The Cutting Edge

by Jeffery Deaver

  In his mind’s eye he was seeing Mr. Patel’s feet once more. He pressed his lids together tightly, as if that would make the image go away, but it only grew more vivid. More horrific.

  He began to cry and he sobbed silently, turning his back to the crowd. Finally he controlled the tears, dabbed his face and inhaled deeply.

  Then a thought came to him; he remembered something else about the killer. The man had had that attaché case. An old-fashioned one, the sort you didn’t see very much anymore. He had been carrying it as he walked into the front room from the workshop when he saw Vimal. The case, he now reflected, might be the reason he was still alive. The robber had been carrying it in his right hand. He’d had to drop it and pull his gun from his pocket, which gave Vimal a moment—purely a reaction—to turn and raise his hands. When the man fired, the bullet had struck the rocks, not his chest.

  A man with a briefcase would be distinctive. Vimal would call 911 once more and let them know. Officers throughout Midtown could look for him.

  He rose and walked toward a pay phone. He knew that as soon as he called, somebody in the NYPD would radio officers here—there were a half dozen that he could see—and report that somebody who knew about the crime was in the Port Authority. He’d have to leave immediately after he hung up.

  It was then that he felt, more than saw, somebody approaching.

  He turned and observed a man of about thirty-five in a dark raincoat, walking toward him and looking from right to left as he made his way through the foot traffic flowing through the Port Authority hallways. Same height and build as the killer. Somber-faced.

  The killer had been in a jacket, hadn’t he?

  This man had no briefcase.

  But a smart thief would have ditched the clothes he wore at the scene of the crime.

  Or, hell! What if there were two of them? This was…what did they say? The backup.

  In any event, this guy was definitely coming his way. He held something small and dark in his hand. It wouldn’t be the gun; he wouldn’t dare shoot here. It would be the knife he’d used to slash that couple and Mr. Patel to death.

  Vimal looked for the police. The closest were about two hundred feet away and the man was between them and Vimal.

  Besides, the police were the last thing he wanted.

  Go! Get away!

  He turned and moved fast down the nearest corridor, which was lined with luggage lockers. The pain in his chest and side swelled but he ignored it and kept moving fast.

  A T-shaped intersection of passageways was ahead. Left or right? More light from the right one. He slipped around the corner.

  Mistake. It was a dead end, continuing for only ten feet and ending at a door on which was stenciled: Electrical. Maintenance Only. No Entry.

  Try it!

  Locked. He saw the shadow of the man as he approached.

  I’m going to die, he thought.

  Into his mind came not the image of his mother’s face, or his brother’s. Not the six-carat marquis-cut diamond that he’d completed last week and that Mr. Patel had pronounced as “quite acceptable”—his highest praise.

  No, in what was likely to be his last moment on earth Vimal thought of a piece of granite sitting in his studio: a four-sided pyramid. Rich green, with striations of black and just a hint of gold. He pictured every centimeter of it.

  The man paused in the intersection and squinted toward him.

  Then Vimal thought: No. He took a deep breath and walked forward, standing as tall as he could. He wasn’t going to cower. He was going to fight.

  Vimal wasn’t a large man but his passion was stone and rock; he hefted it and he cut and cracked and smoothed it. His tools were heavy. Sometimes he held a large stone at arm’s length, willing the piece to tell him what its soul was so that he could set it free.

  These ample muscles now grew taut and he withdrew from his pocket a weapon of his own: the largest rock, the January bird, that had been in the bag when this man—or his associate—had shot him. He kept it hidden behind his back.

  Vimal nearly smiled, with grim humor, thinking about the game he’d played with his brother Sunny when they were younger: rock-paper-scissors.

  Scissors cut paper.

  Paper covers rock.

  And rock breaks scissors.

  He gripped the stone firmly.

  Oh, yes, he’d fight…hit the man hard, dodge the knife as best he could, and flee.

  From him. And from the police.

  The man walked closer. Then he smiled. “Hey, young man. I was waving at you.”

  Vimal stopped, saying nothing, just kneaded the stone. The man’s grin was just a trick to get his guard down.

  “You left this on the bench. In the waiting room.”

  He held up not a knife but a mobile phone. Vimal squinted and patted his pockets. Yes, it was his. Each walked toward the other and the man handed it over. “You okay, son?” He frowned.

  “Yeah. I…just, busy day. Stupid of me. Sorry.” He slipped the rock back into his pocket; the man didn’t seem to notice.

  “Hey, happens. I left a new iPhone at the playground when my wife and I took the boys to the park. When I realized it, after we got home, I called the number. A kid—like, a ten-year-old—answered. I said it was my phone and all he said was could he have the password for the App Store?”

  The Samaritan laughed and Vimal forced himself to do so too.

  “Thanks.” The word was shaky.

  The man nodded and walked off toward a queue for a bus going to New Jersey.

  Vimal returned to the pay phone. He stood with his head down, breathing slowly, calming. He called 911 again. When he said he was calling about the robbery on 47th Street, the woman tried to keep him on the line but he said simply, “The man with the gun had a black attaché case. Like businessmen carry.”

  He hung up and walked quickly to the exit, casting a last look at the departure board, filled with so many destinations. They all beckoned.

  But first things first. Head down, Vimal plunged into the crowds on the sidewalk and turned south, walking as quickly as the pain allowed.

  Chapter 7

  Two tiny kur to find.

  Two tiny hens to cut up and boil…

  Two tiny kur who knew too much.

  Who should have died earlier. But who got away.

  Sad, sad, sad. But not everything goes the way it fucking ought to.

  Aromatic with tarry cigarette smoke and Old Spice aftershave, Vladimir Rostov now spotted someone who might help him track down his kur.

  He was in the Diamond District, about a hundred yards from the building that housed Jatin Patel’s store, where police stood and yellow tape fluttered. He was, of course, keeping his distance. It was now dusk, closing time in the district, and Rostov was watching his target—either the owner or the manager of a small jewelry store—operate the motor that closed the security gate. He appeared to be South Asian and, Rostov was hoping, would probably know Patel; the diamond community in New York was not as big as you might think.

  The man fitted two serious locks into hasps on the door and, with a third, locked the electronic panel that controlled the motor.

  The man was slight and looked about, nervously. Ah, good. Rostov loved timid kur. They were always so eager to help.

  The Russian blended in. New York was the city of dark outer garments, as he was wearing. The city of no eye contact, the city of head down, the city of never respond. Blending in…There was little distinctive about him, this compact forty-four-year-old. More muscle than fat, with a long angular, equine face. Former military, he had a military bearing and a military physique, though he did not have—nor had he ever had—a military frame of mind, which meant discipline and the will to follow orders.

  Looking normal, but he worked to keep his eyes from zipping a bit too manically around the street. He tried not to mutter to himself. And to anyone nearby. That wouldn’t, of course, be a good idea. He was well aware that he was a bit differen
t.

  Vladimir Rostov was, as he put it, “gone to the stone.”

  And so he had to force himself to be careful. He could function but sometimes he went right to the edge of sane. And now he was feeling that cringy-crawly sense, as he observed the street, filled with Jews and Indians and Chinese, who sold their cheap crap to the masses.

  Proletariat! he thought with a grim silent laugh. Then stanched the, yes, manic grin. Thank you, Lenin. You were a mad fucker too but you understood.

  As he glanced into the windows, he could see the gold, the sapphires, the emeralds.

  The diamonds.

  The earth’s blood. Forty-Seventh Street was a hemorrhage. Like the blood on the floor of Patel’s shop.

  The Indian dealer walked to Fifth Avenue and turned north, oblivious to being followed. Will you help me find my little kur? Rostov thought, thumbing the utility razor knife in his pocket, resting right next to the pistol.

  His little kur…In Rostov’s universe, the word meant more than “hens,” the literal translation. A kuritsa—the singular—included in his definition blyad, “whore,” and dobycha, “prey” and prezreniye, “contempt,” but always filtered through a sense of amusement.

  One kuritsa he needed to find was the boy at the diamond dealer’s. Name unknown but initials probably VL. And the other one, the Jew who’d met with Patel before the dealer’s shop erupted into Stalingrad.

  Two kur.

  On the trail of his prey now.

  Rostov lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply a few times and stubbed it out. Collar up, hat pulled down low over his blond crew cut, Rostov kept up his pursuit of the Indian. Where was he going? Was he taking the subway somewhere, a bus? Or did he live on the Upper East Side, the posh area of New York? The man owned a jewelry store, so he’d have money. But Rostov didn’t think many Indians lived in that part of town. It seemed exclusive and he assumed they wouldn’t be welcome.

  Rostov’s gut thumped a bit as they passed Harry Winston, the famed jewelry store on Fifth Avenue. The modest gold placard beside the gated doorway read:

  Harry Winston Inc. Rare Jewels of the World.

  Now that, kur, is putting it mildly.

  Rostov studied the ornate building, speculating about the amount and the quality of the gems inside. Unimaginable. Winston, who died in the 1970s, was perhaps the most famous jeweler the world had ever known. The owner of the Hope Diamond and the massive seven-hundred-carat Vargas rough, he was the original jeweler to the stars. (Winston came up with the idea of lending magnificent pieces to actresses to wear at the Academy Awards.)

  Rostov thought of a particular diamond the company had acquired a few years ago at a Christie’s auction: the Winston Blue, the largest vivid blue diamond ever sold. The stone was in a fancy cut (any diamond shape not a round brilliant is called “fancy”), pear-shaped. About thirteen carats in weight and, according to the Gemological Institute of America standards, it was flawless. Rostov had only seen pictures of it, of course, and wondered if the stone was presently in the store.

  What had struck him about the diamond was that the press stories mentioned only in passing its rarity and its perfection; the focus of the articles was that it had sold for nearly two million dollars per carat, a record for a blue. The world appreciated the diamond not for what it was, but for what it cost.

  Fucking media.

  Fucking public.

  Was it inside these hallowed halls at the moment? he wondered. His heart pounded at the possibility. Even if he hadn’t been following the Indian, Rostov would not have been able to go in, of course. Every square inch of his face would be on video. A dozen times. He had even heard that some cameras were of such high definition that they could capture your fingerprints.

  That would not do.

  A pity.

  Rostov endured a coughing fit, trying to keep the noise down. The dealer didn’t hear, and the Russian brought it under control. The prey continued north for twenty minutes, then turned east and walked for four more blocks—not so exclusive here. The street was deserted and when he passed a brownstone, with a garden apartment entrance below street level, Rostov moved fast and shoved the man down the stairs, displaying his gun then shoving it back into his pocket.

  “No! What—”

  Rostov cuffed him on the head, a blow more startling than painful. “Shhhh.”

  The man nodded, cowering.

  Always so eager to help…

  They were in front of the lower-level apartment window and door but the lights were out inside.

  “Please, don’t hurt me. I have a family.”

  “Ah, good. Family. Good. What is name, family man?”

  “I…I am Nashim.”

  “You are Indian?”

  “No, no, Persian.”

  Shit.

  Rostov was angry. “You mean fucking Iranian.”

  His eyes were wide. “Yes, but my grandfather was a friend of the shah’s! I mean it, it’s true!”

  “Do I give fuck about that?”

  This made the mission more difficult. Well, he’d have to make do.

  “You have wallet?”

  Nashim’s voice was stuttering. “Yes, yes, I have one. Take it. I have a ring too. A nice ring. My watch is not so nice but…”

  “Just open wallet.”

  “I don’t have much cash.”

  “Shhh. Open.”

  With shaking hands, Nashim did.

  Rostov plucked the driver’s license out and took a picture of it with his phone. Then he noticed a photo. This too he pulled out. It depicted Nashim and presumably his wife and two round, pretty teenage daughters.

  “You are family man. You are lucky family man.”

  “Oh, please.” Tears in his eyes.

  Rostov took a picture of the photograph too. He handed it and the license back to the man. He wasn’t able to put them back into the wallet, his hands were shaking so badly. Rostov did this himself and tucked the wallet back into the man’s breast pocket. Patted it three times. Hard.

  “Now, I am needing to find some person. And why is not your interest. If you help, all will be good. And I won’t have to come to Fourteen Hundred Twenty-Two First Avenue, apartment five C, and pay your pretty family a call.”

  “Yes.” The man was crying harder now. “I understand.”

  Rostov had not asked if he understood.

  “You are knowing Jatin Patel?”

  “Are you the man—” His voice stopped cold.

  Rostov lowered his head, fixed Nashim with his blue eyes. The dealer blurted, “Not well. I met him once. I knew about him. Everybody knew.”

  “There are two peoples he knows. Someone, VL, also Indian, like him. Younger. May work for Patel. Or worked for Patel. And Jew named Saul Weintraub. He has business in diamond trade in someplace, Long Island City. But I would like his home place. Okay? So, easy for you. I make it easy. Who this VL is? And where I am finding Weintraub?”

  “Oh, I would tell you if I could. I promise you! But I don’t know. I swear. We all work in the Diamond District, Jews and Indians and Chinese and us. But we don’t talk among ourselves so much. We sell to each other, we buy from each other. But that’s all. I don’t know who they might be, these people. Please don’t hurt me or my family! I can get you money.”

  “I ask for money?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Rostov believed him. And, on reflection, he decided it was helpful that the man was Iranian. He’d sell out a Jew in an instant and probably an Indian, as well.

  “Nashim, Nashim…We are going to be playing game then. You like games?”

  He was silent.

  “Scavengering hunt. You know this?”

  “I know what it is.”

  “Here, now, my friend. Here. You are going to start asking questions. Be careful. You should not be obvious. But ask about this VL and this Saul Weintraub. Yes, yes! You are ready to play, my friend?”

  “I will. I promise I will.”

  “Give me your pho
ne number.”

  Rostov punched the number in and then hit dial. Nashim’s phone hummed. “Good, good. You are not fakey man. Okay. You get busy now, Nashim. I will call tomorrow and find out what you can tell me. And I will keep calling until you win scavengering hunt. I am rooting for you! Now I will go home and you go home.” Rostov clapped him on the back. He started away then paused. “Your daughters. What are their names?”

  He suddently felt the urge, felt hungry.

  Gone to the stone…

  The Iranian was staring. “No! I will tell you nothing about them.”

  Rostov shrugged. “Does not matter. I will make up my own. The tall one I think will be Scheherazade. And the younger one, prettier, I am saying, my opinion only…she will be Kitten. Good night, Nashim. Good night, my friend.”

  Chapter 8

  As dusk settled outside, those in Rhyme’s parlor laboratory were beginning their hunt for the man they’d dubbed Unsub 47, after the street where the robbery and murders had occurred.

  He was watching the progress as Sachs and Mel Cooper—his prize NYPD lab man—analyzed what she’d returned with from Patel Designs.

  Lon Sellitto was here too, presently on his mobile in the corner, fielding questions from his superiors. The press was having a field day with the story of the box-cutter-wielding killer in the Diamond District, the last thing that City Hall wanted. Like hungry zoo animals, the media would have to be fed something. This was not Rhyme’s concern, however. He kept his attention on the progress of the slightly built, admittedly nerdy lab technician and on Sachs as the two labored away.

  The uniformed officer Ron Pulaski had been deployed. He was out in the Diamond District, canvassing. And having little success. He’d called in five minutes earlier and reported on his lack of results. Armed with a list of Jatin Patel’s clients and business associates, he was canvassing to see if anyone had heard about potential threats (or to assess if they themselves were the unsub).

  Yet no one Pulaski or the other canvassing officers spoke to had any thoughts on who “S” or “VL” from Patel’s calendar were.