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.”
Sunday, March 14
II
Cleaving
Chapter 11
His phone was humming. He didn’t recognize the number. But with a sigh and a sinking heart, he answered. “Yes?”
“Mr. Saul Weintraub?”
A hesitation. “Yes. Who’s this, please?”
“NYPD Detective Amelia Sachs.”
“Ah.”
“Sir, did you meet with Jatin Patel on Forty-Seventh Street? Yesterday around eleven a.m.?”
A broch…
This was the last thing he’d wanted. Saul Weintraub had so hoped to stay under the radar. The forty-one-year-old stood in the tiny, musty living room of his house in Queens. A cluttered space, but comfortably so, filled with mismatched hand-me-downs from his parents’ home and pieces he and his wife had bought over the years. He gripped the phone hard. It was his landline. His heart began to beat fast and nausea churned.
“I…” Can’t deny it. “Yes. I did.”
“Do you know about his death?”
“Yes, yes…How did you hear about me?”
“We got your picture from a security camera in Mr. Patel’s building. We had officers on the street asking about you. A jewelry dealer recognized you.”
A broch…
The detective was going to be angry with him for not coming forward. But he just didn’t want to get involved. Too many risks—both for his reputation in the diamond business and physical risks from the psychotic robber who’d killed Patel and that poor couple.
“I don’t know anything. I would have called right away if there was anything I could have said to help. I was gone long before it happened.”
But the topic of intelligence didn’t interest her. “Now, Mr. Weintraub. This is important. We think the man who killed Mr. Patel knows your name.”
“What?”
“We think he hurt Mr. Patel to find out who you were. Have you seen anyone following you or anyone outside your house?”
Hurt? “No, but…”
But he hadn’t looked. Why would he? He now walked to the window and peered out onto the quiet Sunday-morning street. A boy on a bike. Mrs. Cavanaugh, bundled in her beige coat, and that little shit dog of hers.
“I’m sending a car to your house. Just stay inside and keep the door locked. They’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”