Rostov studied the ornate building, speculating about the amount and the quality of the gems inside. Unimaginable. Winston, who died in the 1970s, was perhaps the most famous jeweler the world had ever known. The owner of the Hope Diamond and the massive seven-hundred-carat Vargas rough, he was the original jeweler to the stars. (Winston came up with the idea of lending magnificent pieces to actresses to wear at the Academy Awards.) Rostov thought of a particular diamond the company had acquired a few years ago at a Christie’s auction: the Winston Blue, the largest vivid blue diamond ever sold. The stone was in a fancy cut (any diamond shape not a round brilliant is called “fancy”), pear-shaped. About thirteen carats in weight and, according to the Gemological Institute of America standards, it was flawless. Rostov had only seen pictures of it, of course, and wondered if the stone was presently in the store.
What had struck him about the diamond was that the press stories mentioned only in passing its rarity and its perfection; the focus of the articles was that it had sold for nearly two million dollars per carat, a record for a blue. The world appreciated the diamond not for what it was, but for what it cost.
Fucking media.
Fucking public.
Was it inside these hallowed halls at the moment? he wondered. His heart pounded at the possibility. Even if he hadn’t been following the Indian, Rostov would not have been able to go in, of course. Every square inch of his face would be on video. A dozen times. He had even heard that some cameras were of such high definition that they could capture your fingerprints.
That would not do.
A pity.
Rostov endured a coughing fit, trying to keep the noise down. The dealer didn’t hear, and the Russian brought it under control. The prey continued north for twenty minutes, then turned east and walked for four more blocks—not so exclusive here. The street was deserted and when he passed a brownstone, with a garden apartment entrance below street level, Rostov moved fast and shoved the man down the stairs, displaying his gun then shoving it back into his pocket.
“No! What—”
Rostov cuffed him on the head, a blow more startling than painful. “Shhhh.”
The man nodded, cowering.
Always so eager to help…
They were in front of the lower-level apartment window and door but the lights were out inside.
“Please, don’t hurt me. I have a family.”
“Ah, good. Family. Good. What is name, family man?”
“I…I am Nashim.”
“You are Indian?”
“No, no, Persian.”
Shit.
Rostov was angry. “You mean fucking Iranian.”
His eyes were wide. “Yes, but my grandfather was a friend of the shah’s! I mean it, it’s true!”
“Do I give fuck about that?”
This made the mission more difficult. Well, he’d have to make do.
“You have wallet?”
Nashim’s voice was stuttering. “Yes, yes, I have one. Take it. I have a ring too. A nice ring. My watch is not so nice but…”
“Just open wallet.”
“I don’t have much cash.”
“Shhh. Open.”
With shaking hands, Nashim did.
Rostov plucked the driver’s license out and took a picture of it with his phone. Then he noticed a photo. This too he pulled out. It depicted Nashim and presumably his wife and two round, pretty teenage daughters.
“You are family man. You are lucky family man.”
“Oh, please.” Tears in his eyes.
Rostov took a picture of the photograph too. He handed it and the license back to the man. He wasn’t able to put them back into the wallet, his hands were shaking so badly. Rostov did this himself and tucked the wallet back into the man’s breast pocket. Patted it three times. Hard.
“Now, I am needing to find some person. And why is not your interest. If you help, all will be good. And I won’t have to come to Fourteen Hundred Twenty-Two First Avenue, apartment five C, and pay your pretty family a call.”
“Yes.” The man was crying harder now. “I understand.”
Rostov had not asked if he understood.
“You are knowing Jatin Patel?”
“Are you the man—” His voice stopped cold.
Rostov lowered his head, fixed Nashim with his blue eyes. The dealer blurted, “Not well. I met him once. I knew about him. Everybody knew.”
“There are two peoples he knows. Someone, VL, also Indian, like him. Younger. May work for Patel. Or worked for Patel. And Jew named Saul Weintraub. He has business in diamond trade in someplace, Long Island City. But I would like his home place. Okay? So, easy for you. I make it easy. Who this VL is? And where I am finding Weintraub?”
“Oh, I would tell you if I could. I promise you! But I don’t know. I swear. We all work in the Diamond District, Jews and Indians and Chinese and us. But we don’t talk among ourselves so much. We sell to each other, we buy from each other. But that’s all. I don’t know who they might be, these people. Please don’t hurt me or my family! I can get you money.”
“I ask for money?”
“I’m sorry.”
Rostov believed him. And, on reflection, he decided it was helpful that the man was Iranian. He’d sell out a Jew in an instant and probably an Indian, as well.
“Nashim, Nashim…We are going to be playing game then. You like games?”
He was silent.
“Scavengering hunt. You know this?”
“I know what it is.”
“Here, now, my friend. Here. You are going to start asking questions. Be careful. You should not be obvious. But ask about this VL and this Saul Weintraub. Yes, yes! You are ready to play, my friend?”
“I will. I promise I will.”
“Give me your phone number.”
Rostov punched the number in and then hit dial. Nashim’s phone hummed. “Good, good. You are not fakey man. Okay. You get busy now, Nashim. I will call tomorrow and find out what you can tell me. And I will keep calling until you win scavengering hunt. I am rooting for you! Now I will go home and you go home.” Rostov clapped him on the back. He started away then paused. “Your daughters. What are their names?”
He suddently felt the urge, felt hungry.
Gone to the stone…
The Iranian was staring. “No! I will tell you nothing about them.”
Rostov shrugged. “Does not matter. I will make up my own. The tall one I think will be Scheherazade. And the younger one, prettier, I am saying, my opinion only…she will be Kitten. Good night, Nashim. Good night, my friend.”
Chapter 8
As dusk settled outside, those in Rhyme’s parlor laboratory were beginning their hunt for the man they’d dubbed Unsub 47, after the street where the robbery and murders had occurred.
He was watching the progress as Sachs and Mel Cooper—his prize NYPD lab man—analyzed what she’d returned with from Patel Designs.
Lon Sellitto was here too, presently on his mobile in the corner, fielding questions from his superiors. The press was having a field day with the story of the box-cutter-wielding killer in the Diamond District, the last thing that City Hall wanted. Like hungry zoo animals, the media would have to be fed something. This was not Rhyme’s concern, however. He kept his attention on the progress of the slightly built, admittedly nerdy lab technician and on Sachs as the two labored away.
The uniformed officer Ron Pulaski had been deployed. He was out in the Diamond District, canvassing. And having little success. He’d called in five minutes earlier and reported on his lack of results. Armed with a list of Jatin Patel’s clients and business associates, he was canvassing to see if anyone had heard about potential threats (or to assess if they themselves were the unsub).
Yet no one Pulaski or the other canvassing officers spoke to had any thoughts on who “S” or “VL” from Patel’s calendar were.
This lack of insight was true too of those in the stores and restaurants along 47th Street and nearby. “Nobody’s talking to me, Lincoln,” the young officer had said. “It’s like they’re afraid to be seen helping. As if the unsub is nearby, taking notes.”
“Keep at it, Rookie,” Rhyme said and hung up. He wasn’t enamored of witnesses in any event—their testimony, he felt, was aggressively unreliable—and was hoping mostly that someone might point Pulaski in the direction of evidence that the fleeing perp had discarded or accidentally shed.
He looked over the four-by-three-foot erasable whiteboard on which Sachs and Cooper were recording their results.