The Cutting Edge

by Jeffery Deaver

  But it turned out that the round, dark-haired kid didn’t go very far. Despite his sub-Asian ethnicity Kirtan didn’t opt for curry or tandoori chicken. He walked into a tried-and-true New York City coffee shop. A waitress pointed him to a booth and he sat.

  Would this work for him? Rostov was doubtful. Too many people. But he’d check it out. It wasn’t the best opportunity. But it was an opportunity.

  Rostov, who wore the ski mask rolled up into a normal-looking stocking cap, stepped inside the restaurant. He sat at the counter and ordered coffee. Before it came, he rose and went into a back corridor, where the restrooms were located. He went inside, coughed hard for thirty seconds, regarded the paper towel, then pitched it out and returned to the corridor.

  He found something else too. An unlocked door, leading to the cellar. He supposed restaurant supplies were stored down there and employees might come down at any minute. Everyone, though, seemed busy in the kitchen.

  The only question was: Would the kid pee after lunch?

  Nothing to do but wait and see.

  He returned to the counter and sipped his coffee while the boy ate his sandwich, examining his phone’s screen—maybe texting, or wasting time with Facebook or some kind of nonsense like that. Kirtan signaled for the waitress. Oh, please, don’t have dessert.

  But, no, he wanted the check. He paid.

  Rostov drained his coffee and again used his napkin to inconspicuously wipe the cup. He pushed it aside and the waitress swept the chipped ceramic away. He left her a five.

  Well, Kirtan? Bodily functions calling?

  Yes, they were! The kuritsa pulled on his jacket and walked down the corridor to the restrooms.

  This was, yes, a risk. But sometimes your mind clicks and it snaps and you do things a sane man—even a killer—wouldn’t do.

  Gone to the stone…

  More often than not his madness worked to his advantage. That should be a lesson for everyone, Rostov sometimes thought.

  As the boy walked inside the bathroom Rostov waited in the corridor near the cellar door.

  His back was to the men’s room. After three or four minutes, he heard the door open and glanced at Kirtan, exiting. The boy said, “Excuse me, sir,” and Rostov turned, smiling, glanced around to make sure there was no one to see and with a short but fierce blow punched the boy directly in the throat. As he started to drop, Rostov caught him, pulled open the cellar door and shoved him down the rubber-treaded stairs headfirst.

  It was a noisy tumble and Rostov turned to see if anyone had heard.

  No. People eating, people talking, people examining cell phones.

  The Russian slipped inside, onto the top step of the stairs, closed the door behind him and, pulling out the razor knife, started down into the cool, dim cellar.

  * * *

  Sachs was leaving her mother’s house, where she’d spent the night—in her childhood bedroom—when her phone trilled.

  She dropped into the driver’s seat of her Torino and hit Answer.

  “Rodney.”

  A senior detective in the NYPD’s Computer Crimes Unit, Rodney Szarnek was a curious creature. The man, of ambiguous age but probably thirties, loved code, hacks, algorithms, boxes (the term for computers) and all things digital. He also mainlined rock music at illegal decibels. She heard Led Zeppelin pounding away in his office.

  “Amelia. I called Lincoln and told him we had a break. He said to call you directly. You’re closer to where you have to be.”

  “And where do I have to be?”

  “Queens.”

  “And why?”

  “Remember we got a warrant and the provider coughed up Patel’s cell phone records?”

  “Right.”

  “I finally pieced together his calling patterns: his sister, other diamond merchants, overseas numbers—South Africa and Botswana—presumably for diamond orders. No calls to anybody with initials of VL. But there were a dozen calls in the past month to and from a Deepro Lahori.”

  “Okay.”

  “I did some homework. Actually a lot of homework. The last name—the L—intrigued me. Was that half of VL? I think so. Deepro’s son—apparently a diamond cutter—is named Vimal. Hold on, Amelia. I love this riff.”

  She heard an electric guitar shred. She yawned.

  “Could you hear it? You want me to replay it?”

  “Rodney.”

  “Okay. Just asking. I got a DMV picture. Just sending it now. Check your texts.”

  Her phone dinged and she was looking at Vimal Lahori’s driver’s license photo. The image could easily have been that of the young man exiting the site of the killing through the loading dock on Saturday.

  The address on the license was 4388 Monroe Street in Jackson Heights. A half hour away.

  “Thanks, Rodney.”

  “Disclaimer alert: Can’t say he’s your boy, not for certain.”

  Only one way to find out…

  Chapter 32

  Monroe Street in Jackson Heights, Queens, was one of those spots that could not decide if it wanted gentrification or just to be left alone.

  To be comfortable, to be quiet, to exist the way it had existed for fifty or maybe a hundred years. Who knew? Workers in small factories and warehouses and on jobsites lived here. Some white-collar entry-level kids in advertising, brokerage houses, publishing, fashion. And then the artists.

  At the moment, on the street, near where Vimal Lahori lived, only a few people were outside on the sidewalk. One woman, in a black quilted coat and beret, was trailing behind a small dog on one of those retractable leashes, which was getting quite the workout because a series of suicidal squirrels waited until the last minute to zip away from the energetic canine.

  A boy on a bicycle, maybe playing hooky. It was a school day, it was early afternoon.

  A businesswoman in a raincoat and silly rain hat—clear plastic, like a bonnet, printed with yellow daisies.

  Everyone moved quickly, presumably because of the damp, pasty chill.

  But these fuckers didn’t have it so bad.

  Moscow this time of year was a hundred times worse.

  Thinking of his home city, Vladimir Rostov decided that this neighborhood of New York was much like the Barrikadnaya area northwest of Moscow; it differed only in that here the homes were single-family row houses. In Moscow—ach, in every Russian city—people lived in apartment buildings, towering, stolid and forever gloomy, the color of Stalin’s uniform.

  Rostov had parked his Toyota up the street and was standing by a tree—the dark trunk, obscuring, he hoped, his dark jacket—and studying the modest home of Vimal Lahori and his family.

  Rostov was proud of his detective work. Kirtan had come through—the boy with the crushed larynx and, it turned out, a broken wrist from the stairway tumble, so sorry, kuritsa. After the fall, Rostov had dragged the choking boy into the corner of the basement, behind an oil tank, pungent with the eye-stinging fumes from spilled fuel for the furnace. The ancient heater muttered softly, as flames roiled inside, and the two men—one on the floor, one crouching over him—were bathed in heat.

  The boy couldn’t talk, of course, which made the process of extracting information a bit more complicated. But the silver lining was that he also wouldn’t be able to scream in pain and that had been the more important factor at the moment.

  Rostov had pushed the blade from the utility knife, and tears began streaming in earnest from Kirtan’s eyes, leaving glossy tracks on his matte-olive skin. He’d shaken his head no, no, no. He’d mouthed something else as well, perhaps explaining—trying to explain—to Rostov that he had little to give him. Rostov had then noticed the boy wore a pinkie ring, gold with a diamond in it. It was one of those showy, pointless pieces. Diamonds only come alive when light bombards them from all sides and enters the facets on the girdle, the pavilion and crown. In a pinkie ring, made for uncultured businessmen, the diamond is cut very shallow and surrounded by metal, with no opportunity to breathe. Pinkie rings invari
ably contain inferior stones.

  A waste of a noble diamond.

  Rostov had smiled and turned his attention to the boy’s finger once more, caressing it. Kirtan tried to pull away. Useless. More caressing with the razor.

  “No, no, baby kuritsa, don’t bother, no.”

  It had taken only two brief cuts on the left-hand finger pads for the kid to jot down Vimal Lahori’s name and address with his right. A bit more information and Kirtan’s lunch hour—and his life—had come to a quick end.

  Now it was time to get to work.

  Still pressed against the tree, Rostov waited until the pedestrians, the dog and the bicyclist were gone and he made certain no one else was around. He started toward the Lahori house.

  This neighborhood differed from Barrikadnaya in another regard: There was more landscaping here. Rostov took advantage of the cover offered by hedges and trees to get close to the house and not be seen by neighbors.

  He noted lights on in the house and, through the lace curtains covering most of the windows, it was clear that there were inhabitants inside. Kirtan had told him that Vimal lived with his parents and a brother. The father was on disability, the mother was a nurse who worked irregular hours and the brother was a college freshman. Any or all of them could be at home.

  Rostov would kill them all, of course, but to do so he would have to plan carefully. Those inside could be in different rooms and that meant a risk that somebody would hear the intrusion, dial 911 and drop the phone behind a couch. In a city like New York, the cops would arrive in minutes. He’d have to do some surveillance, wait till they were together, move in fast, brandishing the gun. Tie or tape them. Then the knife. It would have to be the knife. The houses were so close a gunshot could be heard by dozens of people.

  In a crouch, taking cover behind evergreen bushes, he skirted the house, which was pale green, in need of paint. At a window toward the back, where he could see shadows in motion, he rose to full height. This allowed him to peek inside, the kitchen. A woman of about forty-five stood at the stove. She was obviously Indian. Pretty enough but not appealing to Rostov, with her gray-brown skin and short, wavy black hair, shiny like the plastic do on a doll. He could see her face was troubled. As she absently stirred a pan, she cocked her head and Rostov believed that she was listening to something that upset her: voices. He listened carefully and he could hear them too. Male voices engaged in an argument, it sounded like, though Rostov could not hear the words. They were quite muted. He heard pounding like soft hammer blows at a distance.

  A moment later she turned and a man in his fifties, gray and paunchy, appeared from what seemed to be basement stairs. He was agitated. Rostov ducked but kept his ear cocked toward the window.

  The woman avoided his eyes and said, “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “It’s for his own good. He’s full of stupid ideas. Stupid! You were too indulgent when he was young.”

  This was probably true, Rostov thought.

  Women.

  Good for one thing. Well, that and cooking.

  He now heard the muted sound of a power tool somewhere in the house. It sounded like a grinder, electric sander. Somebody was doing some construction.

  Another voice asked something. Younger, male. Rostov couldn’t detect the words.

  The man who’d come from the basement, surely Vimal’s father, barked, “Sunny, you will go to your room. Don’t worry about this. It’s not your business.”

  A response, indiscernible.

  “He’s in his studio working on a sculpture. He’s fine. Go. Now!”

  Sunny. Vimal’s brother. This meant it was Vimal whom the father had been arguing with in the basement.

  You shouldn’t be doing this…

  What would that mean?

  So then: four people inside: mother, father and two brothers.

  This was a challenge, indeed. But he decided that simple was better. If Vimal was in the basement, he’d slip into the house and take the first person he came across by surprise, slash their throat, then when someone came to see the disturbance, kill that person. And so on. Vimal wouldn’t hear, with all the racket from his sander. He’d then walk downstairs and have his visit with the boy.

  All right, you kur. Here we go.

  He turned toward the front of the house and made his way, crouching, to a bush beside the porch. He dipped his hand into his pocket to grip the knife. He was almost there when he heard the sound of an urgently approaching car. He stepped back fast, and a flash of red appeared in his periphery. An old American car skidded to a stop in front of the kuritsa’s house.

  Shit. He dropped behind the bushy shrubs, fragrant with dog pee.

  A woman climbed out of the car. She was trim and tall, her dark-red hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  No, no, no!

  This fucking kuritsa is a cop. He saw a badge on her hip, just peeking from beneath her dark sport jacket. And he noted how her hand absently slipped farther back to orient herself as to where the grip of her long-barrel Glock was. He knew this was a kuritsa who knew how to draw and shoot.

  Rostov was furious.

  If only he’d been a half hour earlier, this would have been finished.

  At least she hadn’t called in backup. The boy was no suspect, only a witness. She’d just want to ask him questions. And warn him that he’d be in danger. And probably take him to protective custody.

  Then Rostov squinted. He was only about fifteen feet away and noted something else about her. A faint shimmer: She wore, on her left hand, the heart finger, a ring with a stone that glinted blue. Was it a diamond? Her engagement ring, then probably yes.

  A blue diamond…

  He thought of the Winston Blue. This was tinier. Flawed, undoubtedly.

  The Winston would never be his, of course.

  But this one?

  The cop woman was at the door now, ringing the bell. He heard it, muted, chiming inside.

  He revised his plan but only slightly. He decided this might be a godsend. The woman would gather together everybody in one room to talk to them and interview Vimal.

  The hens would be rounded up together, never expecting the fox to burst in on them with his gun and his razor knife claw.

  Chapter 33

  So you’re telling me that Vimal isn’t here?” Amelia Sachs was asking.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She was speaking to Deepro Lahori who, despite his easy smile, exuded discomfort, if she could read his body language right.

  “What did he say when you heard from him?”

  Priming the pump.

  “Oh. Well, it was yesterday. He said all was good. He would be away.”

  “I see. What was your son’s connection with the victim? Jatin Patel?”

  “Oh, no, no, not at all.”

  That wasn’t a response.

  “His connection?” she persisted.

  “No, no connection at all, really. He just did a little work for him.” Lahori was a short but broad man, with sunken eyes and dark circles under them. Dark-complexioned, grayish skin. His thick black hair was streaked with gray. His wife, Divya, had a handsome face and sharp eyes. Sachs had seen a laundry hanger in the hall with a set of woman’s hospital scrubs under the plastic. She was a doctor or nurse, apparently.

  And she was clearly uncomfortable with her husband’s words. Crossing her arms and shooting him a dark glance.

  “A little work?” Sachs asked.

  “Some diamond cutting.” Lahori seemed irritated that his wife’s body language had tipped off his deception. He glared. She ignored him and said, “Vimal was Mr. Patel’s apprentice.”

  He snapped, “Not apprentice. That suggests he worked all the time with Mr. Patel. He didn’t. He didn’t study with him.”

  Sachs wondered why Lahori seemed to feel that the nature of the boy’s chores for Patel correlated to what Vimal knew or didn’t know about the robbery and murder.

  The noise of power tools rose. Somewhere in
the house, somebody was doing some construction work. Power sanding, it seemed.

  “Someone else is in the house?” Maybe another family member who knew something about where the boy might be.

  But Lahori said quickly, “Only some workers.”

  “What did he say about the murder? He was there.”

  “No, he wasn’t there. He was going there but it happened before he arrived and he left.”

  “Sir, the evidence shows that someone fitting your son’s description was present and was injured when the suspect shot at him.”

  “What? Oh, my goodness.”

  Lahori was an appallingly bad actor.

  A young man appeared in the open, arched doorway to the living room. She thought at first he was Vimal but then noted he was younger by a few years, a teenager.

  Sachs was about to play the obstruction of justice card with the father; instead she smiled at the teenager and asked, “You’re Vimal’s brother?”

  “I am, yes.” Looking down, looking up, looking sideways.

  “I’m Detective Sachs.”

  “I’m Sunny.”

  “Go to your room,” Lahori snapped. “This doesn’t involve you.”

  But Sunny asked, “Have you found that man yet? The one who shot at Vimal?”

  Lahori closed his eyes and grimaced. Busted by his own child.

  “We’re working on that now.”

  His father snapped, “Your room.”

  The boy hesitated and then turned and left. Sunny would be a backup—if the father didn’t start cooperating soon. She sensed the wife would not directly cross her husband, though Sachs knew that she had information about her son.

  The grinding, from downstairs, ceased. Sachs was grateful. The sound had been piercing.

  “I need to know where he is. I need to know now.”

  “He was so upset about what happened that he went away,” Lahori said. “With some friends. Maybe skiing. The cold weather lately. The resorts are still open. Have you heard?”

  His wife stared at him—with the look of someone whose family had never even seen a ski resort.

  “This is serious, Mr. Lahori. You’ve followed the news, the man they’re calling the Promisor? Well, that’s who’s looking for your son.”