“The government buildings. The courts.”
Rhyme had smiled once more. “And was there any other piece of the puzzle that connected the dots?”
“I have a feeling,” Sachs had said, “that is an extremely rhetorical question.”
“The other day Pulaski smelled gas in the town house. I assumed it was because Lon had just come from the scene at Claire Porter’s apartment — where they recovered the lehabah, the gas bomb. It didn’t go off but it did melt through the gas line, and there was a major leak. I figured he’d picked up the scent there. But I called him. And he hadn’t been to the scene.”
“So where did the scent come from?”
“From the box of files on the El Halcón case. Delivered to me by Mr. Y.”
“Mr. Y!” Her eyes glowed. “Carreras-López.”
“Exactly. One of his minders brought the case files to me. Wherever they’d been, it was also where they’d stored the odorant. Maybe they tested it, maybe it leaked. But some odorant got on the files. So. The gas bombs had some connection with El Halcón’s attorney and, presumably, his trial.”
Sachs had mused, “And that explains why Carreras-López came to you with that claim about somebody planting the gunshot residue evidence in the warehouse.”
“Yep. He wanted to get inside the Unsub Forty-Seven op. Keep tabs on us, make sure we weren’t suspicious that the diamond plot was fake. If I hadn’t given Bishop the capital murder lead, I think he would have been a regular guest — well, spy.”
She’d set down her fork. “But, Jesus, Rhyme. He’s going to try to break El Halcón out... tomorrow, maybe. We’re just sitting here.”
He’d shrugged. “Nothing can happen until then. I called my new friend Hank Bishop and found out El Halcón’s arriving at ten a.m. Besides, we haven’t finished our meal.”
She’d given him a coy look. “And you’ve already called Lon, Ron, Fred Dellray and probably someone from ESU. When will they be here?”
“A half hour. Won’t interfere with dessert. Thom! Thom! Weren’t you going to flambé something special for Amelia?”
Then this morning Sellitto and Dellray had initiated the operation that had been put together the night before. They decided that Carreras-López probably would have his own men, dressed as guards, hijack the transport vehicle, so FBI agents and undercover detectives did a sweep of the guards in and around the courthouse. They found two men who were imposters — and armed with weapons equipped with silencers. Dellray — in his inimitable, and intimidating, style — convinced them to give up details of the plot in exchange for reduced charges. (“I’m triple-guaranteeing you, you will not be enjoying the par-tic-u-lar prison, not to mention the population, you will be going to, if you don’t help. Are we all together on that?”)
So far, so good.
Then had come the debate. Rhyme, Sachs, Dellray and Sellitto — and some senior NYPD brass, as well as City Hall.
They knew that there was no risk of an actual gas attack. Carreras-López’s men would merely release the odorant, to start the evacuation; they couldn’t risk burning up their client with a real gas leak. The federal marshals and NYPD could simply have ignored the release, and passed the word on that there was no danger. Open the windows, ventilate the place. And let the trial continue.
But, Rhyme believed, if they could nail Carreras-López, they could offer the lawyer a plea bargain in exchange for El Halcón’s partner.
Which meant they had to let the escape plan go forward — but divert El Halcón’s van and use a second one, filled with tactical officers, to proceed to the helicopter and take down the lawyer and his entire crew.
Exactly as had happened, without a glitch.
Rhyme’s phone now hummed with a text.
FYI. Carreras-López has accepted plea offer. Identified his U.S. partner: Roger Whitney, Garden City, Long Island. Thx, Lincoln.
Rhyme now heard the sound of the Sprinter door opening behind him. He turned.
Sachs stood in the doorway, her machine gun slung, muzzle down, from her shoulder. Her helmet in her left hand. Rhyme reflected that she was nearly as appealing in this outfit as she had been in the green dress.
“Can I hitch a ride?” she asked.
“Think we can fit you in.”
Sachs climbed in and slammed the door. She sat, pulled the magazine from her weapon and ejected the round in the chamber. Their eyes met.
“So,” she said. “That’s it.”
“That’s it, Sachs.”
Chapter 71
Vimal Lahori had not seen his father yesterday.
After supper with his mother and brother, Vimal had gone to spend the evening with Adeela. He’d returned late and by the time he arrived home, he noted his father’s car was in the drive but he had gone to bed.
Upon waking this morning, he learned that Papa was again out.
Whatever business the man was about, he hadn’t shared it with his wife, much less his younger son. But then Papa never shared anything unless it was a pronouncement coming down from on high.
Vimal knew, without doubt, but with dread, what the man’s mission was: finding Vimal another apprenticeship. But it wouldn’t be easy, despite Vimal’s skills. The young man was tainted. He was now associated with the worst thing that could happen in the diamond world — a robbery and murder. Oh, he wasn’t guilty of anything himself, and the crimes had turned out to be something quite different, but diamantaires wouldn’t dwell on those distinctions. They would forever link Vimal with the death of the genius Jatin Patel, one of their own.
Vimal Lahori had become a living reminder of the dark and perilous side of these miraculous gems, from blood diamonds in Africa, to slave labor in Siberia, to armed robberies in Belgium.
But his father would beg or bluster until someone signed Vimal on.
He was presently in his studio, looking over a two-pound piece of lapis lazuli. Vimal loved this intensely blue mineral. It was generally used for jewelry but one could find pieces large enough for sculpting, at reasonable prices. The metamorphic rock has a long history in both jewelry and art. Tutankhamun’s funeral mask featured it, and Chinese artists would carve miniature mountainside villages into vertical pieces, just as they did with jade. Lapis was first discovered in Badakhshan province of Afghanistan and is now found there, as well as such exotic places as Siberia, Angola, Burma, Pakistan and — where this particular stone had come from — Pleasant Gulch, Colorado.
He was turning the stone over and over in his hand, waiting for it to talk to him and explain what incarnation it wished to achieve through Vimal’s eager hands. Yet at the moment it was silent.
Then footsteps on the stairs.
Vimal knew the tread falls. He set down the brilliant blue stone, layered with gold pyrite, and sat on the work chair.
“Son.”
Vimal nodded to the bleary-eyed man. He reflected: must be hard work trying to pimp a whore nobody wants.
Papa was carrying two envelopes, one large and one small. Vimal glanced at them, supposing they were contracts for cutting assignments. His eyes slipped back to his father.
The man said, “I missed you last night. I was very tired. I went to bed. But your mother told me you were well. Unharmed after that incident with the man. The killer.”
Incident...
“Yes.”
“I was very grateful for that,” Papa said, then seemed to realize the absurdity of the words.