Chapter 52
I’m not making this call. You never heard it. And you’re not reactin’ to it. Anyway, anyhow. Got that?”
Amelia Sachs, standing in the corner of Rhyme’s lab, was listening to the caller. Fred Dellray, special agent with the FBI’s New York office.
“Okay.”
“Is Lincoln nearby?”
The hell was this all about? she wondered.
“Yes.”
Rhyme was across the parlor, speaking with Ron Pulaski.
“Can he hear you?”
“No. Explain.”
“Okay, here’s the deal, and it ain’t so nice, Amelia. I heard through the vine, Lincoln’s under investigation. Ron too. Us. FBI, Eastern District.”
She didn’t move, felt the warmth of shock wash over her. “I see. And why would that be?”
Dellray was the bureau’s expert in undercover ops. The lanky African American was the epitome of subdued, as one would have to be when playing the role of an arms dealer offering to sell munitions to a twitchy neo-Nazi, pointing a Glock his way to aid in the negotiation process. But now, she heard dismay in his voice — a tone she’d never heard before.
“They’ve been helping the defense in the El Halcón case.”
She struggled not to utter any words of shock or disappointment. “And that’s confirmed?”
“Oh, yeah. Pretty boy Hank Bishop, prosecutor going after El Halcón, he’s got all the evidence he needs for an arrest. Both of ’em. Ron and Lincoln.”
She was stunned. “I see.”
Sachs recalled that Ron had been acting secretive lately. He’d gone off on several missions that seemed unrelated to the Unsub 47 case. And there was that visitor the other day, a man who was Hispanic in appearance. Maybe he was one of El Halcón’s aides or lawyers.
“I’m thinking he signed on because there was some funny business with the evidence. Maybe an agent or evidence tech played fast and loose, just to make sure El Halcón got put away good and long. I mean, he is a triple-A-rated shit. I can see Lincoln getting in a knot about that. But...” His voice dipped. “He didn’t go to Bishop or anyone else. He just took on the defense’s case on his own and... fuck, he’s getting paid for it. Bunch o’ money. In the K’s. Makes it look bad.”
Jesus, Rhyme. What the hell have you done?
“It’s going down soon, Amelia. They’ll be in federal detention for a time. Bail’s gonna be a problem because El Halcón’s trial’s goin’ on hot and heavy now, and Bishop doesn’t want anything to fuck up the case until after closing arguments.”
“Even...” She paused, thinking of a word. “Even given his condition?”
“Yep. Medical wing in the detention center. Thom won’t be allowed. Nurses’ll take care of him.”
She glanced toward Rhyme. She could imagine how they’d treat him.
No, this couldn’t be happening... A nightmare.
“So,” Dellray continued, “I’m telling you this but I’m not telling you this. Get a lawyer fast. It might help some. And you and Lon’ll have to take over on Unsub Forty-Seven. I gotta hang up. Good luck, Amelia.”
The line went dead.
Sachs intentionally looked away from Rhyme. Her eyes would clearly reveal how troubled she was.
“Lon?” she called.
Sellitto looked her way. She nodded to the front hall, and he followed her out there.
“What’s up?”
She sighed, took a breath and in a low voice told him about Dellray’s call — that is, the non-call.
The rumpled detective rarely displayed emotion. Now his eyes grew wide and he was momentarily speechless.
“He couldn’t. It’s a mistake.”
“With Bishop?” Sachs asked cynically. “He doesn’t make mistakes.”
“No,” Sellitto muttered. “And taking money? Jesus. I know he charges a fee for his work, but from an asshole like El Halcón? This’s gonna be bad. Even if he beats the case, that’s it for consulting for us. Probably everybody.”
Then Sellitto said, “Okay. Well. Innocent until proven guilty.”
Though one crime he was guilty of, no debate on that: Rhyme hadn’t told her about taking on the assignment for El Halcón’s defense team. This cut her deeply.
Welcome to married life, she thought — even more cynical now.
But Sellitto was right in one sense: Rhyme — and Ron Pulaski too — would need to find an attorney. And, from the urgent tone of Dellray’s call, they needed one immediately.
He said, “I’ve got some names. Ballbusters who’ve represented some high-profile perps I’ve collared. I don’t like ’em, but they’re top-notch. I’ll start calling now.”
Sachs heard some noise in the back of the town house. Pots and pans. Water running.
She sighed. “And I’ll tell Thom.”
Andrew Krueger sipped his soft drink.
He scowled at Rostov. “All right. Granted Dobprom wanted to make sure nobody learned about the lode. But what the hell was that ‘Promisor’ crap? What, you heard that I used a razor knife and wore a ski mask at Patel’s, and you went out and bought the same things?”
Rostov said proudly, “Of course! I am clever fucker! No?”
“Then going on and on, nobody treats diamonds right? They’re the soul of the earth? You made that girl swallow her ring? Cutting fingers off? What kind of bullshit was that?”
Rostov’s eyes turned savvy. “What kind bullshit? Hm. Bullshit whole world believe! After Promisor arrive, nobody thinking Patel got killed because kimberlite or diamonds is in Brooklyn. CNN says crazy man attacking pretty little fiancées, so has to be true.”
Krueger could hardly argue.
Then the Russian leaned forward, and he spoke in a low, steady voice. “But, kuritsa, tell me the true word. You know what most diamond companies do: Cut up beautiful stone into pieces of shit for shopping malls. Ruin lovely rough to make little bastard diamonds for girls’ fat fingers.” His eyes grew dark and angry. “A fucking crime.” He waved for another drink and was silent until it arrived. A fast sip. “Yes, yes, Dobprom, my wonderful employer, they sell to dealers like that. They pay my fucking salary. But I bitch about it anyways. And you, my friend? I know you thinking, in that heart of yours, yes, yes, Promisor is right. Make those kur who don’t know diamond from a piece of glass hurt, make them cry.”
Another shot of liquor. “Okay, okay. I am fucked up. Gone to stone. But maybe little part of you crazy like me?”
Andrew Krueger wanted to argue. But he had to admit that Rostov was right on this point too. Diamonds were the most perfect thing on earth. How could you not feel some contempt for those who treated them shabbily?
But he too was on a salary. There was work to be done. He pushed his soda aside and said in a low voice, “Now our problem.”
A scowl from Rostov now. “Yes, yes, they are knowing your earthquakes was fake. But you made it that Greenpeace asshole did everything.”
Krueger said, “Not Greenpeace. One Earth.”
“Ach. They all assholes.”
Once Rhyme and Amelia learned that the earthquakes were sabotage, Krueger needed a fall guy. He had seen the ranting Shapiro at the site and decided to pick him. He’d broken into the man’s house, planted some incriminating material there and, when Shapiro returned, cracked his skull. He’d then called Lincoln Rhyme and said he’d learned that Shapiro was targeting Jatin Patel for cutting compromised diamonds.
Then he’d driven to Palisades Park in Shapiro’s car. After flinging him over the edge, Krueger had taken a bus to the George Washington Bridge transit hub, for a subway trip back to his place.