Nothing new. Nothing to concern him. And so far, Saul Weintraub’s killing had not been connected to the events at Patel Designs, not by the press, that is, though the police would know. Weintraub’s murder, in fact, didn’t take up much space, none in the national news. It was the “Massacre on 47th Street” (the New York Post’s term) that captured everyone’s attention.
The suspect was a white male, medium build, in dark clothing, stocking cap.
Hm. Won’t find many of those in New York.
Last sandwich down. Ah...
He turned his attention back to online newspapers and the police’s statements to the public. They gave some details but not too many. Nothing about the second kuritsa, initials VL on Patel’s calendar.
He threw a napkin over his face and stifled a racking bout of coughing. Breathing in, out. Slowly. The urge subsided. He now switched windows to the streaming site of a major cable network and tapped an earbud in, raised the volume. Nothing about the crime for the duration of one Coke and about a dozen fries. Then a segment on the murder and robbery came on, moderated by the network’s “Senior Crime Correspondent,” a job description that amused Rostov no end since she was all of thirty years old.
The blonde (and a very appealing one she was) sat in the studio, remotely interviewing a slim, middle-aged man in a crisp suit jacket, white shirt and tie. His head was adorned with neatly trimmed hair.
“Joining us now is Dr. Arnold Moore, a psychologist at Cumberland University in Ohio specializing in criminal behavior. Welcome, Doctor. Now, according to police, the robber who forced his way into the jewelry store on Forty-Seventh Street yesterday took some diamonds but left hundreds of thousands of dollars’ more. Is it unusual for a robber to leave such valuable loot behind, like that?”
“Thank you, Cindi. So, professional thieves who target high-end jewelry stores and factories like Mr. Patel’s are the best of the best. No one would attempt a brazen robbery like this without maximizing their return. That means taking with them every diamond he could lay his hands on.”
“‘Maximizing return.’ You’re saying, then, that robbery, well, it’s a business?”
Cindi sounded a bit aghast. Rostov liked her boobs, prominent in a yellow dress, though diminished somewhat by a heavy necklace of wooden disks. Why that accessory? he wondered, then turned his attention back.
“Exactly, Cindi. And this wasn’t what you might call a typical ‘transaction.’”
Air quotes around the word, of course. Rostov quite disliked this man.
“That’s why I think we’re dealing with something else here, some other motive.”
“What do you think that could be?” dear Cindi asked.
“I couldn’t speculate. Maybe he had a separate reason to kill the diamond cutter and took some of the gems to make the police think it was just a robbery.”
But isn’t that speculating, Doctor? Rostov thought. Hack.
Cindi jumped in. “Or are you saying maybe the couple was the target? That would be William Sloane and Anna Markam, of Great Neck, New York.”
Pictures of them, smiling, appeared briefly on the screen. Rostov washed a mouthful of fries down with Coke.
“That’s a possibility, Cindi. But from what I’ve heard, there was no motive for their deaths. No criminal connections. It appeared they were just bystanders. But you’re right, the killer may have picked them on purpose.”
Rostov enjoyed the way they kicked back and forth “are you saying” and “you’re right” like soldiers lobbing hand grenades. Wanting to make sure the other was responsible for the irresponsible speculation.
“A young couple like that. Any thoughts on why?”
“They were there to pick up their engagement ring. We don’t know if their killer knew that but then he could have figured it out.”
“He’s targeting engaged couples?”
Hand grenade away.
“All I can say is in my practice I’ve found it’s not uncommon for psychopathic killers to harbor resentment against those who have what they don’t.”
Successfully dodged.
“You’re thinking maybe he was jilted, left at the altar. Or he suffered because his parents had a difficult marriage.”
The doctor smiled patiently. “Well, we’d really have to learn more. But it is clear that this doesn’t fit the mold for professional diamond larceny.”
A commercial popped up. Rostov tapped the newscast off and sent his Dell to sleep.
He mopped up ketchup with the last of the fries, and — some balance still remaining — used his fingers for the rest of the condiment. After licking, he cleaned the digits by dunking them in his water glass and drying them with a napkin. He rose and bought several more sandwiches, these to go — so he could both eat and smoke, like normal people did (his sole gripe with Putin was that he had banned smoking in much of the dear Motherland). Rostov paid and stepped out into the cool gray March morning.
Well, Doctor, you are the fucking clever fellow, aren’t you?
We’d like to come visit, my box cutter and me.
Rostov had an image of the pitch and duration of the squealing sounds the doctor might make when he took the razor blade to the bony man’s fingers or ears. But like the sweaty bout of sex with the mother whose hips swayed à la an amusement park ride, this was pure imagination.
Coughing gently, Rostov walked steadily down the untidy sidewalk, alternating between bits of the heavenly sandwich and drags on his pungent Russian cigarette. Unable to decide which was the more delicious.
Chapter 13
Dismayed at the sight, Amelia Sachs pulled her Torino to the curb on this quiet street in Long Island City, tossed the NYPD sign onto the dash and climbed out.
Four blue-and-whites were there. One unmarked. And an ambulance. Which was now unnecessary, as the polyvinyl tarp covering the body in the front hallway explained.
The body of Saul Weintraub.
Her first thought: What could they have done differently to save his life?
No answers came to her.
The killer would have spent his time since the killing in Midtown tracking down Weintraub. His canvassing had been just a bit better than theirs. The instant they’d learned his name, she’d called. Lock the doors. Don’t let any strangers in. And the local precinct, the 114, had gotten a car there as fast as they could.
That Weintraub himself should have called them the minute he learned of Patel’s death wasn’t a factor. No cop can blame potential witnesses for duck-and-cover.
Her phone hummed. Rhyme.
“I’m here,” she said.
“Got something interesting, Sachs. Text from a burner phone, now dead, of course. It went to a half-dozen TV and radio stations in the area. It’s all over the news. I just sent it.”
She minimized the phone screen and went to texts.
The concept of engagement is based on a binding promise to wed by the man to his betrothed. Now I have promise too. I am looking for YOU, I am looking every where. Buy ring, put on pretty finger but I will find you and you will bleed for your love.
“Jesus, Rhyme. You think it’s Forty-Seven? Or just a copycat?”
“I don’t know. I’m having somebody from downtown, a linguist, look at it. Not that’ll tell us much, I think. My gut says it’s from him. But you know how much I trust that. Well, run the scene there and we’ll talk more when you’re back.”