbank advertised that its specialty was covering precious metal and gem companies, including mining operations.

  So, Ackroyd passed the test…and had provided information that might have been useful, and might still be—the Amsterdam dealer. But there was one reservation. Their missions coincided, yes, but only up to a point. Once the diamonds were recovered, Milbank and Grace-Cabot would immediately begin court proceedings to have the rough released from evidence. Rhyme and Sellitto would want them to remain in the custody of the NYPD until the conclusion of Unsub 47’s trial, which could be a while. And if the diamonds were recovered and their unsub was not collared, they would have to remain in evidence indefinitely. Neither the insurer nor the mining company would be pleased at that.

  But, allowing himself a fragment of a cliché, he thought: We’ll cross that bridge when.

  For now, the job was to find the killer and if the genteel Brit could help, Rhyme would set aside his reluctance for consultants (a prej
udice undiminished by the fact that he himself was one) and sign Ackroyd up.

  “Okay, question,” Sellitto said. “Our Englishman’s been vetted. We tell him about the kid in the loading dock and the bearded guy in the hallway, the one who showed up at Patel’s for the eleven o’clock?”

  They debated and in the end decided not to enlist Ackroyd’s help for that mission. Rhyme’s thinking was that while he was trustworthy, his contacts might intentionally, or more likely inadvertently, give away facts that Unsub 47 might learn.

  “But let’s get the kid’s picture out for canvassers,” Sachs said.

  Rhyme and the others huddled once more around the CCTV videos, and Cooper took screenshots of the young man who was possibly VL. Rhyme said, “Put them on the citywide wire but have Midtown North and South start a serious canvass. Tell them his initials’re probably VL, and that he’s young. Indian.”

  “Uhm. Think we should say South Asian,” Cooper corrected.

  Rhyme muttered, “List it as South Asian slash Indian. And if anybody complains, they can sue the gimp for political incorrectness.”

  Sunday, March 14

  II

  Cleaving

  Chapter 11

  His phone was humming. He didn’t recognize the number. But with a sigh and a sinking heart, he answered. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Saul Weintraub?”

  A hesitation. “Yes. Who’s this, please?”

  “NYPD Detective Amelia Sachs.”

  “Ah.”

  “Sir, did you meet with Jatin Patel on Forty-Seventh Street? Yesterday around eleven a.m.?”

  A broch…

  This was the last thing he’d wanted. Saul Weintraub had so hoped to stay under the radar. The forty-one-year-old stood in the tiny, musty living room of his house in Queens. A cluttered space, but comfortably so, filled with mismatched hand-me-downs from his parents’ home and pieces he and his wife had bought over the years. He gripped the phone hard. It was his landline. His heart began to beat fast and nausea churned.

  “I…” Can’t deny it. “Yes. I did.”

  “Do you know about his death?”

  “Yes, yes…How did you hear about me?”

  “We got your picture from a security camera in Mr. Patel’s building. We had officers on the street asking about you. A jewelry dealer recognized you.”

  A broch…

  The detective was going to be angry with him for not coming forward. But he just didn’t want to get involved. Too many risks—both for his reputation in the diamond business and physical risks from the psychotic robber who’d killed Patel and that poor couple.

  “I don’t know anything. I would have called right away if there was anything I could have said to help. I was gone long before it happened.”

  But the topic of intelligence didn’t interest her. “Now, Mr. Weintraub. This is important. We think the man who killed Mr. Patel knows your name.”

  “What?”

  “We think he hurt Mr. Patel to find out who you were. Have you seen anyone following you or anyone outside your house?”

  Hurt? “No, but…”

  But he hadn’t looked. Why would he? He now walked to the window and peered out onto the quiet Sunday-morning street. A boy on a bike. Mrs. Cavanaugh, bundled in her beige coat, and that little shit dog of hers.

  “I’m sending a car to your house. Just stay inside and keep the door locked. They’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “I will. But…I didn’t see anything at Jatin’s. I really didn’t.”

  “We think you may have seen the killer outside, on the street, before he went to Patel’s shop. In any event, it’s possible that he thinks that. We just want to make sure you’re okay. We’ll bring you in to look over some videotape.”

  “But how does he know where I live? Jatin didn’t know my home address. I didn’t know him well. I’ve evaluated some of his stones a half-dozen times. That’s our only connection. He’d know my office but not my home.”

  “Let’s hope that’s the case. But it might not be too hard to track you down. We’ll just play it cautiously. Don’t you think?”

  He sighed. “Sure. I suppose.”

  Weintraub shifted his weight from foot to foot. Floorboards creaked beneath the decades-old oriental rug that had been a wedding present from Cousin Morris. He thought briefly about his resolve to lose those fifteen pounds and then realized how trivial that mission seemed now.

  The woman said, “The theft was of some very valuable rough diamonds that had just been delivered from Grace-Cabot, the mining company. Did he mention them? Or that anyone might be interested in them?”

  “No, he didn’t say anything to me.”

  “We can go into this later but I want to ask now: A young Indian man, who might’ve worked with Patel, walked into the robbery, then got away. His initials are VL. Do you have any idea who that might be?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly. Like I was saying, I do a job for him every few months.”

  “That car should be there soon, Mr. Weintraub. Do you have a family?”

  “My wife’s visiting my daughter at college this weekend.”

  “I’d make plans to join them or, in any case, leave town for a bit.”

  “You think this man is really looking for me?”

  “We do, yes.”

  “Gotteniu.”

  “Keep the door locked.”

  They disconnected. In the quiet, Weintraub listened to the radiator sputter and hiss. A gaudy wall clock ticked.

  A broch…Hell and damnation.

  Weintraub had heard of the crime, of course. But hadn’t gotten many details, as the death had happened on Shabbat and his ability to follow the news was limited. Weintraub was religious and he was, in theory, Orthodox but he played a bit loose with the rule forbidding the thirty-nine types of “creating”—labors—on Shabbat. He hadn’t driven to Jatin Patel’s office but hadn’t walked either (Queens to Manhattan?); he’d taken the subway. A compromise. And at Patel’s, he’d walked up the stairs to the third floor, rather than take the elevator. Watching television was not specifically forbidden, though turning on electricity was and even leaving the set on over Friday night wasn’t good, since watching the nonsense of cable news fell into the prohibition against uvdin d’chol, mundane, weekday activity. He’d turned the set on well after sundown and learned the horrific news.

  Now Shabbat was over and he clicked on TV. The screen blossomed…with a commercial. Of course. Nothing about the crime.

  He pushed aside heavy, gold-colored drapes and peered outside once more.

  No bogeymen. No killers.

  Weintraub fetched his overcoat from the rack in the front hall. Ten minutes until the car was here. The area code for the phone of that nice woman officer—nice because she hadn’t yelled at him for his reticence—was Manhattan. Was that where her office was? And after the interview, where would he go then? His wife and daughter were at a college mom-daughter weekend. He could hardly go there. Didn’t want to, truth be told.

  Clenching and unclenching his hands, he thought: Ah, how sad! Jatin Patel. Gone. One of the best diamantaires in the world. The gems stolen must have been valuable—he only worked on the best diamonds—but killing for stones? That might happen in Africa, Russia, South America, yes. But not here.

  He reflected again that she seemed quite nice, Amanda, no Amelia. He couldn’t remember her last name but recalled it sounded German. It might have been Jewish. He wondered how old she was, if she was married. Weintraub’s twenty-eight-year-old son still had no wife.

  He sighed.

  His mobile hummed.

  Curious. It was the owner of the deli next to his office—about ten blocks away. He and the man were friends but rarely talked via phone.

  “Ari. What, is all well?”

  “Saul. Just thought you should know. A man was in, having some coffee, and he asked about you. He seemed nice enough. He asked if you were the Weintraub that lived on Ditmars Court. Jenny told hi
m yes. She just told me.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a half hour ago.”

  Weintraub’s thoughts leapt quickly: Patel tells the killer my name and my business address—not knowing my home. The killer starts asking about me around my shop, armed with a list of Saul Weintraubs in and around Long Island City. At the deli he asks the counter girl if the Weintraub who owned the shop is the one who lives on Ditmars Court. He’s a friend, he says. And Jenny says, yes.

  Fucking Internet.

  A broch…

  “I have to go.” He disconnected and summoned the keypad on his phone.

  Before he could dial 911, though, a figure stepped forward fast, from behind him, spun him around and ripped the phone from his hand. Weintraub gave a cry of shock and fear. The man’s face was obscured by a ski mask. Weintraub thought: basement window, back bathroom window. He never locked windows the way he should.

  “No, no, please! I didn’t say anything to them! I promise. I didn’t see anything, I’m not a threat!” His heart slammed in his chest.

  The intruder glanced at the screen and slipped the phone into his pocket.

  Weintraub said desperately, “Please. I can get you diamonds, gold. Whatever you want! Please! I have a wife, a daughter. Please.”

  The man held up one finger to his own lips, shushing him the way he might a babbling child.

  Chapter 12

  One of the kur from yesterday morning’s excitement at Jatin Patel’s shop was dead and gone.

  Saul Weintraub.

  Goodbye. May your Jew God embrace your soul. Or burn you in hell. Or send you wherever. Vladimir Rostov hadn’t been old enough to sample the Soviet Union firsthand but his study of history told him he would have fit right in with USSR state atheism. He didn’t believe in second acts for the soul.