Now, after another bus ride, he was moving with his head down along a sidewalk in Flushing, Queens. He found the place he sought, a retail and wholesale jewelry shop on a busy street. He entered N&B Jewelers and walked to the clerk, a young, round South Asian woman.
“Is Mr. Nouri in yet?”
“He’s in a meeting.”
“Could you tell him Vimal Lahori would like to see him?”
She glanced at his rumpled, dusty clothes and made a call. She disconnected. “He’ll be down in five minutes.”
He thanked her and wandered around the store. It had just opened—noon on Sunday—and there were no customers yet, just an armed guard, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Vimal looked at the displays in the windows, behind thick glass. The jewelry pieces Mr. Nouri had placed there were of a number of various styles and sizes and prices, intended to snare potential buyers with many different tastes and budgets.
Some would come to N&B to buy that very special stone. The engagement rock being paramount in this category, of course.
But there are many other markets that De Beers or other mines tapped: the anniversary ring, the daughter-having-a-baby charm, the sweet-sixteen or quinceañera earrings, the prom tiara, the grandmother pin. The diamond industry was constantly coming up with new excuses to sell you its wares—like greeting card companies—and to make sure you felt pretty damn guilty if you lapsed. With weary cynicism, Vimal would look through the direct-mail material Mr. Patel received from branded diamond companies, suggesting to retailers new approaches to reach buyers, like gay engagements. “Old norms are ‘out the window,’” one brochure enthused. “Suggest that both partners can wear diamonds to signify their upcoming union…and double your revenue with each nuptial!”
Or the “Degree Diamond”: “She made you proud with that diploma; show her how much her achievement means to you!”
He’d once joked to Adeela that the industry might soon come up with a “funeral diamond” to be buried with you, though after the events of the past day, that idea was no longer funny.
He saw a door open at the back of the showroom and Dev Nouri walked out. He was a bald, fat man of about fifty-five. A loupe sat on his head—the familiar ten-power magnifier that was standard in the industry. The lens was pointed upward. He waddled forward and they shook hands.
The shop owner looked about with a concerned expression, and Vimal realized that he was maybe worried that the Promisor might have followed him.
Ridiculous. But Vimal too gazed out the window.
He saw no one who might be the killer. But was relieved when Mr. Nouri said, “Let’s go upstairs.”
They walked into a hallway and Mr. Nouri used a thumbprint pad to open a thick steel door. They passed through this and climbed to the second floor, where the dealer’s office and cutting and polishing factory was located. Vimal’s father had once told him that the cutters in Surat, India, made Hondas; Mr. Patel made Rolls-Royces. Mr. Nouri’s stones would be squarely in the BMW category.
They stepped into Mr. Nouri’s cluttered office and sat. “Now, tell me. You were there? When Jatin was killed?”
“I was, yes. Though I got away.”
“How terrible! Jatin’s sister…his children. How sad they must be!”
“Yeah. It’s terrible. Just awful.” Vimal spun Adeela’s cloth bracelet nervously. “Mr. Nouri. I need some help.”
“From me?”
“Yes. My parents and I think it’s best for me to leave the city for a while. They gave me what money they could. But I need some more. I’m hoping you can help me.”
Mr. Nouri did not catch the lie. He was more troubled, it seemed, about impending financial requests. “Me? I don’t have—”
“I’m not asking to borrow. I have something to sell.”
“Inventory from Patel’s?” He looked suspicious.
This was one reason that Vimal had not gone to the police. The rocks were technically Mr. Patel’s. They would have confiscated them as evidence, and he needed them desperately. They might even have arrested him for theft.
But Vimal said, truthfully, “It’s not a customer’s. It was Mr. Patel’s, yes. But he owed me for the month. I’ll never see that money now.” Vimal produced one of the rocks in the bag that he’d been carrying when he was shot. It was the January bird.
“But what is this? Kimberlite?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Nouri took the stone from Vimal’s hand. He flipped down the loupe and studied the stone. “I’ve never seen any.”
Kimberlite was the raw ore from which the majority of diamonds around the world were extracted. The mineral was named after the town of Kimberley in South Africa, where in the late 1800s the famed Star of South Africa, an eighty-four-carat stone, was found embedded in a vein of kimberlite, setting off the world’s first diamond rush.
But diamond rough was usually extracted at the mines, and the kimberlite discarded, so those further down the gem manufacturing chain rarely, if ever, saw the rock that gave birth to the diamonds they worked on.
Up went the loupe. “You want to sell it?”
“Yes. Please.”
“But what would I do with it?”
Vimal held the stone under a lamp. “Look. You can see crystals. They’d be diamonds. Extract them. Then cut and sell those. There could be some big rough inside. Look at that one.” He pointed out a shimmery dot on the side of the stone. “It could be worth thousands.”
Mr. Nouri laughed. “Do you know how diamonds are extracted from kimberlite?”
“I understand it’s complicated.” The rock was first crushed—with enough pressure to break up the kimberlite but not the diamonds. Then the resulting diamond-laden bits were tumbled in water-filled drums and treated with ferrosilicon sand. It was a long process.
“It is. And I don’t have the equipment. Don’t know anyone who does. I’d have to send it to Canada. But no mine would take a small rock like this. They handle tons at a time.”
He was pierced with disappointment and desperation. “But—”
“Vimal, I’m sorry. I could lend you a hundred dollars.”
Vimal closed his eyes briefly. His shoulders slumped. He stared at the stone, turning it over and over in his hand. There were tiny flashes, rough diamonds. He supposed Mr. Nouri was right: The extraction process was only profitable on a mass scale.
“No, I don’t want a loan. Thank you.” He shoved the stone into his pocket.
He started to turn but Mr. Nouri, looking at him with sympathy, said, “Wait. I’ll tell you what. Do a cut for me. I’ll pay you a thousand.”
That wouldn’t go very far in starting a new life. But he was desperate. “Yes, please. But I don’t have much time.”
“This won’t take long. Some people, yes. You? No. Come with me.”
Chapter 18
I thought they were dead, Rhyme.”
“Who?”
Sachs said, “Mikey O’Brien. Emma Sanders.”
“Again, who?”
“The couple in Gravesend.”
“Dead?”
She’d just returned from the two crime scenes: Weintraub’s house in Queens and the attack in Brooklyn. “You said victims.”
“I only heard from the precinct that there was a shooting. Two vics, the captain was telling me. Something about the perp following them from a jewelry store.”
“No, from a wedding planner.”
“Ah.”
Sellitto nodded her way. He was on the phone with the officers canvassing in Gravesend for witnesses who had seen the perp. The detective held the mobile in one hand and a Danish in his other. He’d cut the pastry in half and eaten the first portion, then, it seemed, given in to temptation and started nibbling on the remainder.
Rhyme had little interest in psychological profiling. Sachs, on the other hand, was more a self-proclaimed people cop and felt the mental mechanism of perps was helpful in tracking them down. He didn’t fully agree but he respected her. And wa
s curious about the diagnosis.
Crazy…
She explained to Rhyme and Cooper what the couple had said about their escape, how their hands had been bound but not their legs. Mikey had kicked the perp and they’d fled. He’d fired one shot but missed. By the time he started after them, the woman was outside, screaming. Forty-Seven didn’t stay around and got out the back door.
“It was our boy, for sure?” Rhyme asked.
“Oh, yeah. No doubt about it: Unsub Forty-Seven and the Promisor are one and the same. Just before he tried to cut that girl’s finger off, he explained why he killed the couple at Patel’s.”
Disconnecting his phone, Sellitto looked up. “Got away in Gravesend. Canvass reports nothing.”
Rhyme shrugged at the discouraging news, then told the detective that Sachs had confirmed their unsub was in fact the Promisor.
The doorbell rang and Thom went to get it. He returned with Edward Ackroyd, the insurance adjuster. Thom took his beige overcoat—because the man was Brit, Rhyme thought of it as a greatcoat, though he had no idea if the English used that expression, or ever had. “Tea?” the aide asked.
The man smiled—perhaps at the aide’s assumption of beverage choice—and declined, but asked for coffee.
“Filtered? Cappuccino?”
Ackroyd picked the latter.
The aide hung the man’s coat up and retreated to the kitchen.
“Thanks for coming in,” Sellitto said.
“Of course.”
“Don’t know if you saw the news. Our unsub got to a witness. His name was Saul Weintraub. He was shot and killed.”
“Oh, no.” Ackroyd sighed. “Did he get a chance to say anything before he died?”
Sachs said, “Not much. Just that he didn’t know Patel well. I sent a car to bring him in, interview him some more. But…” Her grim face acknowledged how this plan had so badly failed.
“How did the suspect find him?” Ackroyd wondered.
Sellitto said, “We think he got his name by torturing Patel. But not his address. There are a lot of Saul Weintraubs in the city. He did some detective work and tracked him down. Now there’s a second witness we’re sure he’s after too. His initials, we think, are VL. He’s young, Indian, maybe Patel’s assistant or protégé. We’re hoping you can help us find him. Before the unsub does.”
Sachs said to Cooper, “Call up the picture.”
“Security footage. Just after he got away.”
Ackroyd looked over the fuzzy image from the loading dock, squinting closely. “Early, mid-twenties. Not tall. Five six, eight. Slim. South Asian.”
“I’m thinking,” Rhyme said, “you’ll have to be discreet. Maybe not mention the initials, when you call. Just ask about protégés of Patel.”
The Englishman nodded. “Yes, of course, in case the suspect gets in touch with one of my contacts.”
“Another thing you should know,” Sachs said. “He just assaulted another engaged couple—in Gravesend. A neighborhood of Brooklyn.”
“Good Lord, he did?” Ackroyd asked, clearly surprised. “So soon after Weintraub? Are they dead?”
“No. They survived. Not badly injured.”
“Really?” The Englishman’s face narrowed. “Ah, very good. For them, of course. And for us, as well. What did they have to say?”
Rhyme glanced toward Sachs, who said, “That brings me to my diagnosis: crazy. I think we have his motive. And it has nothing to do with stealing the rough to sell it. He’s saving it.”
Ackroyd nodded. “Saving? Not uncommon. Diamonds are a solid investment and an inflation hedge.”
“No, no. I mean, like saving an endangered species: keeping diamonds out of the hands of the engagement ring mill. He stole the rough to keep it pure. They said he rambled on about how diamonds are the heart of the earth and that cutting them is like raping or murdering them.”
Crazy…
Thom appeared with a cup and Ackroyd took it. He sipped and complimented the aide on the beverage. The man was then shaking his head. “Saving diamonds. ‘Heart of the earth.’ That’s one for the ages. There are certainly some nutters who hoard diamonds but that’s always for the value. They think if there’s a nuclear war or rebellion they’ll have the diamonds to barter. As if after an atomic holocaust the first thing people will want is baubles.”
Sachs added, “And it looks like he was intentionally targeting Patel too. He referred to the ‘Indian’ he killed yesterday. He’d betrayed his people, he said.” Sachs flipped through her notes. “Something about diamonds being sacred.”
“In ancient India, yes, that was true. For them it was a mortal sin to cut diamonds. The Greeks and Romans began cutting them and turning them into jewelry although it wasn’t long until the Indians got on board. As one might expect, the spiritual nature of the stones took second place to commerce and vanity.” Ackroyd seemed to grow thoughtful…and then perplexed. He asked, “Did he give any indication of where the rough was? Where he lived? Anything else about him?”
“Nothing. Just threats and ranting. They gave me some details. He has light-blue eyes. And a foreign accent but it was as though he was trying to obscure it, speaking American-accented English. His grammar was, I’m quoting, ‘messed up.’ He’s a smoker. They could smell it. And he’s got a new, or a second, weapon. A revolver. Mikey knows guns. And I dug the slug out of the wall. Damaged but not bad. It’s a thirty-eight, I’m sure.”
Sellitto said, “He pitched out his jacket after the Weintraub killing. He probably tossed the Glock into a Dumpster somewhere. Or another storm drain.”
“I’ll get an EC team from Queens to check out the other drains,” Sachs said and called Crime Scene headquarters to arrange it.
Sachs and Cooper turned to analyzing the evidence from the Gravesend assault.
The results of the fingerprints were negative. The floors were carpeted, so she hadn’t been able to take electrostatic footprints. Cooper did a gunshot residue profile from furniture near where the unsub had been standing when he fired. Sachs had also collected a few items that were more likely associated with the perp, rather than Mikey or Emma, or recent visitors to the place: black cotton fibers, some scraps of cooked ground beef and two blond hairs. The hairs and swabs of surfaces the unsub had been near were sent to the main lab for DNA testing.
The analysis on the Promisor’s text had come in. It was impossible to trace the call and the burner had been bought with cash. Some fast research had revealed that the first sentence was from a knowledge base like Wikipedia.
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
Since he had quoted that first sentence, the words and phrasing revealed nothing about him. The rest, presumably generated by their unsub, provided some minor insights, basically what Sachs had discovered: That English was probably not his first language—the sparsity of articles or modifiers (not “buy the ring”) was typical of a number of foreign tongues. The splitting of “everywhere” into two words supported this as well, as did the absence of contractions—as with “I am” and “I will.”
And there was nothing in the NCIC crime database, or any other they had access to, that profiled anyone fitting the behavior of the unsub.
“Promisor,” Ackroyd muttered. He looked as though he wished he’d drawn a more conventional case. Setting down his empty coffee cup, he walked to the rack of coats and pulled his on. “I’ll see if I can find this elusive VL. No one you’ve talked to has any leads at all?”
“Not a one,” Sellitto said.
The Englishman left. Rhyme told Sachs about the fare card and recounted their conclusion that Forty-Seven had been at the jobsite across from the subway two days ago—either taking a shortcut to avoid the cameras in the government buildings at Cadman Plaza or, more likely, meetin
g somebody there, possibly a worker with an organized crime connection to buy a new gun, the .38.
“I’ll get down there and check it out. Sunday, but they’ll have at least some security there.” Sachs collected her jacket and headed out the door.
After she’d left, Sellitto received a call and had a conversation. He disconnected. “CCTVs from just before our boy took the subway. He was tagged on Hicks Street, near Pierrepont, a couple blocks away. Wearing the hard hat and reflective vest. Just walking. Alone. That’s all they’ve got. But he’s in the system now, tagged to the location. If he shows up again, we’re on the alert.”
Rhyme nodded and wheeled back to the charts. The entries provided some direction, some help. But the prickly dissatisfaction he felt, like a nagging fever, told him that the problem wasn’t that the answers were so elusive; it was that he was beginning to think they weren’t asking the right questions.
It was then that his phone dinged with a text. He looked over the screen.
“Thom?” he shouted.
“I’m right—”
“Bring the van around.”
“Here. The van?”
“Yes. Bring. The. Van. Around.”
Sellitto regarded him. “Got a lead?”
“No. This’s something else.”
Chapter 19
Well, a problem.
Vimal Lahori was sitting across from Mr. Nouri at the diamantaire’s desk, in his upstairs office at N&B Jewelry. His heart was beating hard, his breath coming fast.
He needed the money. But there was a glitch.
He was staring at the diamond that he’d shaken from the stiff folded envelope, the diamond Mr. Nouri was hiring him to cut.
“Something, isn’t it?” the man whispered.
Vimal could only nod. He tipped down the loupe and examined the stone under the sharp light from a gooseneck lamp. Turned it over, and over, and over.
Rough diamonds occur in nature in various forms. The most common shape is octahedron—essentially two four-sided pyramids joined at the base. These are cut into separate pyramids and each one is then bruted—smoothed against another diamond or a laser. These become round brilliants: the most common cut, making up tens of millions of stones in rings, earrings, pins and necklaces around the world. This cut features fifty-seven or occasionally fifty-eight facets; it was created a century ago by Marcel Tolkowsky, one of the most renowned diamantaires who ever lived. He applied geometry to establish the ideal proportions for shaping diamonds.
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