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.”
II
Cleaving
Sunday, March 14
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.”
“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.