The Cutting Edge

Saturday, March 13

Chapter 1

Is it safe?”

He considered this briefly. “Safe? Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

“I’m just saying. It’s kind of deserted.” The woman looked around the poorly lit, shabby lobby, the floor ancient linoleum so worn it looked sanded down. They were the only ones here, standing before the elevator. The building was smack in the middle of the Diamond District in Midtown Manhattan. Because it was Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath, many stores and companies were closed. The March wind hissed and moaned.

William, her fiancé, said, “I think we’re good. Only partially haunted.”

She smiled but the expression vanished fast.

Deserted, yes, William thought. And gloomy. Typical of Midtown offices built in the, who knew? Thirties? Forties? But hardly unsafe.

Though not very efficient. Where was the elevator? Damn it.

William said, “Don’t worry. Not like the South Bronx.”

Anna chided gently, “You’ve never been to the South Bronx.”

“Went to a Yankees game.” He’d once commuted through the South Bronx, and for some years, too. But didn’t mention that.

From behind the thick metallic doors, gears ground and pulleys pulled. The soundtrack was creaks and squeals.

The elevator. Now, that might not be safe. But the odds of getting Anna to walk up three flights of stairs were nonexistent. His fiancée, broad-shouldered, blond and pert, was in great shape, thanks to the health club and her charming obsession with the devil-red Fitbit. It wasn’t the exertion she objected to, with that wonderful wry glance; it was, as she’d once said, that girls don’t do stairs in buildings like this.

Even on joyous errands.

Practicality raised its head — yet again. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Billy?”

He was prepared. “Of course it is.”

“It’s so expensive!”

True, it was. But William had done his homework and knew he was getting quality for the sixteen thousand dollars. The rock that Mr. Patel was mounting in the white-gold setting for Anna’s pretty finger was a one-point-five-carat princess cut, F, which meant virtually colorless, very close to the ideal D. The stone was graded nearly flawless — IF, meaning there were only some minor flaws (Mr. Patel had explained they were called “inclusions”) detectible only to an expert under magnification. It wasn’t perfect and it wasn’t huge but it was a magnificent piece of carbon that, through Mr. Patel’s eye loupe, took your breath away.

Most important, Anna loved it.

William came very close to saying, You only get married once. But, thank you, Lord, stopped short. Because while that was true in her case, it was not in his. Anna didn’t mind his past, or didn’t offer any evidence that she minded, but it was best not to bring up the topic (hence, editing out the story about the five years of commuting to Westchester).

Where the hell was that elevator?

William Sloane pressed the button again, though it was already illuminated. And they laughed at the pointless gesture.

Behind them the door to the street opened and a man walked in. At first he was just a shadow, backlit through the greasy glass of the door. William felt a moment’s unease.

Is this safe...?

Maybe he’d been a little quick with the reassurance some minutes before. He and Anna would be walking out in ten minutes with a house down payment on her finger. He looked around and was troubled to see there were no security cameras here.

But the man walked closer and offered a pleasant smile and nod, then returned to reading his texts. He had pale skin, wearing a dark jacket and knit stocking cap, carrying cloth gloves in his phone hand — all necessary accessories on this unusually frosty March day. An attaché case too. He worked in the building... or maybe was picking up a ring for his fiancée at Patel’s too. No threat. Still, William — a health-club and Fitbit aficionado himself — was in top form and could take down a guy of this size. A fantasy, he supposed, that every man engaged in from time to time.

Finally, the elevator arrived and the doors squealed open. They got in and the man gestured to the couple to enter first.

“Please.” An accented voice. William couldn’t place the nationality.

“Thank you,” Anna said.

A nod.

At the third floor, the door opened and the man again gestured with his palm. William nodded in response and he and Anna continued toward Patel Designs, at the end of the long, dim hallway.

Jatin Patel was an interesting man, an immigrant from Surat, western India, the diamond-polishing center of that country — and of the world, now. When the couple had been here some weeks ago, placing their order, Patel had chatted away, explaining that the vast bulk of gem-quality diamond polishing was done there, in boiler rooms — tiny factories like apartment buildings, hot and filthy, with terrible ventilation. Only the best diamonds were cut in New York or Antwerp or Israel anymore. Because of his skill, he’d risen above the pack of cutters — thousands of them in Surat — and managed to save enough money to come to the United States and open a shop.

He sold jewelry and diamonds retail — to the soon-to-be-Sloanes, for instance — but he was best known for his cutting of high-end diamonds from raw stones.

On that earlier visit William had been fascinated to learn about the diamond trade, fascinated too that Patel would, from time to time, grow coy and steer the conversation away from William’s innocent questions. He supposed the diamond world was a shadowy, secretive place in many ways. Look at blood diamonds — those mined in Africa by warlords and terrorists, who used the profits to finance their horrific crimes. (The princess cut William was buying came with a guarantee that it had been ethically mined. William, though, couldn’t help but wonder how true that was. After all, was the broccoli he’d steamed last night truly organic, as the placard at their local store promised?)

He was aware that the man who’d accompanied them in the elevator had stopped at a door just before Patel’s and was hitting the intercom.

So he was legit.

William chided himself for his concern and pressed the button for Patel Designs. Through the speaker came: “Yes? Who is there? Mr. Sloane?”

“Yes, it’s us.”

There was a click of the door and they stepped in.

It was at that moment that a thought struck William Sloane. As in many old-time buildings, the doors to all of the businesses on this floor had transoms above them — horizontal glass panels. Here they were covered with thick bars, for security. The one above Patel’s door glowed, revealing lights inside. But the transom next door — the one the man from the elevator had stopped at — was dark.

That business was closed.

No!

A sudden rush of footsteps behind them and, gasping, William turned to see the man, now with his head covered by a ski mask, charge toward them. He shoved them into the small room, where Patel sat behind a counter. The intruder moved so fast that Anna was knocked off her feet and fell hard, screaming. William turned but froze as the man pointed a gun his way — a black pistol.

“Jesus, no! Please!”

Despite his age, and paunchy midsection, Jatin Patel rose fast, going for what must have been a panic button. He didn’t get close. The man lunged forward and, reaching over the counter, slammed the pistol into his face. There was a horrific sound. William heard the snap of bone under the impact.

The diamond dealer screamed. Patel, whose complexion was grayish all the time, grew grayer yet.

“Look,” William said, “I can get you money. You can have our ring.”

“Take it!” Anna said. Then to Patel: “Give it to him. Give him whatever he wants.”

Drawing back his gloved hand, still holding the gun, he swung it forward into Patel’s face again and again. Crying out, begging for him to stop, Patel slumped helpless to the floor, muttering, “I can get you money! Lots of money! Whatever you want! Please, please stop.”

“Leave him alone,” Anna cried.

“Quiet!” The man was looking around the room. A fast glance to the ceiling. There was a video camera pointing down toward them. Then he was studying the counter, the desk behind it and several dim rooms in the back.

With one hand toward the gunman, palm out, to reassure that he was no threat, William stepped closer to Anna. His arm went around his fiancée’s waist and he helped her up. He could feel her trembling.

The robber ripped a light cord from the wall. He extracted a box cutter — a utility knife — from his pocket and pressed the razor blade out with his thumb. Setting down the gun, he cut the wire into two lengthy pieces. He handed one to Anna. “Tie his hands.” Nodding at William. That accent again. European? Scandinavian?

“Do it,” William told her gently. “It’s okay.” He added in a whisper, “He could have shot us. He doesn’t want that. Tie my wrists.”

“Tight.”

“Yes, she will.”

With shaking hands, she did.

“Lie down.”

William eased to the floor.

Of course, he’d get the main threat out of the way — him. Then, glancing at Patel, the burglar bound Anna’s wrists and shoved her to the floor beside William, back to back.

A chilling thought, cold as a winter stream, cut through him. William realized that the intruder had put the mask on before going into the store, to hide his face from the cameras.

But he hadn’t worn it before. Because he needed some customers to get him through the door of Patel’s. He’d probably been waiting for a couple to follow to a company that seemed like a good target for a robbery.

The security camera in Patel’s would have no recording of his features.

But William and Anna could describe him.

And that meant only one thing: The robber had tied them up so they wouldn’t fight back when he killed them.

The man now stepped close, standing over them, looking down.

“Look, please...”

“Shhhhh.”

William prayed, If it has to happen, let him shoot us. It’ll be fast, painless. He managed a look, twisting his head hard upward. And saw that the man had left the gun on the counter.

The gunman crouched over them, gripping the knife.

William’s back was still facing Anna’s and, sobbing, he stretched his hand out as far as he could. It found hers. He wondered if it was her left one and if the finger he was caressing now was the one that had come so close to being graced by the princess-cut, one-point-five-carat diamond, only slightly flawed and nearly colorless.

Chapter 2

This was his life.

Today was typical. Up at six, a Saturday, can you believe it? Help his mother empty all the pantry and kitchen shelves, for cleaning and laying new contact paper. Then wash the car — on this damp, grim day! Hugging his mother and father goodbye, then taking the train from their home in Queens all the way to Brooklyn, on an errand for Mr. Patel.

Yet another train to Manhattan, to start polishing the stones that awaited him. He was on board now, as it swayed its way north.

Saturday. When everyone else was at brunch or plays or movies... or museums.

Or galleries.

How unfair was this?

Oh, forget entertainment. Vimal Lahori would be fine — in fact, he’d prefer to be — in the damp basement of the family’s house in Queens.

But that was not an option.

He pulled his dark-gray wool jacket around him more tightly as he swayed with the gentle motion of the subway. The twenty-two-year-old was thin and not tall. He’d reached his present height of five feet, six inches in grade school and had had about two years’ edge over his boy classmates, until others pulled even or eclipsed him. Still, the ethnic bent of his high school, with names more Latino and East or South Asian than black or Anglo, meant he wasn’t as diminutive as many. Which wasn’t to say that he didn’t get bloodied occasionally — though the engine for the most severe torment was that his family had immigrated from Kashmir, the region claimed by the bordering rivals, India and Pakistan. Vimal was, he believed, the only boy to have been beaten up for a border dispute (ironically by two gangly seniors whose religions — one Muslim and one Hindu — should have made them sworn enemies).

The wounds were minor, though, and the conflict soon forgotten, largely because Vimal was hardly a Kashmirista (he wasn’t even sure where the borders of his ancestral homeland lay). More important, he could move down the soccer pitch the way a honey bee zips from petal to petal; ball control will trump geopolitics any day.

The train approached the stop at 42nd Street. The wheels shrieked and the smoky, salt odor eased into the car. Vimal unfurled and looked into the paper bag he carried. It contained a half-dozen rocks. He removed one, a piece about the size of his fist. It was gray and dark green, striated with crystals. One end was cracked flat and the other rounded. Every piece of stone on earth, big or small, could be turned into something else and, with some thought and patience, the artist could see what it should become. But this one was obvious: a bird, Vimal saw instantly, a bird that was pressing wings to body and keeping its head low to ward off the cold. He could rough out the creature in a day.

But today was not that day.

Today was for work. Mr. Patel was a very talented man. A genius, many people said, and Vimal knew it was true. And probably because of his brilliance Mr. Patel was also a taskmaster. Vimal had the Abington job to finish. Four pieces of stone, three carats each, more or less. He knew it would take a full eight hours, and the old man — he was fifty-five — would spend agonizing periods of that time examining Vimal’s efforts under the glass. Then have him make adjustments. And more after that.

And more and more and more...

The doors of the subway opened and Vimal replaced into the paper bag the Solitary Bird, January — his name for the sculpture that would never be. He stepped onto the platform and climbed to the street. At least it was Saturday and, with many of the Orthodox stores closed, the Diamond District would be more serene than on weekdays, especially with this nasty March weather. The bustling of the neighborhood sometimes drove him crazy.

Instinctively, the minute he turned onto 47th Street Vimal grew cautious — as did pretty much every one of the hundreds of employees here, a place where many owners were reluctant to advertise too loudly. Yes, there were plenty of “Jewelers” and “Diamonds” and “Gems” in the shop and company names but the higher-end operations and the few important diamond cutters left in the city tended to call themselves by names like “Elijah Findings,” “West Side Collateral” and “Specialties In Style.”

Hundreds of millions’ worth of diamonds and gems flowed into and out of these stores and cutting shops every day of the year. And there wasn’t a halfway competent burglar or robber in the world who wasn’t aware of that fact. And they also knew that the number one way to transport precious gems and gold and platinum and finished jewelry wasn’t via armored trucks (too many shipments in and out daily to make a whole truck cost-efficient) or in aluminum attaché cases handcuffed to wrists (far too easy to spot and, as any doctor would tell you, hands can be severed with a hacksaw in less than sixty seconds, even faster if you go electric).

No, the best way to transport valuables was to do just what Vimal was doing now. Dressing down — in jeans, running shoes, a Keep Weird and Carry On sweatshirt and wool jacket, while carting a stained paper bag.

So, as Vimal’s father — a former cutter himself — insisted, the young man kept his eyes scanning constantly for anyone who might glance a certain way at the bag in his hand or might be moving close while overtly not looking.

Still, he wasn’t too concerned; even on less-busy days like this there were guards present, seemingly unarmed but with those little revolvers or automatics tucked into sweaty waistbands. He nodded at one now, as she stood in front of a jewelry store, an African American woman with short purple hair of crinkly texture that Vimal marveled at; he had no idea how she’d managed it. Coming from an ethnic background that offered pretty much one-size-fits-all hair (black, thick and wavy or straight), he was greatly impressed by her do. He wondered how he might render it in stone.

“Hey, Es,” he called, nodding.

“Vimal. Saturday. Boss don’t give you no time off? That sucks.”

He shrugged, offering a rueful smile.

She glanced at the bag, which for all she knew held a half-dozen Harry Winston — branded stones worth ten million.

He was tempted to say, It’s just peanut butter and jelly. She’d probably laugh. But the idea of making a joke on 47th Street seemed alien. There wasn’t a lot of humor in the Diamond District. Something about the value — and, probably more so, the narcotic quality — of diamonds made this an all-too-serious business.

He now entered Mr. Patel’s building. He never waited for Insufferable Elevator — a fantastical artifact out of Harry Potter, he’d told Adeela, which she’d laughed at — but charged up the stairs, his lithe frame unaffected by gravity, his legs strong and lungs vital from the soccer pitch.

Pushing into the hallway, he noted four of the eight overheads were still dark. He wondered, as he often did, why Mr. Patel, who had to have a shitload of money, didn’t find a glitzy office elsewhere. Maybe it was sentimental. He had had his shop here for thirty years, when this entire floor was cutters. Now his was one of the few fabricators left in the building. Cold on days like this, hot and dusty from June to September. Smelling dank. Mr. Patel didn’t have a showroom as such and the “factory” was really just a workshop, the smaller of the three rooms. Given his low-output high-quality work, all he needed was a place big enough for two diamond-polishing scaifes and two cutting machines. He could relocate anywhere.

But Mr. Patel had never shared with Vimal his reasoning for staying, because he never shared anything with Vimal, except how to hold the dop stick, how to mount the stones for bruting, how much diamond dust to mix with olive oil for brillianteering.

Halfway to the office, Vimal paused. What was that smell? Fresh paint. The walls on this floor definitely needed a new coat, had for years, but he couldn’t see evidence that any workers had been fixing up the place.

During the week it was hard enough to get maintenance to do anything. Somebody had actually come in on Friday night or Saturday to paint?

He continued toward the door. The offices here had glass transoms, though they were covered with bars, of course, and he could see shadows of somebody inside Mr. Patel’s shop. Maybe they were the buyers, the couple who’d come to him for a special engagement ring. William Sloane and Anne Markam — he remembered their names because they’d seemed so nice, actually introducing themselves to Vimal — the hired hand — as he’d left the shop on their last visit. Nice, but naïve: If they’d invested the money they’d spent on their carat-and-a-half diamond, that sum would have grown into a college education for their firstborn. Seduced by the diamond-marketing cabal, as he thought of them.

If Vimal and Adeela ever got married — a conversation that hadn’t come up yet, nowhere close — but if they did, he’d buy her a hand-carved rocking chair for their engagement. He’d sculpt her something. And if she wanted a ring he’d make something out of lapis, with the head of a fox on it, which was, for some reason, her favorite animal.

He punched in the code for the security lock.

Vimal stepped inside and stopped in mid-stride, gasping.

Three things took his attention immediately. First, the bodies of a man and woman — William and Anna — in a twisted and eerie pose, as if they’d died in agony.

The second was a lake of blood extending outward.

The third was Mr. Patel’s feet. Vimal couldn’t see the rest of the body, just his well-worn shoes, pointing upward. Motionless.

From the workshop, to the left of the front room, a figure appeared. A ski mask obscured his face but his body language explained that he was startled.

Neither Vimal nor the man moved.

Then the intruder dropped the briefcase he was holding and pulled a gun from his pocket and aimed. Vimal instinctively spun away, as if he could avoid the bullet, and lifted his hands, as if he could stop it.

A burst of light flowered from the muzzle and the roar deafened Vimal. A searing pain stabbed his belly and side.

He stumbled backward into the dim, dusty corridor, his mind filled with a manic thought: What a sad and ordinary place to die.

Chapter 3

He had not returned to the city in time.

To his disappointment.

Lincoln Rhyme directed his Merits Vision wheelchair — gray with red fenders — through the front door of his Central Park West town house. Someone had once remarked that the place brought to mind Sherlock Holmes — in two senses: First, the ancient brownstone would have fit nicely in Victorian England (it dated to that era), and second, the front parlor was filled with enough forensic instruments and equipment to awe the British consulting detective to his core.

Rhyme paused in the entryway to wait for Thom, his trim, muscular caregiver, who’d parked the disabled-accessible Mercedes Sprinter in the cul-de-sac behind the town house. Feeling the cold breeze upon his cheek, Rhyme turned the chair and bumped the door partly closed. It blew back open. A quadriplegic, paralyzed from the neck down, he was quite adept at the high-tech accessories available to those with hampered bodies: the touchpads, eye and voice recognition systems, prosthetics and the like. And surgery and implants had given him some control over his right arm. But many old-fashioned mechanical tasks, from closing doors to — oh, picking a random example — opening bottles of single-malt scotch, remained, literally, out of reach.

Thom arrived a moment later and closed the door. He removed Rhyme’s jacket — he refused to “wear” a blanket for warmth — and peeled off to the kitchen.

“Lunch?”

“No.”

The aide called back, “Phrased that wrong. I meant, what would you like?”

“Nothing.”

“Not the correct answer.”

“I’m not hungry,” Rhyme muttered. He clumsily picked up the remote for the TV. And turned on the news.

Thom called, “You need to eat. Soup. Cold day. Soup.”

Rhyme grimaced. His condition was serious, yes, and certain things like pressure on the skin or unrelieved bodily functions could have dangerous consequences. But hunger was not a potential risk factor.

The aide was such a goddamn mother hen.

After a few moments Rhyme smelled something aromatic. Thom did make pretty good soup.

He turned his attention to the television, which he rarely watched. Usually, it was to follow a particular news story, which was what he now wished to do: a story related to the disappointment created by his trip to Washington, DC, the place from which he and Amelia Sachs had just returned.

The station that had crinkled onto the screen wasn’t twenty-four-hour news but a documentary network. Airing presently was a true crime show, though dramatized. The villain glared. The detectives looked thoughtful. The music flared. The forensic officer wore a wristwatch outside his glove at the scene.

Jesus Christ.

“Were you watching this crap?” he shouted to Thom.

No reply.

Punching buttons, he found a network news channel. At the moment, though, there was no news, only commercials for prescription medicines. He didn’t have a clue what the medications did, except turn the actors from somber old grandparents into happy and seemingly less-old grandparents, frolicking with young’uns in the final scene, their can’t-play-with-the-young’uns malady cured.

Then an anchor appeared and after some local news, political in nature, the story he was interested in popped up briefly: It was the account of a trial, presently under way in the Eastern District of New York. A Mexican drug lord, Eduardo Capilla, better known as El Halcón, had made the mistake of coming into the United States to meet with a local organized crime figure in the metro area and set up a narcotics and money-laundering network, along with a bit of underaged prostitution and human smuggling.

The Mexican was pretty sharp. Although he was a billionaire several times over, he’d flown commercial, coach, to Canada, entering legally. He’d then taken a private plane to an airstrip close to the border. From there he’d flown in a helicopter — illegally — to a deserted airport on Long Island, staying — in the literal sense — under the radar. The airport was a few miles from a warehouse complex that he was going to buy and, it was speculated, turn into the headquarters for his U.S. operation.

Police and the FBI had learned of his presence, though, and agents and officers intercepted him there. A shoot-out ensued, resulting in the death of the warehouse owner, along with his bodyguard. A police officer was severely injured and an FBI agent wounded, as well.

El Halcón was arrested but, to the dismay of prosecutors, his American partner, with whom he’d hoped to build a drug empire, wasn’t present and his identity was never discovered; the apparent warehouse owner — the man killed in the shoot-out — was a figurehead. No amount of digging could reveal the true U.S. contact.

Lincoln Rhyme had so wanted a piece of the case. He’d hoped to analyze the evidence and provide expert forensic testimony at trial. But he’d committed to meet with a half-dozen senior officials in Washington, DC, so he and Sachs had spent the week down there.

Disappointed, yes. He’d really wanted to help send El Halcón away. But there’d be other cases.

Coincidentally, just at that thought, his phone hummed and displayed a caller ID that suggested there might be one in the offing.

“Lon,” Rhyme said.

“Linc. You back?”

“I’m back. You have something knotty for me? You have something interesting? Something challenging?”

Detective First Grade Lon Sellitto had been Rhyme’s partner years ago, when Rhyme was NYPD, but they socialized only rarely now and never just called each other up to chat. Phone calls from Sellitto usually happened when he needed help on a case.

“Dunno if it’s any of the above. But I got a question.” The detective seemed out of breath. Maybe an urgent mission, maybe he was walking back from the grocery store with a box of pastry.

“And?”

“Whatta you know about diamonds?”

“Diamonds... Hm. Let me think. I know they’re allotropes.”

“They’re what?”

“Allotrope. It’s an element — as in chemical element — that exists in more than one form. Carbon is a perfect example. A superstar, in the world of elements, as I think even you know.”

“Even me.” Sellitto grunted.

“Carbon can be graphene, fullerene, graphite or diamond. Depends on how the atoms are bonded. Graphite is a hexagonal lattice, diamonds are tetrahedral lattice. Small thing, it seems. But it makes the difference between a pencil and the Crown Jewels.”

“Linc. I’m sorry I asked. Should’ve tried this: You ever run a case in the Diamond District?”

Rhyme thought back to his years as detective, as captain running the crime scene operation of the NYPD and, later, as consultant. Some cases had touched on the 47th Street area, Midtown. But none had involved diamond stores or dealers. He told Sellitto as much.

“We could use some help. Robbery gone bad, looks like. Multiple homicides.” A pause. “Some other shit too.”

Not a term of art in the crime-solving world, Rhyme reflected. He was curious.

“You interested?”

Since the El Halcón case had slipped away from him, the answer was yes. “How soon can you get here?” Rhyme asked.

“Let me in.”

“What?”

Rhyme heard a pounding from the front hall. Through the phone Sellitto was saying, “I’m here. I’m outside. I was gonna talk you into the case whether you wanted it or not. Come on, open the goddamn door. It’s like January out here.”

“Soup?” Thom asked, taking Lon Sellitto’s drab gray overcoat. Hanging it.

“Naw. Wait, what kind?” Sellitto, Rhyme noticed, had lifted his face, as if positioning his nose at a better angle to detect the scent meandering from the kitchen.

“Tomato bisque with shrimp. Lincoln’s having some.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Hm.” Stocky and rumpled — the latter adjective referring to the clothing, not the man — Lon Sellitto had always had weight issues, at least as long as Rhyme had known him. A recent poison attack by an unsub he and Rhyme were pursuing had nearly killed him and caused him to shed scores of pounds. A skeletal Lon Sellitto was an alarming sight and he was fighting his way back to his substantial form. Rhyme was pleased when he said, “Okay.”

Pleased too because it would take the pressure off him. He wasn’t hungry.

“Where’s Amelia?” Sellitto asked.

“Not here.”

Amelia Sachs was in Brooklyn, where she kept an apartment near her mother’s. Rose was recovering well from heart surgery but Sachs looked in on her frequently.

“Not yet?”

“What do you mean?” Rhyme asked.

“She’s on her way. Should be soon.”

“Here? You called her.”

“Yeah. That smells good. Does he make soup a lot?”

Rhyme said, “So you decided we were going to be working the case.”

“Sort of. Rachel and I mostly open cans, Progresso, Campbell’s.”

“Lon?”

“Yeah, I decided.”

The soup arrived. Two bowls. Rhyme’s went on the small tray attached to his chair; Sellitto’s on a table. Rhyme glanced at his. It did smell appealing. Maybe he was hungry, after all. Thom was usually right in matters like this, though Rhyme rarely admitted it. The aide offered to feed him but he shook his head, no, and gave it a shot with his right hand and arm. Soup was tricky for the shaky appendage but he managed it without spilling. He was glad he hated sushi; chopsticks were not a utensil option for someone like Lincoln Rhyme.

Another arrival appeared, to Rhyme’s surprise, apparently summoned by Lon Sellitto for the Diamond District case: Ron Pulaski. Rhyme thought of him as Rookie and called him that, though he hadn’t been one for years. The trim blond uniformed officer was technically with the Patrol Division, though his crime scene skills had brought him to Rhyme’s attention and the criminalist had insisted that Sellitto have him informally assigned to Major Cases — Sellitto’s and Sachs’s outfit.

“Lincoln. Lon.” The latter name was uttered at slightly less volume. The Rookie was, after all, junior in rank, years and bluster to Sellitto.

He also suffered from a condition that had plagued him from the first time he, Rhyme and Sachs had worked together — a head injury. This had sidelined him for a time and, when he had made the tough decision to return to the force, it plagued him with the insecurities and uncertainty that often accompany a trauma to the brain.

When he’d approached Rhyme, mentioning he was thinking of quitting because he felt he wasn’t up to the task of policing, the criminalist had snapped, “It’s all in your fucking head.”

The young officer had stared and Rhyme kept a straight face for as long as he could. They had both laughed. “Ron, everybody’s got head injuries, one way or another. Now, I’ve got a scene I need you to work. You gonna get the CS kit and walk the grid?”

Of course he had.

Now Pulaski doffed his watch coat. Beneath, he was in his long-sleeve, dark-blue NYPD uniform.

Thom offered him food too and Rhyme came close to saying, “Enough, we’re not a soup kitchen” — a clever jab, he thought — but Pulaski declined anyway.

A moment later the low bubble of a powerful car’s exhaust thudded through the closed window. Amelia Sachs had arrived. She gave the engine some gas and it then went silent. She walked inside, hung her bomber jacket on a hook and adjusted the belt around her blue jeans, to slip rearward the plastic Glock holster for comfort. She wore a teal high-necked sweater and beneath that, Rhyme had seen this morning as she’d dressed, a black silk T-shirt. They’d listened to the weather report on the radio — today would be unseasonably cold for mid-March, just like the past week. In Washington, DC, they’d witnessed cherry blossoms dying by the thousands.

Sachs nodded to those assembled. Sellitto waved back and noisily finished his soup.

Now that most of the team was in place, and fed — Rhyme reflected with amused cynicism — Sellitto briefed them.

“’Bout an hour ago. Robbery and multiple murder. Midtown North. Third floor of Five-Eight West Four-Seven. Patel Designs, owned by Jatin Patel, fifty-five. He’s one of the deceased. Diamond cutter and he made and sold jewelry. Was pretty famous, what I hear. I’m not a jewelry kind of guy, so who knows? Major Cases drew it, and they drew me. And I’m drawing you.”

The Major Case Division, overseen by a deputy inspector from the Detective Bureau in One Police Plaza, did not generally run homicides or retail location burglaries.

Lon Sellitto had noted the glance Rhyme and Sachs shared. He now explained why this case was an exception.

“The feeling came down from our friends at City Hall that the last thing we need is a violent robbery in the Diamond District. Especially if he’s got more stores in mind. People’ll stop shopping. Bad for tourism, bad for the economy.”

“The victims probably aren’t too elated either, wouldn’t you say, Lon?”

“I’m telling you what I was told is all, Linc. Okay?”

“Proceed away.”

“Now, one other wrinkle and this we’re keeping a wrap on. The perp tortured Patel. The supervising captain from Midtown North thinks he didn’t want to give up the good stuff — open the safe or whatever. So the killer used a box cutter on him till he talked. It was pretty bad.”

Some other shit too...

Rhyme said, “Okay. Let’s get to work. Sachs, the scene. I’ll get Mel Cooper in. You stay put, Pulaski. Keep you in reserve for the time being.”

Sachs pulled her jacket off the hook, slipped it on, then clipped two spare magazines on her left hip. She headed for the door.

Thom walked into the parlor and smiled at Sachs. “Oh, Amelia. Didn’t see you come in. You hungry?”

“I am. Missed breakfast and lunch.”

“Soup? Perfect for a cold day.”

She gave him a wry smile. Slamming the Torino Cobra, with its 405-horsepower engine and four-speed manual, through Midtown Manhattan made any beverage, let alone hot soup, problematic.

She pulled her keys from her pocket. “Maybe later.”

Chapter 4

The crime scene at Patel Designs on 47th Street presented Amelia Sachs with three questions.

One, since the perp had left hundreds of diamonds behind — just sitting in the open safe — what, in fact, had he stolen? If anything.

Two, why was Patel tortured?

Three, who had placed the anonymous call to report the crime and give a fairly detailed description of the perp? There was a Part B to this question: Was he still alive? When she’d first arrived at the third-floor shop she’d smelled the air and known immediately a weapon had been fired here. She guessed the witness had walked into the robbery, been shot and fled, stopping at the street pay phone from which he’d called 911.

The shop was small and the distance from gun to victim would, at most, have been ten or fifteen feet. Hard to miss with a lethal shot at that range. And there were no stray slugs anywhere in the office or the hallway. The witness had almost certainly been hit.

Sachs, in the crime scene white hooded jumpsuit and booties, stepped around the sizable pool of blood, in the rough shape of Lake Michigan, and laid the numbers for the photographs — the small placards placed where the evidence and significant elements of the crime were located. After shooting the photos, she walked the grid: searching the scene inch by inch. The grid pattern, the only approach she used, as she’d learned from Rhyme, involved walking from one end of the scene to the other, then turning, stepping a foot to the side and returning, the way one mows a lawn. Then you turn perpendicular and search the same scene again, “against the grain,” as Rhyme described it.

She went through the routine now: gathering trace, taking footprints, searching for friction ridge prints and swabbing where the perp might have left DNA. Standing momentarily with hands on hips, she surveyed the floor plan of the shop, which embraced, she estimated, only about nine hundred square feet. She glanced out the front door, held open by a rubber wedge, noting a man in a jumpsuit similar to hers. She said to him, “Computer’s in the office. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

The ECT — evidence collection technician — had specialized training in security cameras and storage devices. He’d extract what he could from the hard drive in Patel’s office; a single camera was pointed at the front door from behind the counter. It seemed to be working; a tiny red eye glowed teasingly, and a cable ran from the camera to the man’s desktop computer, which sat next to a large printer and, curiously, an ancient fax machine. The camera wasn’t connected to a central station, only the computer.

Regarding the security system, though, Sachs was sure that crossing fingers wouldn’t be enough. This perp did not seem like a man to forget about erasing security videos. As every cop knew, however, erasing digital media was never permanent. Lots of incriminating data could be unearthed — if the data had existed in the first place. A big if.

Sachs now filled out chain-of-custody details on separate cards to be affixed to the evidence itself or the paper or plastic evidence bags it had been stashed in.

Next. The hard part.

She had saved the bodies till the last.

Because, if they didn’t need to be processed first, you just put it off for a little bit longer.

The image that immediately seized her attention when she’d first entered and that touched her still was the fingers of the couple whose throats had been slashed. The hands had been tied behind them and at some point they’d moved close — most likely just before the end — and interlaced their fingers. Though they had thrashed in pain from the knifing, their fingers remained intertwined. In their death throes they had found some small comfort in the grip. Or she hoped they had. Sachs had been a street cop, then a detective working Major Cases, for years. The heart hardened, as it must, in this line of work. But details like these could still summon an urge to cry, even if no tears swelled. For some cops this never happened. She thought she was a better officer for it.

The owner of the store, Jatin Patel, had died from a slashed throat too. One difference, though, was the torture. The medical examiner’s office tour doctor, a slim Asian American woman, had pointed out the slices on his hands, ear and face. Pistol-whipping too. The wounds were all premortem.

Neither Patel nor the couple seemed to have been personally robbed, though Patel had no phone on him or in the shop. At least, the usual take remained: Wallets, purses, jewelry and cash were intact. She photographed the three bodies from all angles, rolled for fibers and other trace and took hair samples for exclusion later. She got fingernail scrapings, though none of the victims had apparently fought the unsub. Alternative light source scans of their skin, near where the lamp cord bound their wrists, revealed no fingerprints. She hadn’t expected any; throughout the scene there were so many cloth glove prints, some in blood, that she knew, almost to a certainty, the unsub wouldn’t have left his own.

“Sorry,” came the voice from the office.

Sachs walked to the doorway.

The evidence collection technician, whose belly tested the zipper of the overalls, said, “No hard drive. I mean, he took it. And no backup.”

“He... how’d he get it?”

“Must’ve had tools with him. Easy — Phillips-head screwdriver is all you need.”

She thanked him and walked into the corridor, nodding to the ME doc, who’d been waiting patiently and texting.

“You can take them,” Sachs said.

The woman nodded and radioed down to the bus. Her technicians would bring gurneys and body bags and transport the corpses to the morgue for full autopsies.

“Detective?” A young, compact uniform, out of Midtown North, approached from the elevator. He stopped well shy of the door.

“Scene’s clear, Alvarez. It’s okay. What’ve you got?”

He and his partner, an African American woman in her late twenties, had divided up and begun canvassing for witnesses and looking for other evidence that the perp might have shed as he’d arrived at or left the scene. A search for wits wouldn’t have been particularly fruitful, Sachs had guessed. Many of the offices in the building weren’t occupied. For Lease signs were everywhere. And today being a weekend — and the Jewish Sabbath — the other businesses on this floor were closed. Alvarez said, “Three offices on the second floor, and two on the floor above us’re open. Two people heard a bang about twelve thirty or twelve forty-five but thought it was a backfire or construction. Nobody else saw or heard anything.”

That was probably the case, though Sachs was, as always, a bit skeptical. The crime had happened around lunch hour. Employees coming and going might easily have gotten a glimpse of the perp but it was very common for witnesses to grow deaf — and blind — from that malady known as self-preservation.

“And something here.” Alvarez was pointing into the hall beside the elevator: a security camera mounted to the wall. Sachs hadn’t noted it when she’d first arrived. She squinted, gave a brief laugh. “Painted over?”

He nodded. “And look at the trail of the spray paint.”

Sachs didn’t get it at first, then realized what he meant. The perp — presumably the perp — had started spraying paint toward the camera while still behind it, and then hit the lens from directly underneath — to make certain he wasn’t recorded for even a second. Smart.

Like taking the hard drive.

“Cameras on the street?”

Alvarez said, “Maybe good news there. The stores to the right and left of the entrance to this building, they’re copying their.MP4 video files for us. I told ’em to preserve the originals.”

Copies were fine for the investigation; the original drives would be needed for trial.

If we get to trial, Sachs thought.

She turned back to the shop, considering the first of the three questions romping through her mind. Number One: What had he taken? She’d done a thorough search, walking the grid, but, of course, that wouldn’t necessarily give her any insights into what wasn’t present any longer.

She scanned the place once more. Patel Designs wasn’t a jewelry store like most. There were no display cases for a smash and grab. The operation consisted of three rooms: a front waiting room, an office directly behind and, through a doorway to the left, a workroom filled with equipment, which was used, she guessed, to cut gems and assemble jewelry. This last room was the largest of the three, containing stations for two workers — large turntables, similar to what potters used to turn vases and bowls. Some battered industrial equipment, one piece apparently a small laser. This also served as a storeroom: On shelves and against the wall were piles of empty boxes, shipping and office supplies, cleaning materials. Nothing valuable was kept here, it seemed.

The front room — and waiting area — was a ten-by-fifteen-foot space, dominated by a wooden counter. It also contained a couch and two mismatched chairs. On the counter rested several foot-square velvet pads for viewing customers’ jewelry, several eye loupes, stacks of paper (all blank). She guessed Patel did only custom work. He would meet with his customers here and bring out pieces they’d ordered from the workshop or the waist-high safe in the office for examination. An Internet search had revealed that the main business of the company was cutting and polishing large diamonds for other jewelry manufacturers.

Question One...

What did you walk out of here with?

She stepped back into the office and looked over the safe and its contents: hundreds of three-by-three-inch white paper squares — folded like Japanese origami. These contained loose diamonds.

The perp’s glove prints — both in blood and from residue absorbed by cloth fibers — were on the safe and several of the paper squares. But he hadn’t ransacked. She would have thought he either would take all these or, if he wanted something in particular, would have dug through the safe and flung aside the envelopes he didn’t want.

There was one way to find out. Sachs had collected what business documents she could find. One would probably contain an inventory of the diamonds Patel had in stock. Evidence technicians at Crime Scene headquarters in Queens, those working in the HVE, the high-value evidence room, would compare the inventory against what was in the safe. Eventually they’d discover what was missing.

It could take months.

Too long. They needed to know as soon as possible what had been taken, so conversations could start with confidential informants who had stolen-jewelry contacts, known fences and money launderers. With robbery, if you don’t stop the perps in the act, the investigation will invariably be a long slog through the complicated, wide-flung world of moving stolen merchandise.

But there didn’t seem to be any way to short-circuit the process.

Except...

Something was wrong about this. Why leave these stones? What was more important than them?

Sachs crouched — carefully, her arthritic knee sometimes complained on these damp days — and looked through the safe more carefully. Some of the envelopes contained only one diamond, some dozens. The gems seemed damn nice to her, plenty perp-worthy. But what did she know? She wasn’t a jewelry girl. The only sparkle she wore was her blue diamond engagement ring, which sat modestly beside a thin gold band — now both hidden beneath purple latex.

She guessed there were several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stones in the safe.

There for the taking.

Yet he hadn’t.

She rose, feeling a trickle of moisture down her temples. The day was cold but the old building’s radiators emitted sweat-lodge heat, which was trapped against her body by the white Tyvek overalls. She remembered the days when one searched a scene wearing only gloves and, sometimes, booties. The protective outfits, a staple of crime scenes around the world, now existed for two reasons: First, because of the risk from dangerous materials at the scene. And, second, defense attorneys. The odds of contaminating a scene by not wearing overalls were extremely small. But a sharp lawyer could derail the prosecution’s case entirely by planting a seed of doubt that it might have happened.

Okay, if not the safe, then what?

As the medical examiner techs removed the bodies — the couple first and then Patel — she gazed over the three rooms once more.

What if, Sachs speculated, it wasn’t a robbery at all, but a hit? Had Patel borrowed money from a loan shark and failed to pay it back? Not likely — he owned a successful business and hardly seemed like the kind of man to contact a local gangbanger for a loan at 30 percent vig, the going rate for interest on street borrowing, and that was per month.

A romance gone bad? Patel was a widower, she’d learned. And the round, unkempt middle-aged man just didn’t seem like the type to become embroiled in a torrid and dangerous affair. If simply killing him was the motive, why the torture? And, for that matter, why break into the shop? Why not just tap him at home or on the street?

Her eyes returned to the workroom. Had Patel or an employee been working on a diamond or piece of jewelry that was particularly valuable?

She walked into the room. The workstations didn’t appear to have been used today; all the equipment was arranged neatly on shelves or racks. However, at one station she noticed another of those sheets of paper folded into an envelope for holding diamonds, like those in the safe. This one, however, was empty. Written on it in pen were: GC-1, GC-2, GC-3 and GC-4. The names for the diamonds it had contained, she guessed, since weight in carats was given next to each (they ranged from five to seven point five). There were letters beside each, as well. The designation D, IF was next to three. Beside the last one, smaller, was D, F. Quality ranking, maybe. Also on the sheet was written: Owner: Grace-Cabot Mining, Ltd., Cape Town, South Africa. Beside that was the company’s phone number.

“Hm,” she muttered aloud when she saw another note, at the bottom. This stated the valuation of each stone. The total worth was sixty-eight million ZAR. She pulled out her phone and Googled, learning that the denomination was, not surprisingly, South African rands.

What was surprising was the number she came up with when she ran the currency conversion calculator.

The value in U.S. dollars hovered around five million

Amelia Sachs believed she had found a pretty likely answer to Question Number One.

Chapter 5

To confirm that the pricey diamonds were indeed what had been stolen, Amelia Sachs returned to the safe and looked at every one of the hundreds of small folded squares.

No envelopes were marked with the letters GC or the company name. A call to Grace-Cabot would confirm that Patel had been in possession of the stones but it was a reasonable assumption that these were what the unsub had taken.

Had he known the gems were here? Or had he simply picked Patel’s operation at random and demanded to know where the most valuable stones were?

Only speculation at this point.

Sachs photographed the Grace-Cabot box and receipt, then bagged them.

Now, Question Two: the torture.

Sachs disagreed with Sellitto that Patel had been tortured to give up the combination of the safe or tell where valuable diamonds, like the Grace-Cabot stones, were. In the end, the diamonds were just a commodity. Faced with death, or even the threat of torture, Patel would have given up any or all of his wares. Everything would be insured. No bit of jewelry was worth your life or one second of pain.

No, the unsub was after something else. What?

To find an answer Amelia Sachs did what she often was forced to do at scenes, as harrowing as the process might be: She mentally, emotionally, became the perp. In an instant she was no longer a cop, no longer a woman. She was the man who had created this carnage.

And asking herself — himself: Why do I need to hurt him?

Need is the word. I’m feeling an urgency. A desperation.

Why do I have to hurt him and make him talk?

A prickly sensation around her face again, around the base of her neck, above her spine. This wasn’t the heat from the stifling air, which she’d felt earlier. And it wasn’t the horror she was feeling at the Method Acting role she was playing. No, the symptoms were from the edginess coursing through his body.

Something’s not right. I need to fix it. What, what, what?

Go back in time, think, imagine, picture...

Just after noon, I’m entering the shop. Yes, entering the office behind the couple, William and Anna. These lovers are my entrée through security and they’re going to die because they’ve seen my face. I feel relief at this thought: their death. It’s comforting. No loose ends.

When they push through the door, I move in behind them.

I can’t control both of them with the knife. No, I’ll have that firearm out. But I’m reluctant to use it because of the noise.

Still, I will if I have to, and they know it.

William and Anna and Patel don’t move.

They settle.

I settle.

I’m in control.

Good, I’m feeling good now.

I hit Patel — with the weapon, probably. Incapacitate him. The couple gets tied up. They’re crying, both of them. Moving close to each other, to feel the other’s presence. Because they know what’s coming.

I’m not moved by this, not at all.

This thought took her back to herself and her breath grew fast, her teeth ground together, her gut tightened. She dug one gloved index fingernail against a gloved thumb. Felt the pain. Ignored it.

Back. Get back inside him.

And she did.

Now I’m crouching, grabbing the hair of the man and slicing his neck.

Then the woman’s.

I hear Patel’s cries. But I pay them no mind as I watch the couple thrash and bleed to death. One task done. That’s what I think. A task. Done. Good. Tick one thing off the list. That’s all the deaths are. A checkmark.

I turn to Patel. He’s down, he’s no threat. And he’s terrified. I ask him for the most valuable stones he’s got.

He tells me. He gives the combination to the safe and I get the Grace-Cabot diamonds. But — here’s the key. Important. Vital. I want something else, something he’s not giving up.

What?

Now, bending down, I’m cutting differently, cutting to hurt, cutting to let information spill from him, along with the blood. It’s satisfying. Again. Another cut. Face and ear and finger.

Then, finally, he tells me.

I relax. The knife finds his throat. Three fast slices.

It’s over.

What has Patel told me?

What has he given me?

What am I so desperate to find? What do I so need to find?

I have my treasures, five million worth of stones. Why not just leave?

Then she understood.

The one thing I need is to protect myself. I’m obsessed with my own preservation. That’s what I could torture someone for. To learn the identity of somebody who’s a threat to me. I spray-paint one security camera, I steal the hard drive of the camera I can’t paint, I kill two innocent witnesses solely because they’ve seen my face...

I need to make sure no other witnesses will say anything to the police.

There was the man who walked into the robbery, the man I shot, and who called 911 to report the attack. Would I torture Patel to get his name? He didn’t see much. Just me in a ski mask, he’d reported. And he probably walked in after Patel was dead. Not much of a threat there. No, more likely I’d have tortured the diamond cutter to find the name of somebody else who might have seen my actual face.

Yes, that could be reason enough to torture.

Stepping out of character, Sachs lowered her head and slumped against the wall, breathing hard and wiping sweat from her eyes and temples. When she’d recovered from the dark channeling, she returned to the hallway and browsed through the evidence. She located Patel’s calendar and looked through it. The entries indicated that “S” would be here at 11 a.m., “W and A” — William and Anna, the murdered couple — at 11:45. “VL” was written in the margin on Saturday, not next to any particular time. VL was likely the answer to Question Number Three — who had called 911. A partial answer only, though, as initials were not an identification.

She speculated: The unsub could have been in or near the building when S arrived or left, and he could have been worried that S had seen his face. He needed Patel to tell him S’s name to find and eliminate him. The same with VL.

She thumbed through other pages of the day planner. Along with notations of hundreds of meetings and apparent assignments over the past month, there were two references to appointments with S in the past ten days. VL appeared regularly, three or four times a week. So VL was possibly an employee or associate; this meant he would know the door code and so might walk into the robbery in progress, surprising the robber, who shot him.

Who are you, both? S? And VL?

And where are you?

Then a thought occurred.

If he was the one who’d walked in on the robbery, gotten shot and fled... how had he escaped?

The unsub had shot him. But then he would have chased after the man immediately. Given five or six seconds to step around the bodies and avoid slipping in the blood, the killer still would have had a good chance at catching up with the fleeing witness.

Sachs studied the hall once more. She’d assumed the killer had entered via the elevator, particularly because he’d spray-painted the camera just outside it. Or perhaps he’d taken the stairs, next to the elevator.

But there was another door on this floor, next to Patel’s office, a fire exit. Sachs had noticed it but had noted too the sign that warned: Fire Exit. Alarm Will Sound When Opened.

Since no one in the building had reported an alarm and the door was closed, she assumed the perp hadn’t used it. And he wouldn’t have thought that VL had escaped that way.

The actual site of the murder, or robbery, is the primary crime scene but there are others, of course. The perp has to get there and then get away and each of the secondary scenes can be a source of delightfully incriminating evidence. In fact, those scenes often yield more helpful clues than the primary scene since the perps might be more cavalier on the way to a job and more careless fleeing afterward.

She walked to the door. Pulling her weapon, Sachs pushed it open. No alarm.

Entering the dim, musty stairwell, Sachs played her flashlight beam upward and then down to the landing below. She paused and listened. There were creaks and grinds, and the wind, this cold ugly March wind, moaned through ancient seams in the building. But she heard no sound of footsteps. Of weapons chambering rounds.

The evidence had not given any indication that the perp had remained behind but there was no evidence suggesting he hadn’t.

Crouching, she swept her Maglite beam once more into the darkness.

She continued slowly down the stairs and there, on the landing between the second and third floors, she found a small scattering of objects.

It was similar to what she’d found inside the doorway of Patel’s office, chips and grains and dust of dark gray stone. She’d thought it might be gravel tracked in by someone, though none of the victims’ shoes revealed similar traces. But apparently not. In addition were shreds of brown paper — the shade of a grocery or lunch bag. And, explaining a lot, there was a bullet. It was deformed and flattened, and on the mushroomed nose were bits of the same gray rock. Several of the shards of stone were bloody, though the slug was not.

A logical scenario presented itself. The unsub breaks in, steals the Grace-Cabot stones, kills the engaged couple, then tortures Patel to get S’s name, thinking he might be a witness. He kills Patel. He’s about to leave when VL enters the office, using the door code. The killer’s surprised and shoots at him. The vic is carrying a bag containing stones to be carved and polished into jewelry. The bullet hits the stone and he’s wounded by some shards. He flees through the fire door, which the killer ignores, thinking he can’t have gone that way because of the alarm bar.

So there are two witnesses whom the perp is presumably aware of: S, whose name and address Patel might have given up under torture. And VL, who might have seen only the ski mask but may know something else the unsub does not want to come to light.

Whoever VL is, he’d be at risk too, of course. One concern might be that a stone splinter had lodged in or near a vital organ. He might be bleeding severely.

That risk might or might not be the case.

The other, though, was certain. Sachs assumed that the unsub had looked at Patel’s diary and knew that not only S but VL was a potential threat.

Of course, the unsub might flee the area with his spectacular diamond windfall.

But Sachs’s few moments of channeling him earlier suggested otherwise. She believed, she knew that he was staying put for the time being; a man who would so casually orchestrate a bloody crime scene like this was absolutely not the sort to leave witnesses alive.

Chapter 6

The Port Authority, of all things, brought him comfort.

The sprawling, scuffed complex at 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue was, in reality, a massive bus terminal, despite a name that suggested ocean liners from exotic locations were queuing to dock.

The place was a churning tub of harried suburban commuters, of travelers bound for, or journeying from, the region’s airports, of tourists. Here you’d also find energized young hopefuls from all over the world, carrying gym bags and backpacks stuffed with jeans, sweats, plush animals, condoms, sheet music, sketchbooks, good-luck theater programs and plenty of dreams sturdy, and dreams fragile.

Here too, hustlers, dealers, scam artists, chicken hawks — not particularly clever ones. But then you didn’t need to be a keen tactician when the herd you preyed upon was made up of naïve and enthusiastic kids from Wheaton, Illinois, or Grand Rapids. The Port Authority saw fewer of these sly players than in the past but that wasn’t due to a moral surge in looking out for our youth; terrorism had kept the police population on the Deuce high.

Vimal Lahori knew a lot about this — or speculated much upon it — because the Port Authority was a home away from home.

He would slip over here to have some fast food for lunch; it was a short walk from his job at Mr. Patel's, on 47th. To watch the people, their expressions, their gestures and emotions — to find inspiration he would take home with him and, in his workshop, try to render that vision into three dimensions.

He sat on a waiting area bench and enwrapped his throbbing torso with his arms. He squeezed hard. The pain subsided a bit but then returned. Spread, in fact, as if he’d broken a thin sack of acid and the discomfort now flowed to places where it hadn’t been. The worst was in his right side, where, at elbow level, he felt a large lump beneath the skin. As the killer had raised the gun, Vimal had instinctively turned away. Either the bullet or part of it or a fragment of stone had ripped through his clothes and lodged. He’d heard if you went to the emergency room and either told them you’d been shot or they deduced it the medical workers had to call the police.

And that, of course, would not work.

Reaching under his jacket and up under the Keep Weird sweatshirt, he probed with his left hand — the only one that could reach the site. He withdrew his fingers and saw blood. A lot of it.

Vimal closed his eyes momentarily. He was at a complete loss, paralyzed. Mr. Patel dead — the vision of his feet angling toward the dim ceiling of the shop wouldn’t go away. That couple too. William Sloane and his fiancée, Anna. And the man in the mask, walking into the doorway, eyes squinting in surprise to see him. Lifting the gun and the two sounds almost simultaneous: the explosion then the snap of the bullet striking the bag in his hand.

He’d stumbled back and then was sprinting flat-out through the fire door — the alarm hadn’t worked for years — and stumbling down the stairs. He’d been terrified the man would follow but no. He must have assumed Vimal had run for the stairwell in the front of the building. Or maybe he’d assumed the bullet would soon be fatal.

And now here was Vimal Lahori.

Finding comfort, to the extent comfort could be found.

His cap pulled low, hunkered down on the bench, Vimal gazed around him. Even now, not a workday, the place was crowded. The Port Authority terminal was near the Theater District. The rush for the Saturday matinees was over. The plays had started or were about to. But there were still a million things to see and do on the weekends, even on a cold March afternoon: the Disneyland of Times Square, movies, brunch, shopping. And his favorites: the Metropolitan and MoMA, the galleries south of 14th Street.

Hundreds streamed past.

Under other circumstances, he would be absorbing the energy. Under other circumstances, he would be gazing at the electronic departure signs and wondering about the destinations the buses might take him (Vimal had never been out of the metro area). Now, of course, he was looking for the man who was possibly looking for him.

The fire stairs outside Mr. Patel’s shop had led him to a delivery bay behind the building. He’d sprinted to 46th Street and turned west. And kept on sprinting. Facts are facts and a skinny South Asian speeding from the Diamond District suggested someone on an errand — the way a sprinting black or Latino young man might not. No one had paid him much mind. He’d glanced back frequently and had not seen the killer in pursuit.

He’d stopped only briefly. When he’d hit Sixth Avenue he’d searched for and finally found a pay phone. They were being replaced by the wifi-enabled LinkNYC system, which was highly traceable — the kiosks even video recorded users — but he’d managed to locate an old-fashioned phone, call 911 and report the crime. How helpful the information was, Vimal couldn’t say: He’d called primarily to have them send police and an ambulance in case anyone was still alive. The three people in the shop appeared dead but perhaps not. As for a description of the robber, all he could say was it was a man of medium build, wearing gloves and ski mask, both black. He seemed to be white. Vimal didn’t know the gun. Maybe somebody who was allowed to watch TV and movies more than he was would know what kind it might be. To him it was just a gun.

Then he’d hung up, sprinted another block and plunged into the crowds of Times Square, looking back frequently.

Now he was in his sanctuary, the bustling Port Authority.

He tried to think of anything else that might help the police. But Vimal was sure this had just been a random crime. There’d never been any threats before, never any robberies at the shop. Mr. Patel was known throughout the world as a master diamantaire. Sure, he had some amazing stones in the shop, but that wasn’t known to the public. His retail operation was very small, and generally customers were referred to him from other retailers when they wanted special fancies.

No one in that circle would rob a fellow cutter, let alone murder anyone. It simply didn’t happen in the diamond world.

The pain swelled again.

Another touch to his skin.

More fresh blood.

Had anyone noticed his condition? He scanned the crowds, noting a woman on a nearby chair eating a soft pretzel, a dozen people pulling suitcases behind them like complacent dogs, a clutch of homeless men and women, some filled with the certainty of God, some purely bewildered.

He fished his phone from his pocket, wincing against the pain. He sent one text and was pleased to read the reply.

He sent a silly emoji, then felt like an idiot for doing so under the circumstances.

Then he stared at the screen, debating. And delaying. That he’d had no texts from his father meant that his family hadn’t heard the news yet. Even when the story broke, his name probably wouldn’t be included. Obviously, he wasn’t among the victims at the shop and since Mr. Patel paid him cash and Vimal kept none of his personal things at the shop, it would be very unlikely that the police would learn about him.

Still, the instant the story broke about Mr. Patel’s death, Vimal could expect his phone to begin ringing nonstop.

He continued to look at the scuffed screen. Just send the message, be done with it.

Go ahead.

It wasn’t like placing a phone call. It was just a text. Nobody could interact with him verbally, be stern, treat him like a ten-year-old. Just a fucking text.

He typed the message.

His finger hovered over the arrow of the Send button.

He added:

He reached for the Power Down button but before he could press it a reply filled the screen.

As his phone drifted off to sleep, Vimal’s heart was pounding almost as fast as when he’d seen the gun pointing his way. A nearly instantaneous reply, he reflected, despite the fact his father had capitalized each word manually.

He noted too that of all the comments he might have made, the man had said nothing about Mr. Patel’s death or the robbery but had demanded to know the identity of Vimal’s friend. There were no friends, of course. He knew no one well enough to stay with, certainly not in this instance. The line was simply a way to put his father — or more, his mother and brother — at ease.

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 different.

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:

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 phone 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.

This lack of insight was true too of those in the stores and restaurants along 47th Street and nearby. “Nobody’s talking to me, Lincoln,” the young officer had said. “It’s like they’re afraid to be seen helping. As if the unsub is nearby, taking notes.”

“Keep at it, Rookie,” Rhyme said and hung up. He wasn’t enamored of witnesses in any event — their testimony, he felt, was aggressively unreliable — and was hoping mostly that someone might point Pulaski in the direction of evidence that the fleeing perp had discarded or accidentally shed.

He looked over the four-by-three-foot erasable whiteboard on which Sachs and Cooper were recording their results.

They knew a few things from the anonymous call (assuming it was accurate): The perp was probably white, male, his face obscured by a black cloth ski mask. He wore gloves and was armed. Average height. Another call had been made to 911, reporting that the killer had carried a black briefcase. It hadn’t been found at the scene, so he would have it with him possibly, unless he’d ditched it.

Sachs believed that the caller was the employee or associate of Patel’s who’d walked into the crime and been shot, VL. A canvass of the Port Authority, where he’d made the most recent phone call, had revealed no sightings of anyone injured. Rhyme had wanted someone to remove the coins from the pay phones from which the man had made the call and fingerprint them.

“You don’t need a quarter to call nine one one,” Sellitto had said, amused. “The city got that worked out in the budget.” Hospitals had been alerted to report anyone injured by what would be rock splinters but the odds that the roughly one thousand emergency room doctors in the New York area would learn of this request and follow through, if they did, were pretty damn slim.

Sachs had called the company that owned the diamonds, Grace-Cabot in Cape Town, South Africa. It was hours later there, early morning, and she’d left a message. There was, after all, a possibility that the stones had been shipped back or were elsewhere, perhaps contracted out to other diamond cutters who worked with Patel.

If that was true the case would become even more confounding, and it would be up to the high-value evidence technicians to run an inventory and learn if anything was in fact missing.

As for physical evidence, there’d been hundreds of friction ridge images — fingerprints — discovered: the shop, the elevator, the handles of the doors to the street, the doors to the stairwell, the railings in the stairwells. But none were in the IAFIS database. He hadn’t expected any hits; the number of cloth glove prints suggested Unsub 47 never took them off.

Don’t make it easy for us, do they? A rhetorical query that Rhyme didn’t bother to express aloud.

Some crimes — sexual in nature and physical fights, for instance — are usually DNA-rich exchanges, and the deoxyribonucleic acid database — CODIS, in America — might reveal an identity in such instances. But a crime like this, by a gloved killer, wearing a long-sleeve outer garment and slacks — as well as the ski mask — would offer little chance for him to leave behind DNA.

Some cloth fibers had been found, none of which matched the clothing worn by the victims. Some were black cotton, most likely from gloves — since they were found on doorknobs and drawers. Also, Sachs had discovered black polyester fibers, which were probably from the ski mask.

No empty cartridge shells from the gunshot; he’d taken the brass with him.

“What do we have there?” Rhyme asked his lab man impatiently. His eyes on the electrostatic footprints from Jatin Patel’s shop, now scanned and slapped onto a high-def screen.

Mel Cooper was wearing a white lab coat, cap and gloves, as well as a face mask. And his ever-present Harry Potter glasses. “Hard to say for certain but our boy’s between a ten and an eleven and a half.” Since shoe toes curl upward and heel size varies, it’s sometimes difficult to ascertain an exact size. “And some distinctive wear marks but there’s no tread.”

“So businessman footwear.”

“Right.” Much better if the perps wear running shoes. The distinctive tread marks will usually give you brand and model number, and sometimes even color can be ascertained from the model.

“Any small lines in the blood, next to the shoe prints?” Rhyme was looking at an image shot by Sachs on her Sony digital camera.

“Lines?” Cooper asked.

“Wormy lines, squiggly lines,” Rhyme muttered. “I can’t tell.” When he noted that both Sellitto and Cooper were glancing his way, perplexed, he started to speak but Sachs, hunched over an examination table, said, “From dangling shoelaces. They might not show up in the electrostatics but they would in the blood.”

Rhyme smiled. He loved her.

“Ah.” Cooper examined the footprint photos. Sellitto looked once, then checked texts.

“Ah, bored, are we, Lon? Many a case’s been closed because of something as trivial as finding out if the perp wears shoes with laces or not.”

“Hey, Linc, you’re the squiggly line/bloody shoe-print guru. Not me.” He took another phone call and stepped away.

No squiggles, it turned out. Probably slip-ons.

The witness had reported only one perp present, and footprints confirmed the killer was by himself.

His weapon was most likely a 9mm Glock, like Sachs’s, to judge from the polygonal rifling of the slug. Gun barrels for the past 150 years have contained interior indentations to spin the bullet as it leaves the weapon, making it more accurate. Most have lands and grooves — troughs. Glocks, however, have wavy indentations, not sharp edges, which give the bullet more speed and power. They aren’t the only guns with this feature — others are Heckler & Koch, Kahr Arms, Magnum Research, Tanfoglio, and CZ — but Glocks are by far the most common to feature polygonal rifling.

Sellitto disconnected his phone. “That was a couple gold shields. Went to Patel’s sister’s house, delivered the news. His wife had passed away a few years ago and the sister’s the only family he’s got in the area. They said it was pretty tough for her. She nearly collapsed. They waited till her husband got home to ask her questions. She said she didn’t know much about the business. That was a ‘man thing,’ she said.

“Patel’d never told her or her husband that he was concerned about security or that anybody’d been casing the shop. But he was really famous as a cutter — here and internationally too. Word could’ve gotten around that he had some nice shit for somebody to steal. My word, not hers.”

Sachs asked, “Partners? Employees? She have any idea who that witness was?”

“She didn’t really know. He owned the place himself. No full-time employees — he was too cheap and didn’t trust anybody else to work on the stones. Except, his sister thought, some young man worked there occasionally, apprenticing to be a diamond cutter. They asked about S and VL. But zip.”

Sachs said, “Probably paid in cash, off the books, to save money; no payroll information to help us track him down.”

A team from Crime Scene in Queens had searched Patel’s modest apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where he’d lived alone since his wife passed away of cancer some years ago. There was no evidence of a break-in, and — as Rhyme had wondered — the Grace-Cabot diamonds were not there.

Neither was Patel’s phone, so their contact at the NYPD Computer Crimes Unit was presently getting a list of numbers, incoming and outgoing, from the provider. They hoped one of these would prove to be a call to or from S or VL.

Sachs stepped away to take a call and, nodding absently as she had a conversation, jotted a few notes. Then gave the caller her email address.

A moment later a computer sounded with an incoming message and she disconnected and called it up.

“Movie time,” she said. “Security company for the building. This’s the security video of the floor this morning.” She downloaded it and began playing the grainy black-and-white footage.

Rhyme wheeled closer. Patel had arrived for work at about eight thirty this morning. Nothing happened until a few minutes before eleven. A man appeared, bearded and in a black overcoat and a short-brimmed hat, possibly with short dark hair. He pushed a button on the intercom of Patel’s shop, was admitted and stayed about twenty minutes.

“Probably S — Patel’s eleven o’clock.”

Five minutes later he left, according to the time stamp, some black speckles began to appear in the image and for a fraction of a second you could see a gloved hand and a shape of a head in the ski mask as the unsub sprayed black paint at the lens, while staying largely out of sight. The fuzzy images — literally thirteen frames — revealed nothing.

Rhyme looked to Cooper, who anticipated his question. “I ran the paint. It’s generic. No source.”

The criminalist grunted.

She reminded, “Patel’s security footage is gone. Forty-Seven took it with him but some Midtown North uniforms’re collecting video from the street. Most of the stores’ cameras are interior but there’re a few outside. We’ll see what they turn up. They’re checking the loading dock on Forty-Six too; that’s where the fire exit leads to.”

She asked Cooper for the clearest screenshot of S, from the hallway outside Patel’s. He processed the image and sent it to her via email. “I’ll get it to the canvassers. See if they can get a name.” She sat down at a nearby terminal, logged in and uploaded the shot for citywide distribution.

Mel Cooper turned to the others. “I’ve ID’d the stones that the apprentice, or whoever he was, was carrying — what the bullet hit. Looks like it’s in the serpentinite family — it’s called that because of the coloring and mottled texture; looks like snakeskin. If it’s got garnets or diamonds in it it’s kimberlite. That’s what this is. I can see little flecks of crystal that could be diamonds. Patel probably cuts and polishes it into necklaces or earrings.”

The parlor landline rang. The caller ID was a country code Rhyme did not recognize.

Sachs glanced at it. “South Africa.”

She hit Speaker and answered. “Yes?”

“Yes, hello. I’m trying to reach a Detective Amelia Sachs.” The accent was that melodic blend of Dutch and English.

“This is Detective Sachs.”

The caller identified himself as Llewelyn Croft, the managing director of Grace-Cabot Mining, Ltd., in Cape Town.

“Mr. Croft, you’re on speakerphone with Lieutenant Lon Sellitto, New York Police, and Lincoln Rhyme, a consultant.”

“I got your message. You said there’s been a theft that might involve us?”

“That’s right. I didn’t leave details on the phone but I’m sorry to tell you the diamond cutter who had the stones, Jatin Patel, was killed in the robbery.”

They heard a gasp.

“No! Oh, no. I saw him just last week. No, this is terrible.” His voice faded. “I can’t... killed?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“We’ve worked with him for years. He was one of the best diamond cutters in New York. Well, in the world.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and continued, “Are you saying our diamonds were stolen? Are you sure?”

“No, not for certain. One of the reasons I’m calling. I found an empty box with a receipt for a shipment of four items, ID numbers GC-one through — four.”

“Yes,” he said, sounding dismayed. “Those are ours.”

“In rands they’re worth about sixty eight million?”

A sigh. Then nothing.

“Sir?”

“Yes, that’s the insured value. They were rough so when finished they would have sold for much more.”

“This is Detective Lon Sellitto. As far as you know then, Patel had the stones with him? Could he’ve sent them out to be worked on?”

“No, no. He’d never do that. Only he was talented enough to work on them. My God. Those stones... Do you know who did it?”

“We’re investigating,” Sachs said.

Sellitto asked, “Who’d have known that Patel had these diamonds?”

A pause, then Croft said, “I couldn’t say, of course, who Jatin told. But I doubt he mentioned them to anyone. I don’t know how familiar you are with the diamond industry but no one talks about jobs. Especially with incomparable stones like these. Security is paramount. And within our company? An inside job, I’m sure you’re thinking. Only a few executives knew they were going to Jatin. But we’re all partners in the company — and, frankly, we’re all fairly well off. As for the line workers and miners? Once the stone is extracted and processed, they have no idea where it goes. Sometimes transport companies sell information to thieves but I flew the rough to New York myself. It was that valuable.” A pause. “That irreplaceable.”

“The what?” Rhyme interrupted. “You’ve said ‘rough’ before. What is that?”

“Sorry. That’s what we call uncut diamonds. Rough.” He paused once more. “My educated guess would be the thief didn’t know about our stones in particular. He picked Jatin’s store at random then demanded uncut diamonds. Finished stones have laser registration numbers — you can only see them with a loupe. But that makes moving them very difficult. There’s a much better illicit market for uncut diamonds. The pros always go for rough.”

Sachs asked, “Do you know anyone in America the thief’d approach to fence the diamonds to?”

“In America, no. But I can give you the number of our insurer’s New York office. I’ll have to put them on notice anyway. And they’d have somebody on staff who’d be able to help you.” He gave them the number; Sachs jotted it down.

Croft said, “I do hope you can bring all your resources to finding this man. This is such a tragedy. Unspeakable.”

Three people slaughtered, one of them tortured. And two witnesses in peril.

But Llewellyn Croft meant something else, it seemed.

“You see, I don’t think the thief will sell the stones outright. What he’ll do is have them cut quickly — he’ll butcher them and the finished diamonds will disappear into the mass-market trade in Amsterdam or Jerusalem or Surat. Those diamonds were destined for greatness. And now? They’ll be ruined.” He repeated, “Tragic.”

Sellitto’s face twisted into a grimace. It was Amelia Sachs who said, “Well, Mr. Croft, we’ll do our best to track him down.” She added a cool tone to her voice. “And make sure no one else loses their life.”

Chapter 9

Shivering in the mid-March chill, arms encircling his narrow chest, Vimal Lahori sat in Washington Square Park, that pleasant enclave of peaceful urban greenery in Greenwich Village. Here, on days nicer than this, you saw quite the mix: fringe musicians and nannies, uninspired drug dealers, earnest students, notebook-scribbling poets, thoughtful academics and the businesspeople who could walk home from their hedge fund and law offices in Wall Street but generally preferred limos.

Now, early evening, Vimal was in a shadowy, deserted portion of the place, far from the towering, and well-lit, arch, which echoed Paris’s Arc de Triomphe. He glanced at the New York University classrooms and residences and the fine Hamilton-era town houses, the windows glowing with yellow lights. People would be inside preparing to go out on the town, showering, primping, dressing. Or chopping vegetables and sipping wine for a dinner party soon to be. The sight of these small, inaccessible pleasures made Vimal Lahori want to cry. He played absently with the brown cloth bracelet that Adeela had made for him. His father had wondered if it might interfere with his working the dop stick, so he didn’t slip it on until after he’d left the house.

Literally looking over his shoulder frequently on the long, cold walk here, he had made his way via a complicated route from the Port Authority, which was thirty, thirty-five blocks north. He’d been planning to take the train but the shock of that man at the bus station, returning his phone, had shaken him so much that he’d decided to walk.

Not very likely that the killer was prowling the subway, taking train after train in hopes of finding him. He, of course, had seen Vimal, knew exactly what he looked like. But the diamond cutter’s apprentice had seen only a mask, gloves and dark clothing.

His paranoia wasn’t completely unreasonable, though; he’d stopped into a bar to gulp down two Cokes and had watched the news, learning that the man was still loose and believed to be in the city, armed and dangerous. Anyone with knowledge of the crime should come forward immediately. Which sounded like the police spokesperson was adding: for their own safety. Maybe they had information that the killer was in fact looking for him because of what he’d seen. He’d assume that was the case.

Thinking once more of the bloody shop. The shock was gone now, replaced by horror and sorrow. Mr. Patel dead. He’d been a taskmaster, stern and rarely satisfied. But reasonable. Kind in his own way. And whatever Vimal thought about the industry Mr. Patel had devoted his life to, you couldn’t argue that he wasn’t a genius. Vimal knew how hard it was to have your hands create what your heart saw.

And that couple, the customers, the young man and woman! What a sad thing they had walked into the crime. William and Anna. Their wedding was to be in six months, he seemed to recall.

He hadn’t gotten much of a look at the bodies at the shop, the encounter had been so shocking and so fast. And once the image of the motionless feet of his mentor had seared itself into his memory, he had seen little else. Vimal Lahori believed that image would be with him for the rest of his life.

He looked at his phone — his only source for the time — and noted seven missed calls from his father, twelve texts. As he stared, the muted phone lit up with another call from the man.

He hit Reject and put the unit away.

A grim smile. If only he could also reject the guilt he was feeling.

Mr. Patel, that couple... An unspeakable tragedy.

And yet...

Vimal couldn’t deny the warm, if tainted, feeling of relief, a burden lessening. He’d been crushed for a long time by a slow unstoppable pressure like that a hundred miles beneath the earth’s surface, pressing, pressing, pressing to form diamonds. Now freedom was possible. There was no way he could have taken this step on his own. Without some cataclysmic occurrence like the robbery and murder, he would have done what he had always done: acquiesced and accepted the life his father had chosen for him. Agreed. Kept mum. Hating himself for it, every minute.

As horrifying as the circumstances were, Vimal Lahori had been given a chance. He’d take it. His life was going in a new direction.

Some motion from across the park. He spotted her now.

First things first...

The young woman, with magnificent long, dark hair, walked purposefully into the center of the park, looking from right to left. Despite the horror of what had just happened, despite the pain in his side, he felt that tap within him, that familiar thud.

Every time he saw her — even after all these months of dating — it happened.

Oh, it wasn’t the smoothest of relationships. The couple didn’t see each other nearly as often as they would have liked. She was a busy medical student at NYU and he worked long and irregular hours for Mr. Patel and other diamond cutters his father would “rent” him out to. And Vimal needed to spend much of his free time in the basement studio at home.

This was typical of many couples, of course, in the metro area in this day and age. These were complications that got sorted out. But in their case there was a stickier problem. Vimal’s parents did not know about Adeela Badour, and hers did not know about him.

She wasn’t tall but her slim figure offered the impression that she was. Tonight her hair was purely black (occasionally, in defiance of a conservative mother, she would streak the strands blue or green — though hers was a tame rebellion; the tinting was never seen at family gatherings at home).

She now saw Vimal and her long face brightened. At first, that is. But she grew somber then alarmed, perhaps because he looked pale and drawn.

Vimal acknowledged her by lifting his head briefly. He didn’t want to wave. He was still thinking of the man in the mask. A look around revealed only a dozen people nearby, all oblivious to him and moving quickly to get somewhere less damp and chill.

She dropped onto the bench and flung her arms around him. “Vim... Oh...”

He winced and she released him immediately, then eased back and looked him over. He gazed at her beautiful face. She wore complicated, though subtle, makeup on her rich skin, so carefully applied he couldn’t actually say which of her features had been accented.

Vimal gripped her hand and kissed her hard. Her eyes, he now noted, were studying him clinically.

“I saw the news. I’m so sorry. Mr. Patel. And those customers. It’s all over the TV. But they didn’t say anything about anybody else being there.”

He explained to her about walking in and surprising the robber.

“I ran. I think he came after me but I took the back stairs.”

“Your text: You’re hurt?”

He explained that the man had shot at him but the bullet missed, hitting the bag he carried. Some pieces of stone or part of the bullet had cut him. “I need it looked at.”

She said, “Go to the hospital.”

“I can’t. The doctors’d figure out I was shot. They have to report it to the police.”

“Well...” Adeela lifted her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Meaning, That’s a good thing.

Vimal said simply: “I can’t.” There was no way he was going to explain the reason — no, make that reasons — he couldn’t go to the cops. “You brought what I asked for?”

She said nothing.

“Please.”

“Well, where can I look at it?”

“Here, I guess.”

“Here?” She barked a laugh. A medical exam in Washington Square Park on a cold, overcast March evening?

But she would realize that there weren’t many other options, as they both lived with their parents.

She glanced about, saw no one nearby and nodded toward his jacket. He unzipped the garment and tugged up his sweatshirt and undershirt. “Well,” she said softly. “Just like a sculptor to get hurt by flying rock. Good thing you don’t collect razor blades and knives.”

Adeela then lost her wry smile and went into a different place mentally, a place that would make her a fine doctor someday. He wasn’t Vimal Lahori, whose lips she’d kissed and chest she’d tickled as they drowsed after making love. He was a patient. And she, his doctor. That was everything. She squinted, studied him carefully, then reached into her bag. She pulled on blue latex gloves.

“What does it look like?” he asked.

“Shhh. Keep watch.”

He did. But none of the few people nearby paid them any heed.

Her quick hands went to work, with gauze pads and a cold dark-orange liquid, some antiseptic. He felt stinging but nothing too severe.

“Minor lacerations. Bruises.”

“My side. That’s what I’m worried about.”

“I see it.”

A burst of stinging pain as she probed the lower right, bottom rib.

“Here’s a fragment. Under the skin.” She exhaled, her concern apparent in the sound. “Vim, a doctor. You have to.”

He saw how that scenario would play out. “No.”

“I don’t have any anesthetic.” Medical students were strictly over-the-counter docs, he supposed.

“Just try.”

“Vim, I study physiology and organic chemistry. Books, computers. We don’t even get cadavers for a year.”

“I’d do it myself but I can’t reach it. Please.”

She continued, “And stitches.”

He squeezed her hand. “Not the hospital. Just get it out. And do what you can. Bandages.”

For an instant, emotion returned to her beautiful face and she grimaced. “I’ll butterfly it. But if the bleeding doesn’t stop...”

She dug into her purse and extracted a pair of tweezers. “Here, hold these for me.”

He took them.

“Hand them to me when I ask for them. And hold this.” She handed him her iPhone and switched on the flashlight. “Point it down, at your side.”

“Do you want the tweezers?”

“Not yet.” He felt her hands touching near the throbbing portion of skin. “It’ll be a minute. But I’ll need them fast when I ask.”

She sounded troubled. Was there more of a problem than—

“Ah,” he cried out and reared back as a bolt of pain shot from his side up to his jaw and then vanished to a dull ache.

“Got it,” she said, displaying a bloody shard of kimberlite on a gauze pad. Her strong fingers had squeezed the wound hard to force the splinter out.

“You tricked me,” he whispered, breathing hard.

She took the unused tweezers back. “It’s called mental anesthetic. Distraction, then you move fast.”

“You learn that in school?”

“Discovery Channel, I think. The Civil War surgeons.”

Adeela set the gauze aside, picked up the bottle of disinfectant — it was called Betadine, he noticed — and squirted some of the cold liquid on the wound. She pressed more gauze on the site and held it there for a minute. Vimal felt an absurd urge to ask how her family was doing and how did her physiology test go?

“Light again,” she said, positioning his hand.

She pulled out some butterfly bandages and secured them over the wound. “Pain? On a scale of one to ten?” she asked.

“Three and seven-sixteenths. I’ve always wanted to say that.”

“Here.” Tight-lipped, she handed him a bottle of Tylenol and a Dannon water. He took two of the pills and drank half the water.

“That’s the only one that made it under the skin. Just bruises and cuts and scrapes, the rest of them.” She then probed his ribs. This too hurt but, again, it wasn’t bad. “Nothing broken.”

Trying to ignore the throbbing pain, Vimal picked up the splinter and examined it. The shard wasn’t big — about a half inch long and very thin. He put it in his pocket.

“Souvenir?”

He said nothing but pulled his two shirts down.

“Here,” Adeela said, handing him the brown Betadine bottle. “It’ll stain but I don’t think that’s your biggest worry. Oh. And the sweatshirt.” She took from her bag an NYU purple pullover. Large. Not hers. Maybe she’d bought it for her father. Vimal had asked her for a change of clothing too. His light-gray Keep Weird one was dotted with dried blood. He could have bought one but he needed to conserve his money.

Silence flowed between them as they watched a woman walking three French bulldogs on three leashes. They danced in excited harmony and the owner continually swapped the leads from hand to hand to keep them from tangling.

At any other time they would have laughed. Now Vimal and Adeela stared numbly.

She took his hand and leaned her head against his.

“You’re not going home, are you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then, what?”

“Stay out of sight for a while.”

She gave a cool laugh. “I was going to say, like a witness in a gangster movie. But that’s not like it. That is it. But where, Vim?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

He was, of course, very sure but he didn’t want to talk about that just yet. There would be a time. Now he wanted to get inside somewhere. The temperature was growing colder and he was exhausted.

He released her hand. They rose. He put his arm around her, pulling her close and ignoring the pain from his side. “I’ll call you soon. Look, whatever happens, nothing’s going to affect us.” He smiled. “Hell, you’ve got exams. You won’t have any time for me anyway.”

She wasn’t amused, he could tell, and he regretted the lame banter. Still, she kissed him hard. They hadn’t gotten to the “love” word yet, but he knew it was now about to be uttered. She was leaning close and putting her lips against his ear. She whispered, “Go to the police. They’ll protect you from him.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder and turned, walking in that slow, sensuous stride of hers, toward the West 4th Street subway station, leaving Vimal Lahori to reflect that the police probably could protect him from the killer.

But that was hardly enough.

Chapter 10

At 8 p.m. Lincoln Rhyme wheeled closer to one of the high-def screens in his parlor. “Run them.”

Mel Cooper typed and a video appeared.

The footage was from a camera focused on an underground loading dock behind the building where Patel’s office was located. The ramp from the dock exited onto 46th Street.

At 12:37 that afternoon, according to the time stamp, that door pushed open and a man with thick dark hair, head down and wearing a dark jacket, was seen walking quickly down the stairs and up the ramp onto the street. His face was not clearly visible but appeared to be Indian — which was logical if he was, in fact, an associate of Patel. He was slim, and short in stature, to judge by a Dumpster he passed. His age was impossible to determine for certain but the impression was that he was young, possibly twenties.

“He’s hurt,” Sachs said.

He was clutching his midsection. The freeze frame showed a hint of something light-colored between his fingers, maybe the paper bag that had been shot. Cooper hit Play and the young man moved on, out of the scene.

The tech said, “And here’s the second.”

This tape was of 47th Street, a camera in the window of a jewelry store next to Patel’s building. At 12:51, a man in a short black or navy-blue jacket and dark baggy slacks and stocking cap passed the store. It was impossible to see his face; he was looking away. His left hand held a briefcase; his right was in his pocket.

“Holding a weapon?”

“Could be,” Sachs answered Rhyme.

“And one more,” Cooper said. “Two doors west on Forty-Seven. One minute later.”

The same man had been caught on another jewelry store’s camera. His head down and turned away again, he was on his mobile phone.

Sellitto muttered, “Son of a bitch knew he was on Candid Camera. Looking away.”

Sachs said, “Run it again. Zoom on the phone.”

Cooper did this, to no avail. They could make out no details. “Check for pings from the cell towers?”

“The Theater District and Times Square on a matinee day?” Sellitto shot him a wry look. “Drum up fifty officers to check out records and dedicate a week to it, hey, I’m on board with that.”

“Just a thought.”

“We know that the wit’s young, male, black hair. Dark-complexioned, probably Indian. Jacket, black or navy. Slacks dark.”

She continued, “And he’s mobile. Whatever damage the rock fragments did, it didn’t seem that serious.”

“Our mysterious VL?” Sellitto asked.

“Could be,” she replied.

Could be. Maybe. Not necessarily.

The doorbell rang and Rhyme looked at the intercom.

He and Sachs glanced each other’s way. She said, “Insurance man?”

She’d called the New York representative of the insurance company covering the gems. The cool-hearted Llewellyn Croft had already sent the company a notice of loss and the claims investigator had offered to come over tonight, even though the hour was late.

A five-million-dollar potential loss is a good motivator, Rhyme supposed.

“Let him in,” he instructed Thom.

A moment later the aide directed the man into the parlor. He nodded greetings and blinked in double take as he examined the forensic equipment. “My,” he said under his breath.

The name was Edward Ackroyd. He was senior claims examiner with Milbank Assurance, on Broad Street, which was in lower Manhattan.

The man exuded medium. Average height, average weight, average amount of neatly trimmed, toffee-colored hair. Even his eyes were hazel, a shade that managed to be both unusual and undistinguished. Appropriately, he was somewhere in the middle of middle age.

“What an abject tragedy this is,” the man said in an accent that might trip from the tongue of a BBC announcer, Rhyme imagined. “Jatin Patel... murdered. And that couple too. Their whole future ahead of them. Destroyed.”

At least Ackroyd’s first reaction was loss of life, rather than of the gems.

Thom took Ackroyd’s beige overcoat. The man wore a gray suit, with a vest, rare in the United States nowadays. His shirt was starched, and his tie appeared to be as well, though that had to be Rhyme’s imagination. Given the nice garb, and the hour, maybe he’d been interrupted at a fancy dinner or a night at the theater. He wore a wedding ring.

Introductions were made. He gave only a minor reaction to Rhyme’s condition — he was more surprised by the full-sized gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer in the corner — and when Rhyme offered his working hand, the right, Ackroyd gripped it, though carefully.

“Have a seat?” Sachs offered.

“No, thank you, Detective. I can’t stay long. Just wanted to introduce myself.” He looked around. “I was expecting... I suppose, a police station.”

Sellitto said, “We run some investigations out of here. Lincoln was head of Crime Scene, now he’s a consultant.”

“Rather like our own Sherlock Holmes.”

Rhyme gave a weary half smile. He’d heard the simile, oh, about five hundred times.

“I was Metropolitan Police — Scotland Yard — before going private.” Eyes on the equipment once again. “Quite the setup. And in a private residence.” He strode to the gas chromatograph and looked at it with admiration.

Rhyme said, “Took a few years to put together. We can do the basics here. Anything more sophisticated, we send the job out.”

“Basics can be all you need sometimes,” Ackroyd said. “Too many facts, too many clues. Woods-for-the-trees sort of thing, isn’t it?”

Rhyme nodded. He felt a hint of camaraderie with the insurance man. Former cop, who’d become somewhat like him, a private investigator.

No, a consulting detective.

As Sherlock Holmes described himself.

Sellitto asked, “Did you know him? Patel? Or anyone who worked for him?”

“No, but, of course, I knew of him. Everyone involved in the diamond industry in any way did. Jatin Patel was a diamantaire — you know the term?”

“No.”

“It means anyone in the stratosphere of the diamond production or cutting world. In his case, it means a master diamond cutter. Most diamond processing now occurs in India, some in Antwerp, some in Israel. New York used to be one of the centers. It’s much smaller now but the remaining diamantaires here are the best of the best. And Patel was at the top of his game.”

Sachs asked, “What made him so good?”

“To explain that I should tell you something about the business.”

“Why not?” Sellitto said.

“To turn a rough diamond into a finished piece, there are five stages. Plotting — examining the rough stone to see how to maximize size, quality and profit. The second skill is cleaving — cracking a diamond along its grain with a sharp blow. Cutters will sometimes study a diamond for months before striking the stone. One mishap — and you could lose a million dollars in a tenth of a second.”

“But,” Sellitto interrupted, “I thought diamonds were unbreakable.”

Ackroyd shook his head. “Actually that’s a misunderstanding, Detective. Diamonds are the hardest natural substance on earth, yes, but ‘hard’ means resistant to scratching. In reality they’re extremely brittle. You can shatter a diamond with a hammer blow that would have no effect on a piece of quartz. So, as I was saying: First stage, plotting. Second, cleaving. The third task is sawing — that’s using a laser or a diamond-encrusted blade to cut the stone against the grain into the desired shape. Fourth is bruting — spinning the stone on a lathe against another diamond, or sometimes using a laser, to round it. That’s to make the most popular cut: round brilliant diamonds. The last technique is grinding the geometric facets into the stone. That’s called faceting or brillianteering.”

Insurance workers, Rhyme guessed, didn’t generally exude this level of enthusiasm. But he was beginning to think the diamond industry was a bit different from others, more passionate, more obsessed.

“Now, about Jatin Patel. Nearly all diamond cutters in the world nowadays use computers for ninety percent of their work. Certainly the mass-produced stones for the lower-end consumer market — they’re all plotted, cut and polished automatically. That’s true too of many, if not most, top-end diamonds. But Mr. Patel? He did everything himself, by hand. His diamonds are the best you’ll ever find. His death is a huge loss. In terms of art, it’s as if Picasso or Renoir had been killed. Now, sir—”

“‘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 prejudice 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.”