The U.S. attorney’s office was quiet.
This was one of those moments—early evening, of a weeknight—that Henry Bishop liked. Much of the rest of the building was empty, most of the support staff gone.
But those who remained were loyal and diligent and blindingly focused.
The sort of person that the lean, admittedly tense prosecutor preferred.
This place was comforting to him in the way that the Upper West Side apartment where he’d been living by himself for the past thirteen and a half months was not.
Bishop looked out over the dark night, and in his thoughts were a dozen—no, two dozen—matters about the El Halcón case. Every case was important but this one was more important than others of late. The crimes the Mexican had committed—the assaults on federal officers and the local policemen—were all terrible. But the crimes the man would commit—if he went free to continue to expand his operation to the United States—required that he be stopped now.
It was an adage in this business that you can’t try someone for future crimes. But Hank Bishop felt that in one way you could: Try somebody for his present crime, put him away for as long as you can, and you’ve “solved” any future crimes that person might have committed.
Bishop was going make sure that El Halcón was out of commission for a long, long time. He would delay the Mexican cartel’s move into the United States for a significant period, severely limiting the river of drugs cascading into this country. And crimping too the enforcement murders, bystander killings, underage prostitution, arms dealing and money laundering that were subsidiary enterprises in the El Halcón empire.
Considering this goal, Bishop happened to think of the one sore spot for him in the whole prosecution: that he hadn’t been able to learn the identity of El Halcón’s American partner, the man who was going to be running his operation after the Mexican returned home. The man who was the ultimate owner of the warehouse (Chris Cody, the man killed in the shoot-out, was merely a front, Bishop knew).
How Henry Bishop wanted this co-conspirator too.
But at least putting El Halcón away would slow up the expansion of the Mexican OC operation into America.
A knock on his doorjamb.
Special Agent Fallow stood there.
“Come on in.”
The man strode into the room and sat stiffly in the chair across from Bishop’s large desk, which was covered with a hundred file folders.
“And?”
Fallow opened his own folder and looked at some notes. “I think we’re good. There’s a CI we’ve got in Mexico City. He knows one of the guys up here in the Carreras-López entourage.”
Bishop loved confidential informants—snitches. They were either cowards or without consciences. Either one made them extremely valuable.
The agent continued, “Apparently, it’s true, Lincoln Rhyme’s been hired to analyze our evidence and look for improprieties. The withdrawal from Chase? Was a down payment that’s in Rhyme’s possession now. And the bulk—a half million, if he gets results? It’ll be wire-transferred. He’s got Rhyme’s bank’s routing and account number. Oh, and he gets two hundred fifty K, even if he doesn’t find problems with our case.” The agent shrugged. “But there’s nothing he did illegal. I tried to find conflict of interest but he’s never had any connection with anybody on the prosecution or the agents involved. Nothing.”
Bishop sneered. “And what does he think he’ll find? We’re buttoned up, aren’t we? Completely buttoned up.”
Fallow said nothing, but nodded.
“Why would Rhyme undermine us? Doesn’t he know what kind of evil El Halcón represents?”
Okay, a little melodramatic. But Bishop often addressed people—and himself—as if he were making closing statements to a jury.
“Next steps, sir?”
“Did you find the uniform who raided the PERT office?”
“I did. He’s Ronald Pulaski. Technically Patrol Division but generally works Major Cases. No discipline issues. Citations for bravery.”
Under other circumstances, Henry Bishop would have had some qualms about putting a decorated officer in jail. But Pulaski’s collaboration with Rhyme was a clear crime—and a stupid one, to boot. He should’ve known better. Also, Pulaski was a male and—presumably—white. Safer to destroy the career of somebody like that.
“Charges for Pulaski?” Fallow said. “We need to hit them hard, I’d say. Shut them down.”
Shut them down? Odd choice of words. But in principle, Bishop agreed.
The agent continued, “Obstruction. Conspiracy.”
“Theft of government documents too.”
“Good.”
“There’re probably some NYPD confidentiality and protocol rules he’s tripped over. But that’s not our issue. We’ll let their Internal Affairs handle that. I’ll put him in federal prison. The state can do what they want after he’s out. In ten years. Warrant him—Pulaski. Pick him up ASAP.”
Before he and Rhyme found one of those improprieties they’d been hired to hunt down.
Fallow asked, “You’re just going to let Rhyme…” Apparently Fallow was going to say “walk,” but he changed his mind. “Let him go?”
“No. We’ll get him for receiving stolen government files. Is there any facility that can handle him?”
“Lockdown medical unit in detention.”
“Good.”
“He’s got a caregiver.”
“A what?”
“An aide. Somebody who takes care of him.”
Bishop scoffed. “Well, he’s not going in with him. There’ll be some orderly or nurses who can do what they have to.”
Fallow said, “I’ll let the medical unit know.”
Bishop looked out the window. “And another thing. I’m going to make sure absolutely every law enforcement agency in the country knows what Rhyme’s done. He’ll never work as a consultant again. I hope he has a good retirement plan. After he gets out of jail, he’ll spend the rest of his life sitting home and watching soap operas.”
Tuesday, March 16
IV
Bruting
Chapter 50
Think we’ve got everything,” Sachs said. Rhyme wheeled closer to her in his parlor.
She explained to him, Ackroyd and Sellitto what evidence they’d uncovered, and then added her and Cooper’s analysis.
“The environmental outfit—One Earth? Didn’t find anything there, other than some trace linking Shapiro to it, but he was director, so of course he’d be there every day. The New Jersey State Police crime scene analysis from the suicide site at the Palisades didn’t turn up anything about the Russian or gas bombs. Shapiro’s car, though—we’ve got traces of the kimberlite.”
Rhyme said, “Linking Shapiro to the drilling site or to Unsub Forty-Seven, or both.”
“Right,” Sellitto said, adding that the find supported what they had surmised but it offered no new information.
Sachs continued, telling those present that the search of Shapiro’s small apartment in upper Manhattan, where he’d lived alone, gave up no leads either. But it did offer explanations.
Hidden under a mattress she’d discovered a map of the geothermal site, with the shafts of Area Seven circled, five hundred thousand Russian rubles—about eighty-five hundred dollars, presumably a bonus for Unsub 47 when the job was finished—and two burner phones, presently inoperative. Their call history was cleared.
“I printed the phones—negative on that—and I sent ’em down to Rodney. We’ll see if the computer geniuses can extract any info. The guy he hired? The Russian? Sure, he’s a mercenary. But he’s also cut from the same cloth, I’m betting. Saving the earth, getting even for the damage we’ve inflicted. He just did Shapiro one better: the torture, the gas line bombs.”
Sachs added that she’d recovered a great deal of trace evidence in Shapiro’s apartment, some situating the activist at various places around the metropolitan area: samples of minerals and soil and sand and diesel fuel and plant ma
terial. Some might have been carried into Shapiro’s home on Unsub 47’s shoes but without more evidence to narrow down the locales they did the investigators no good in finding him.
Rhyme noticed Sachs looking at the chart on which she’d written the findings. Her face seemed wistful. She looked back and noticed his gaze. She said, “It was sad, you know.”
“Sad?” Sellitto muttered. “The asshole killed a half-dozen people.”
“Oh, I know. He got carried away, lost in the cause. But you should’ve seen his apartment.” She explained that it was filled with easily a thousand books, mostly about the environment. There were dozens of protest posters and photos he’d taped up on the scabby walls: of Shapiro and colleagues in jail or being arrested—once being teargassed—as a result of various protests. She imagined he’d mounted them with pride and fond memories.
“It was like a shrine to his cause. He did a lot of good. Up until now, that is.”
Murder was, of course, murder.
Rhyme noticed another picture Sachs had taken in Shapiro’s apartment: a black-and-gold ceramic urn on which was a bronze plaque. It contained his wife’s ashes. He commented on it. Sachs added, “I looked her up. She died of cancer, probably due to a toxic waste spill when she was a teenager.”
Rhyme now turned and wheeled closer to their insurance expert, Edward Ackroyd, who was the man of the moment—since it was he who’d been instrumental in cracking the case. He was trying to get in touch once more with the diamond dealer in Manhattan who had put him onto Ezekiel Shapiro. The activist had called the dealer asking about Jatin Patel’s source for diamonds. Was it true that he bought them from mines that exploited indigenous people?
Ackroyd hoped that the dealer might have additional information—maybe even a lead about the Russian that Shapiro had hired.
Rhyme focused out the window. A lethargic ice storm during the night had encased the vegetation in front of his town house. He wondered if the sharp crystals had killed the plants, or if the ice had had no effect whatsoever other than to temporarily enwrap leaves and buds in a clear cocoon, which would flash with rainbow fire, like a diamond, under the sun.
Now Ackroyd was disconnecting his phone. “Okay. I got through to him: the dealer. He’s still jittery but I think the guilt got to him—that Patel was killed after he told Shapiro about him. I’ll go have a chat with the gentleman.”
Rhyme watched the man pull on his coat with precise movements.
Ackroyd added, “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”
His voice hesitated as he glanced Rhyme’s way, suddenly recalling, it seemed, that Lincoln Rhyme was not a person who had the ability to cross any fingers.
Their eyes met and they shared a smile.
* * *
From a very sour-smelling vantage point in a stand of bushes in Central Park—apparently popular with urban dogs—Vladimir Rostov watched the medium-built, sandy-haired man in the beige overcoat step outside the town house he’d learned belonged to one Lincoln Rhyme. The man drew the garment tighter about him, against the chill.
Cold, cold? Ha. This is nothing, kuritsa. Come to Moscow in January.
The man walked down the disabled-accessible ramp and onto the sidewalk, avoiding a few patches of ice. He turned north and walked to the cross street, then west, away from the park.
Rostov pushed through the bushes and strode quickly after him, passing between two cabs. Closing the distance, Rostov kept his head down. You assumed CCTVs were everywhere and fitted with high-definition lenses. He also supposed some had facial recognition software, though he wasn’t, as far as he knew, in any FR databases. At least not here, in the United States.
Ah, kuritsa, slow down, slow down. You’re walking too fast for a whore of a hen.
Rostov’s mood had improved and he’d overcome his anger at the latest setback—at the house of Adeela, the raven-haired Arab girl. Making it worse, as he’d fled, the police approaching, he’d caught a glimpse of Vimal himself in the garage! He was at the house. And he’d be in protective custody now.
Angry then, better now.
Concentrating on the task ahead of him.
Yes, the Promisor has yet another backup plan, kuritsa! Don’t you know?
Rostov saw the man he was following approach a gray Ford and push the fob button. The lights flashed briefly. Rostov was only twenty feet behind him and he sped up, head still down. When the man pulled open the driver’s door and dropped into the seat, Rostov did the same on the passenger side.
“Kuritsa!”
The driver reared back in shock, blinking. Then he and Rostov locked eyes.
The Russian smiled. And stuck his hand out. The driver shook his head, with a wry laugh, gripped Rostov’s meaty palm and, with his left hand, pressed the man’s biceps, a gesture conveying a cautious warmth. It was the sort of greeting that might transpire between two soldiers who’d been enemies in the past—and might yet be in the future—but who, for the moment at least, were allies with a common cause.
Chapter 51
So, kuritsa, what I am calling you? What is name? Surely not Mr. Andrew Krueger?”
“Using my real name? Now, what do you think, Vladimir? No, I’m Edward Ackroyd.”
“Yes, yes, I like that. Distinguished fucker. Is real somebody?”
Krueger didn’t explain that the identity he’d stolen, Edward Ackroyd, was, yes, a real employee of Milbank Assurance—a company that insured hundreds of diamond and precious metal mines and wholesalers. Ackroyd, as he’d told Rhyme, was a former Scotland Yard detective and presently was a senior claims investigator with Milbank. Beyond that, Krueger knew nothing of the real Ackroyd; he’d made everything else up, like riffing on his sexuality: He played his fictional version as gay—a casting choice intended to work his way, subtly, through Rhyme’s defenses; the consultant seemed like a man who valued tolerance. (Krueger had told his business partner in his company, Terrance DeVoer, the most hetero man you’d ever meet, that Terry and Krueger were now married—to the South African’s great amusement.)
The cryptic crossword puzzles—which were a hobby of Krueger’s—were also intended to ingratiate himself with the criminalist. A number of Krueger’s clients were British so he could easily feign being English.
In the driver’s seat of the rental car Krueger eased back a bit from the Russian. Rostov stank of pungent cigarettes and onion and excessive drugstore aftershave. “And you? You’re not Vlad Rostov, I assume.”
“No, no.” The Russian laughed. “So many fucking names in the past week…Now I am Alexander Petrovitch. I was Josef Dobyns when I landed. Now Petrovitch. I like better. Dobyns could be Jew. You are liking Alexander? I do. It was only passport this asshole in Brighton Beach had. Charge me fortune. I like Brighton Beach. You ever go?”
Rostov was known, in the diamond security industry, to be a loose cannon and also more than a little crazy. The rambling was typical.
“You know, Vlad—”
“Alexander.”
“—I’m not here to sightsee.”
“Ha, no, we are not tourists, you and me.”
Krueger was feeling more at ease now. He was over the shock of Rostov’s sneaking up on him, though he’d known the man would appear sooner or later. He found it refreshing too not to have to use the British accent. It was getting tedious. In fact, he was South African, and his natural intonation was of an Afrikaner speaking English. He’d been on his guard every time he’d spoken with Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs and the others, struggling to get the Brit upper-crust tongue correct.
Façade upon façade…what a time this past week had been.
It was Andrew Krueger, not Vladimir Rostov, who was the real perpetrator, whom the police were calling Unsub 47: the man who had killed Jatin Patel and Saul Weintraub. And who, under the guise of Edward Ackroyd, had talked his way into the police investigation of the case.
Krueger had been stunned when the “Promisor” appeared, mimicking Krueger’s role, right down to the ski
mask, gloves and box-cutting knife. It didn’t take him long to realize that it was probably Rostov. He, or his employer in Moscow, would have hacked Krueger’s computers and phones and would be sucking up real-time details of the South African’s progress here as he communicated with his own company and his employer for this mission. Rostov knew everything about Krueger’s crimes even before the police did.
Krueger had swapped phones and installed new proxies, but finally sent a message on a phone he knew had been hacked. “Rostov. Contact me.” Though he’d expected a phone call, not the man’s sudden appearance in his front seat. The Russian would have learned where he was staying and followed him here.
Krueger started the car. “Let’s go talk someplace. Out of the way. We have a problem, Vlad, and we need to address it.”
“Yes, yes. Can we go to restaurant somewhere? And remember. Nyet ‘Vladimir.’ I am Alexander. I am Alexander the Great!”
* * *
A half hour later the two men were in a restaurant in Harlem.
Andrew Krueger didn’t know New York well. He had come to the city only a week ago, to put the plan into operation. But he had believed Harlem to be mostly black and working-class, so it would be unlikely to run into somebody involved in the police investigation in a place like this. Krueger was mildly surprised to see that this modest establishment was filled with as many white people—a lot of them hipsters—as black.
Pleasant enough.
But heaven to Vladimir Rostov. He was loving Martha’s Authentic BBQ. Krueger sipped a Sprite. He’d feigned a love of single-malt scotch to ingratiate himself further into the world of Rhyme and Amelia. The fact was he drank very little alcohol, mostly only red Pinotage, a wine unique to his home country.
The Russian was on his second bourbon. He had a coughing fit. “Fucking cigarettes.” He held up his glass. “This helps. Good for you.”
Krueger knew Rostov had worked in the diamond mines of Siberia from a young age. No, his tattered lungs weren’t failing from cigarettes, not entirely.
The Cutting Edge Page 30