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.