“I will. But…I didn’t see anything at Jatin’s. I really didn’t.”
“We think you may have seen the killer outside, on the street, before he went to Patel’s shop. In any event, it’s possible that he thinks that. We just want to make sure you’re okay. We’ll bring you in to look over some videotape.”
“But how does he know where I live? Jatin didn’t know my home address. I didn’t know him well. I’ve evaluated some of his stones a half-dozen times. That’s our only connection. He’d know my office but not my home.”
“Let’s hope that’s the case. But it might not be too hard to track you down. We’ll just play it cautiously. Don’t you think?”
He sighed. “Sure. I suppose.”
Weintraub shifted his weight from foot to foot. Floorboards creaked beneath the decades-old oriental rug that had been a wedding present from Cousin Morris. He thought briefly about his resolve to lose those fifteen pounds and then realized how trivial that mission seemed now.
The woman said, “The theft was of some very valuable rough diamonds that had just been delivered from Grace-Cabot, the mining company. Did he mention them? Or that anyone might be interested in them?”
“No, he didn’t say anything to me.”
“We can go into this later but I want to ask now: A young Indian man, who might’ve worked with Patel, walked into the robbery, then got away. His initials are VL. Do you have any idea who that might be?”
“I don’t know. Honestly. Like I was saying, I do a job for him every few months.”
“That car should be there soon, Mr. Weintraub. Do you have a family?”
“My wife’s visiting my daughter at college this weekend.”
“I’d make plans to join them or, in any case, leave town for a bit.”
“You think this man is really looking for me?”
“We do, yes.”
“Gotteniu.”
“Keep the door locked.”
They disconnected. In the quiet, Weintraub listened to the radiator sputter and hiss. A gaudy wall clock ticked.
A broch…Hell and damnation.
Weintraub had heard of the crime, of course. But hadn’t gotten many details, as the death had happened on Shabbat and his ability to follow the news was limited. Weintraub was religious and he was, in theory, Orthodox but he played a bit loose with the rule forbidding the thirty-nine types of “creating”—labors—on Shabbat. He hadn’t driven to Jatin Patel’s office but hadn’t walked either (Queens to Manhattan?); he’d taken the subway. A compromise. And at Patel’s, he’d walked up the stairs to the third floor, rather than take the elevator. Watching television was not specifically forbidden, though turning on electricity was and even leaving the set on over Friday night wasn’t good, since watching the nonsense of cable news fell into the prohibition against uvdin d’chol, mundane, weekday activity. He’d turned the set on well after sundown and learned the horrific news.
Now Shabbat was over and he clicked on TV. The screen blossomed…with a commercial. Of course. Nothing about the crime.
He pushed aside heavy, gold-colored drapes and peered outside once more.
No bogeymen. No killers.
Weintraub fetched his overcoat from the rack in the front hall. Ten minutes until the car was here. The area code for the phone of that nice woman officer—nice because she hadn’t yelled at him for his reticence—was Manhattan. Was that where her office was? And after the interview, where would he go then? His wife and daughter were at a college mom-daughter weekend. He could hardly go there. Didn’t want to, truth be told.
Clenching and unclenching his hands, he thought: Ah, how sad! Jatin Patel. Gone. One of the best diamantaires in the world. The gems stolen must have been valuable—he only worked on the best diamonds—but killing for stones? That might happen in Africa, Russia, South America, yes. But not here.
He reflected again that she seemed quite nice, Amanda, no Amelia. He couldn’t remember her last name but recalled it sounded German. It might have been Jewish. He wondered how old she was, if she was married. Weintraub’s twenty-eight-year-old son still had no wife.
He sighed.
His mobile hummed.
Curious. It was the owner of the deli next to his office—about ten blocks away. He and the man were friends but rarely talked via phone.
“Ari. What, is all well?”
“Saul. Just thought you should know. A man was in, having some coffee, and he asked about you. He seemed nice enough. He asked if you were the Weintraub that lived on Ditmars Court. Jenny told him yes. She just told me.”
“When was this?”
“About a half hour ago.”
Weintraub’s thoughts leapt quickly: Patel tells the killer my name and my business address—not knowing my home. The killer starts asking about me around my shop, armed with a list of Saul Weintraubs in and around Long Island City. At the deli he asks the counter girl if the Weintraub who owned the shop is the one who lives on Ditmars Court. He’s a friend, he says. And Jenny says, yes.
Fucking Internet.
A broch…
“I have to go.” He disconnected and summoned the keypad on his phone.
Before he could dial 911, though, a figure stepped forward fast, from behind him, spun him around and ripped the phone from his hand. Weintraub gave a cry of shock and fear. The man’s face was obscured by a ski mask. Weintraub thought: basement window, back bathroom window. He never locked windows the way he should.
“No, no, please! I didn’t say anything to them! I promise. I didn’t see anything, I’m not a threat!” His heart slammed in his chest.
The intruder glanced at the screen and slipped the phone into his pocket.
Weintraub said desperately, “Please. I can get you diamonds, gold. Whatever you want! Please! I have a wife, a daughter. Please.”
The man held up one finger to his own lips, shushing him the way he might a babbling child.
Chapter 12
One of the kur from yesterday morning’s excitement at Jatin Patel’s shop was dead and gone.
Saul Weintraub.
Goodbye. May your Jew God embrace your soul. Or burn you in hell. Or send you wherever. Vladimir Rostov hadn’t been old enough to sample the Soviet Union firsthand but his study of history told him he would have fit right in with USSR state atheism. He didn’t believe in second acts for the soul.
Now, one gone. One more kuritsa to go: the skinny boy. Rostov was impatiently awaiting word from his little sniffy-cryee Persian friend Nashim, who had better be spending the Day of Rest making calls to his Indian counterparts in the diamond world.
Thinking of those daughters of his: Scheherazade and Kitten.
Pretty girls.
Vladimir Rostov was presently refueling. His residence was in Brighton Beach, the Russian enclave of Brooklyn, but he was in neighboring Sheepshead. He was sitting in what had become one of his favorite restaurants in the world. The famed Roll N Roaster, a landmark in Brooklyn. It was a neighborhood “joint”—a term he’d heard somebody use but that he didn’t quite get, English not being his first language. After he looked the word up, though, it made perfect sense. The man felt right at home in a joint. Especially this one, which served up magnificent roast beef sandwiches—with cheese, always cheese—and Coca-Cola better than in Moscow, no doubt on this.
His only regret was that one could not smoke in the Roll N Roaster, which would have made a meal here an exquisite experience.
A mother with two small boys walked past—the kids, like him, were crowned with blond crew cuts and had broad faces. They stared at his meal, maybe marveling at the quantity. Two and a half sandwiches were sitting before him, a mountain of fries.
Since they were near Little Odessa, the Russian émigré community, Rostov said to them, “Zdravstvuyte.”