The Cutting Edge Page 9

  Now, one gone. One more kuritsa to go: the skinny boy. Rostov was impatiently awaiting word from his little sniffy-cryee Persian friend Nashim, who had better be spending the Day of Rest making calls to his Indian counterparts in the diamond world.

  Thinking of those daughters of his: Scheherazade and Kitten.

  Pretty girls.

  Vladimir Rostov was presently refueling. His residence was in Brighton Beach, the Russian enclave of Brooklyn, but he was in neighboring Sheepshead. He was sitting in what had become one of his favorite restaurants in the world. The famed Roll N Roaster, a landmark in Brooklyn. It was a neighborhood “joint”—a term he’d heard somebody use but that he didn’t quite get, English not being his first language. After he looked the word up, though, it made perfect sense. The man felt right at home in a joint. Especially this one, which served up magnificent roast beef sandwiches—with cheese, always cheese—and Coca-Cola better than in Moscow, no doubt on this.

  His only regret was that one could not smoke in the Roll N Roaster, which would have made a meal here an exquisite experience.

  A mother with two small boys walked past—the kids, like him, were crowned with blond crew cuts and had broad faces. They stared at his meal, maybe marveling at the quantity. Two and a half sandwiches were sitting before him, a mountain of fries.

  Since they were near Little Odessa, the Russian émigré community, Rostov said to them, “Zdravstvuyte.”

  The boys stared blankly with steel-blue gazes, also matching his. The mother nodded, a faint smile on her overly powdered Slavic face. “Khoroshego dnya.”

  Rostov’s eyes dipped from face to crotch then, as she passed, to ass. She wore a short red jacket and tight black skirt—and he watched her hips sway as she walked out. Rostov debated but decided there was no reasonable scenario that would let his momentary fantasy come to life. Forcing himself on a mother with children in tow could have only bad consequences.

  In his appetite for women, like in his appetite for beef (and most other things, for that matter, diamonds among them), he walked a tightrope.

  Gone to the stone…

  Which sounded better in Russian than in English.

  He had his parents to thank for the phrase—and the condition itself, which Rostov equated with a form of controlled madness.

  It had all begun with his father. One night—not an ounce of vodka in him!—the man had stabbed his wife, Rostov’s mother (though only in the face and only with a screwdriver, so hardly a problem). Then he’d stripped his clothes off and run into a nearby forest, where he spent the night, apparently chasing nocturnal animals and howling. At dawn, he’d used a rock to chip away the ice that had formed around him in the stream he’d fallen asleep in and returned home. After forgiving her for the affair, his father began to methodically negotiate the divorce with his soon-to-be-ex. The discussion included a number of real estate, financial and insurance details—but not a word about where little Vladimir would go; the boy had always been an afterthought, at best.

  They decided that he would temporarily live with Uncle Gregor and Aunt Ro.

  So the twelve-year-old packed a suitcase, not even a wheelie but one you had to heft, and shopping bag and boarded a plane for the picturesque town of Mirny, Russia.

  If ever there was a place for a boy to go to the stone, it was Mirny.

  Rostov lifted the rest of the sandwich, chewed it down in just a few bites, then vanquished another. Returning to the laptop, which was online, he scrolled. He lived on the device. He watched porn, played games, sent emails, hacked (he was Russian, of course)…and followed the news.

  This is what he was doing presently, while he chewed and chewed and tried not to think about the Slavic mother’s hips. He read several accounts of the incident at poor Mr. Patel’s.

  Nothing new. Nothing to concern him. And so far, Saul Weintraub’s killing had not been connected to the events at Patel Designs, not by the press, that is, though the police would know. Weintraub’s murder, in fact, didn’t take up much space, none in the national news. It was the “Massacre on 47th Street” (the New York Post’s term) that captured everyone’s attention.

  The suspect was a white male, medium build, in dark clothing, stocking cap.

  Hm. Won’t find many of those in New York.

  Last sandwich down. Ah…

  He turned his attention back to online newspapers and the police’s statements to the public. They gave some details but not too many. Nothing about the second kuritsa, initials VL on Patel’s calendar.

  He threw a napkin over his face and stifled a racking bout of coughing. Breathing in, out. Slowly. The urge subsided. He now switched windows to the streaming site of a major cable network and tapped an earbud in, raised the volume. Nothing about the crime for the duration of one Coke and about a dozen fries. Then a segment on the murder and robbery came on, moderated by the network’s “Senior Crime Correspondent,” a job description that amused Rostov no end since she was all of thirty years old.

  The blonde (and a very appealing one she was) sat in the studio, remotely interviewing a slim, middle-aged man in a crisp suit jacket, white shirt and tie. His head was adorned with neatly trimmed hair.

  “Joining us now is Dr. Arnold Moore, a psychologist at Cumberland University in Ohio specializing in criminal behavior. Welcome, Doctor. Now, according to police, the robber who forced his way into the jewelry store on Forty-Seventh Street yesterday took some diamonds but left hundreds of thousands of dollars’ more. Is it unusual for a robber to leave such valuable loot behind, like that?”

  “Thank you, Cindi. So, professional thieves who target high-end jewelry stores and factories like Mr. Patel’s are the best of the best. No one would attempt a brazen robbery like this without maximizing their return. That means taking with them every diamond he could lay his hands on.”

  “‘Maximizing return.’ You’re saying, then, that robbery, well, it’s a business?”

  Cindi sounded a bit aghast. Rostov liked her boobs, prominent in a yellow dress, though diminished somewhat by a heavy necklace of wooden disks. Why that accessory? he wondered, then turned his attention back.

  “Exactly, Cindi. And this wasn’t what you might call a typical ‘transaction.’”

  Air quotes around the word, of course. Rostov quite disliked this man.

  “That’s why I think we’re dealing with something else here, some other motive.”

  “What do you think that could be?” dear Cindi asked.

  “I couldn’t speculate. Maybe he had a separate reason to kill the diamond cutter and took some of the gems to make the police think it was just a robbery.”

  But isn’t that speculating, Doctor? Rostov thought. Hack.

  Cindi jumped in. “Or are you saying maybe the couple was the target? That would be William Sloane and Anna Markam, of Great Neck, New York.”

  Pictures of them, smiling, appeared briefly on the screen. Rostov washed a mouthful of fries down with Coke.

  “That’s a possibility, Cindi. But from what I’ve heard, there was no motive for their deaths. No criminal connections. It appeared they were just bystanders. But you’re right, the killer may have picked them on purpose.”

  Rostov enjoyed the way they kicked back and forth “are you saying” and “you’re right” like soldiers lobbing hand grenades. Wanting to make sure the other was responsible for the irresponsible speculation.

  “A young couple like that. Any thoughts on why?”

  “They were there to pick up their engagement ring. We don’t know if their killer knew that but then he could have figured it out.”

  “He’s targeting engaged couples?”

  Hand grenade away.

  “All I can say is in my practice I’ve found it’s not uncommon for psychopathic killers to harbor resentment against those who have what they don’t.”

  Successfully dodged.

  “You’re thinking maybe he was jilted, left at the altar. Or he suffered because his parents had a dif
ficult marriage.”

  The doctor smiled patiently. “Well, we’d really have to learn more. But it is clear that this doesn’t fit the mold for professional diamond larceny.”

  A commercial popped up. Rostov tapped the newscast off and sent his Dell to sleep.

  He mopped up ketchup with the last of the fries, and—some balance still remaining—used his fingers for the rest of the condiment. After licking, he cleaned the digits by dunking them in his water glass and drying them with a napkin. He rose and bought several more sandwiches, these to go—so he could both eat and smoke, like normal people did (his sole gripe with Putin was that he had banned smoking in much of the dear Motherland). Rostov paid and stepped out into the cool gray March morning.

  Well, Doctor, you are the fucking clever fellow, aren’t you?

  We’d like to come visit, my box cutter and me.

  Rostov had an image of the pitch and duration of the squealing sounds the doctor might make when he took the razor blade to the bony man’s fingers or ears. But like the sweaty bout of sex with the mother whose hips swayed à la an amusement park ride, this was pure imagination.

  Coughing gently, Rostov walked steadily down the untidy sidewalk, alternating between bits of the heavenly sandwich and drags on his pungent Russian cigarette. Unable to decide which was the more delicious.

  Chapter 13

  Dismayed at the sight, Amelia Sachs pulled her Torino to the curb on this quiet street in Long Island City, tossed the NYPD sign onto the dash and climbed out.

  Four blue-and-whites were there. One unmarked. And an ambulance. Which was now unnecessary, as the polyvinyl tarp covering the body in the front hallway explained.

  The body of Saul Weintraub.

  Her first thought: What could they have done differently to save his life?

  No answers came to her.

  The killer would have spent his time since the killing in Midtown tracking down Weintraub. His canvassing had been just a bit better than theirs. The instant they’d learned his name, she’d called. Lock the doors. Don’t let any strangers in. And the local precinct, the 114, had gotten a car there as fast as they could.

  That Weintraub himself should have called them the minute he learned of Patel’s death wasn’t a factor. No cop can blame potential witnesses for duck-and-cover.

  Her phone hummed. Rhyme.

  “I’m here,” she said.

  “Got something interesting, Sachs. Text from a burner phone, now dead, of course. It went to a half-dozen TV and radio stations in the area. It’s all over the news. I just sent it.”

  She minimized the phone screen and went to texts.

  The concept of engagement is based on a binding promise to wed by the man to his betrothed. Now I have promise too. I am looking for YOU, I am looking every where. Buy ring, put on pretty finger but I will find you and you will bleed for your love.

  —The Promisor

  “Jesus, Rhyme. You think it’s Forty-Seven? Or just a copycat?”

  “I don’t know. I’m having somebody from downtown, a linguist, look at it. Not that’ll tell us much, I think. My gut says it’s from him. But you know how much I trust that. Well, run the scene there and we’ll talk more when you’re back.”

  She started toward the home, a modest row house, painted white, in need of more paint, and windowsills lined with empty brown flower boxes, like droopy lower eyelids. Instinctively, she tapped her Glock—the Gen4 FS—to orient herself to the weapon’s exact position. There was a large crowd. It wasn’t impossible for Unsub 47 to be among them—here to learn of the police’s progress. Sachs eyed those on the street—fifty or sixty people—and the TV stations’ vans. Was the unsub among the spectators? Street Crime officers were canvassing. If anybody seemed suspicious or left quickly, they’d pursue the lead. Still, she suspected that the man’s business was completed and he’d fled after the murder. A shooting this time, she’d learned. No knife work. The victim had, however, been beaten.

  “Hey, Amelia.”

  She nodded to Ben Kohl, a gold shield out of the 114. He asked, “So how come you guys’re involved?”

  Sachs explained to the detective, a lean balding man in his mid-fifties, “A wit in the killing at the diamond shop, Four-Seven Street yesterday.”

  “Oh, that. Jesus. How’d the perp find him? They know each other?”

  “We don’t know. How’d you hear?”

  “Gunshots reported.”

  “Anybody see anything? Get a description?”

  “Maybe. But nobody’s talking. We’ve been canvassing but we got nothing so far. I mean, we’ll handle it out of our house, you want. But Major Cases want to take it?”

  Hope blossomed in his voice.

  “If I can borrow some of your people for the canvass. You mind?”

  “Mind?” Kohl laughed. “I’m taking the wife out for our anniversary tonight. All yours. I’ll get you three, four uniforms to help out. Just keep our Homicide crew in the loop. This one’ll show up as our stat and we’ll need to report it out. You understand.”

  “Sure.”

  Sachs walked close to the scene to make sure it remained clear and to await the Crime Scene bus, so she could get to work.

  * * *

  Mikey O’Brien had a plan and he was unwrapping it in his mind right now.

  After the wedding they’d stay in the neighborhood for one year. That was it. Three hundred sixty-five days. Less, if possible. But definitely no more than. By then he’d be a senior floor manager (okay, teller) at the bank and be making close to 45K. Emma would be getting thirty from the hospital, more if she worked nights. Enough for a down payment in eastern Nassau somewhere.

  Close enough to the in-laws (both sets) to visit. But not too close.

  The slim redheaded man, twenty-six, strode with hope and a hint of cockiness down Avenue U. Past the tanning salon, the Progressive Medical Center, the deli, the meat market, the pharmacy. Signs in Greek, signs in Italian.

  Nothing wrong with this neighborhood, Gravesend. But, it was a place to leave, not a place to stay.

  For him at least. Michael P. O’Brien, future district manager of Brooklyn Federal Bank, had places to go.

  Another block and he saw her, waiting on the street corner. After errands this morning they’d planned to rendezvous here then proceed to their apartment (the temporary apartment—one year, no more, he reminded himself firmly).

  He smiled at the sight. Emma Sanders, blond, with stunning green eyes, was beautiful, an inch taller than he was, and round where a woman should be round—perfect for having, and making, babies. He smiled to himself as he thought this. There would be three children. Among the names to pick and choose from: Michael III, Edward, Anthony, Meghan, Ellie, Michaela. Emma had signed off on these.

  Mikey O’Brien was a happy man.

  “Hey, sweet.” They kissed. She smelled of flowers.

  He assumed the scent was flowers. That was a subject he wasn’t familiar with—no gardening in his genes. But it seemed to be floral. On the other hand, he was soon to be very familiar with the subject. The groom’s side was helping contribute to the wedding expenses, and his family—that is, Mikey himself—was picking up the florist’s bill.

  “How’d it go?” he asked her.

  They continued walking in the direction he’d been heading—toward the apartment.

  “Oh, honey. She’s great. Totally great. She’s not trying to talk us into anything we don’t want. I thought she was going to and I was going to sic my big, bad Mikey on her. But, uh-uh, she knows the budget—”

  Already a shitload of money, Mikey thought but didn’t come close to saying.

  “—and is sticking to it. I mean, Nora’s planner talked her into the eight-piece band, remember.”

  Friggin’ orchestra.

  “But Stacey didn’t push me. She’s cool with a keyboard, guitarist, bass and drums.”

  Had he agreed to a four-piece band? Joey got married with a DJ was all. Worked out great.

&nb
sp; Again, keeping mum.

  In truth, Mikey O’Brien wasn’t even sure why they needed a wedding planner. Wasn’t that something you could figure out yourself? He’d put together bachelor parties. And a wake. They’d all gone fine.

  But Emma wanted one—because her sister had had one and Nora, her BFF from the hospital, had had one. So, honey, Mikey, pleeeeease.

  Oh, hell, sure. She was so beautiful…

  Emma slipped her arm through his and they continued through this interesting neighborhood, where commercial and residential coexisted peacefully. Two blocks farther along, they turned the corner and started toward their apartment. He felt her breast against his biceps.

  That low urge unfurled within him, demanding attention, like a horse hoofing the ground.

  Maybe just a half hour…the bedroom, the couch? The living room floor? Nope, he said to himself. No time. They had to get ready to meet her parents out on Long Island.

  The wind shook branches overhead and speckled the couple with icy water. Mikey brushed it off his shoulders and happened to look back. He noted someone behind, about thirty feet away, in dark coat, gloves and stocking cap. Gravesend, despite the name, wasn’t particularly dangerous. But this was New York. You had to keep an eye out. This guy, though, was by himself, no gang action. He was looking down at the screen of his phone as he walked. Innocent as could be.

  Soon they were home. The block was a little scuffed, a little worn, in need of a sidewalk sweeping and repair and couldn’t the damn super at 368 get that moldy green couch off the effing sidewalk until trash day?

  But it was a pleasant enough place.

  Good for a year.

  The plan.

  They climbed the five steps to the front door of their building, a dark, scabby four-story walk-up brownstone. Here, they paused, as he fished for keys. He felt Emma tug him closer, with a certain, unmissable message. He turned and they kissed again, lingering. Okay, the horse was done hoofing; he was out, trotting through the fields.

  The wedding was two weeks from today. Who—aside from his mother—would note that a baby was born exactly eight months and fifteen days after?