Rhyme snapped, “Now. I want to find out now.”
The ensuing series of phone calls to Grace-Cabot and Milbank Assurance confirmed that the scam was just as they believed. Llewellyn Croft was managing director of the former but he assured them now that he’d never sent any rough to Patel for cutting. He himself hadn’t been in the United States for several years. Nor was Milbank their insurance carrier.
At Rhyme’s request, the FBI special agent Fred Dellray contacted someone in the State Department. They confirmed, from Customs and Border Protection, that Croft had not been in the country recently. Calls to Milbank bore out the fact that the insurance company had no connection to Grace-Cabot. Yes, the company had a senior investigator by the name of Edward Ackroyd and, yes, he was a former Scotland Yard inspector. But he had also been in London for the past week, at the company’s home office.
His face a sardonic mask, Lon Sellitto said, “Okay, for the slow guy: I’m lost. The fuck’s going on, Linc?”
“Some diamond-mining company learns about the kimberlite find and is worried a competitor’s going to start production. Ackroyd’s hired to set up the earthquakes and stop the geothermal drilling. And to find out who knows about the kimberlite and kill them too: Patel and Weintraub and Vimal. He murders the first two but the boy gets away. So Ackroyd claims that his client’s rough was stolen, to work his way into our investigation so he can find out where Vimal is.”
Sellitto asked, “How does Rostov fit in? Were they working together, for the Russians?”
Rhyme said sourly, “You don’t usually shoot your partner in the head.”
Sachs said, “No. Two different companies both heard about the kimberlite. One sent Ackroyd here and Dobprom sent Rostov. Ackroyd set up Rostov to take the fall, if everything went south.”
Rhyme muttered, “I should have seen it! Black polyester fibers at the Patel and Weintraub scenes. Only black cotton at the other. That meant maybe two different types of ski masks. Two different weapons. Glock and Smittie. Look.” He pointed to the recent evidence chart. “Rostov had some nine-millimeter rounds on him at Blaustein’s store but Ackroyd could have slipped those into his pocket.”
“Rhyme!” Sachs sounded alarmed.
He suddenly understood. “Hell. There’s another reason to kill Rostov.”
“Why?” Sellitto asked.
Sachs said, “To make it look like Unsub Forty-Seven’s dead—and Vimal is safe. So we’d release him from protective custody.”
“Is he out?” the lieutenant asked.
Sachs grimaced. “Hell, yes. I called the security detail on Staten Island and they were driving him to the ferry. And Vimal doesn’t have a phone anymore. There’s no way to get in touch with him. I’ll call his family.” She swept out her mobile.
Rhyme said to Sellitto, “And call the precinct in Brooklyn where they took Ackroyd. Tell them to detain him.”
“I’m on it.” The detective placed the call. He had a brief conversation, then, with a grimace, disconnected. “Ackroyd, or whoever he is, he’s been released without charges. His phone’s dead. And the address he gave the shield’s fake. Nobody knows where he is.”
Chapter 59
And now?
Vimal Lahori climbed to the street, out of the oppressive, salt-scented atmosphere of the subway. The tunnel had featured a hint—just a hint—of urine too.
He inhaled deeply. The air was chill and damp, the sky was gray. He was walking past single-family homes, modest homes with trim yards. Populated by husbands and wives and young children, he knew—though there was no visible evidence of the kids. In the suburbs, yards like these were repositories of tricycles and toys. Not in the city.
There weren’t many people on the street here—a woman in a yellow raincoat and carting a grocery bag. A businessman. Both had heads down and shoulders lifted against the chill breeze. What kind of homes were they returning to? Vimal wondered. Pleasant, comforting, he bet. That this was pure speculation didn’t matter; he envied them because he wanted to envy them.
Pausing, he watched a sheet of newspaper float past on the wind. It settled near him on the sidewalk.
Laughing softly, he thought: Paper covers rock.
He crouched and studied the stone at his feet. On this block the walk was bluestone—laid a hundred years ago, maybe more. The name came not from the original color at the quarry—it was gray—but from aging. Over time the rock had transformed to reveal azure shades and sometimes green and red tones. He pressed a hand against one, wondering what it would be like to carve. In this particular piece he saw a bas-relief—a shallow three-dimensional figure of a fish. It would be a good complement to his sculpture The Wave. It would be an easy thing to sculpt. He would simply, like Michelangelo, remove the portions of the slab that were not the koi.
Rising to his feet again, he continued toward his house.
The pleasant thoughts of the fish and of his carving tools awaiting him at home were suddenly, and inevitably, dislocated by another image: Mr. Patel’s feet motionless on the floor of his studio, angling toward the ceiling. This memory kept recurring. Hour after hour. Then that image was in turn displaced by the memories of his own father locking him into the studio, Mr. Nouri’s son’s betrayal, Mr. Weintraub’s death, the police.
Diamonds. Diamonds were to blame.
He shivered briefly in anger.
Then the question rose once again: What now?
In a few minutes Vimal would see his father. What would the man say? Vimal’s desire to leave town was undiminished. But now he didn’t have the excuse to escape—the excuse that a killer was after him…and the excuse that he would be arrested for “stealing” Mr. Patel’s kimberlite, which apparently had no value, after all. The horror was over. And his father would put on the pressure to stay. Would Vimal have the courage to say no?
Safe from the killer. And yet no comfort. How cruel was this?
Well, he would say no. His stomach tightened at the thought. But he’d do it. He would.
He found himself walking more and more slowly. This subconscious braking almost amused him.
About two blocks from his house, he passed a driveway that ran to the back of a brick bungalow. He heard a man’s voice calling out. “Somebody, can you help me? I fell!”
Vimal glanced up the alley. It was the businessman he’d seen a moment ago. He was lying on the ground beside his car.
Yesterday he would’ve been suspicious. But now, with that Russian man dead, he wasn’t worried for his own safety. Not here. In Manhattan, in the Diamond District, he was always on guard. But in this part of Queens, no.
Muggers rarely looked like accountants and wore nice overcoats.
The man had slipped. His leg was bent and he was gripping the limb and moaning. He glanced toward Vimal and said, “Oh, thank God. Please, can you reach my phone? I dropped it under the car.” He winced.
“Sure. Don’t worry. Is it broken? Your leg?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But it hurts to move it.”
Vimal was nearly to the man when he saw something in the bushes. It was a square of white.
A metal sign. He paused and leaned in. He read:
For Sale
Under Contract
The name of the brokerage firm was underneath it.
He glanced at the windows of the house. They were dark.
In a second, he understood that the man didn’t live here at all! It was a trap! He’d pulled the sign out of the front yard and hidden it so he could lure Vimal here.
Shit. Vimal turned fast but by then the man was on his feet and snagging him, spinning him around. He wasn’t a large man, and his eyes, the color of yellow agate, were placid. Still, when he slammed Vimal into the side of the car, the blow stunned him. The assailant easily dodged Vimal’s sloppy, swinging fist and dropped him to his knees with a fierce blow to the gut. Vimal held up a wait-a-minute hand and vomited.
The man looked around to make sure they were alone. He said, “You going to be sick again?” An oddly accented voice.
Vimal shook his head.