The criminalist grunted.
She reminded, “Patel’s security footage is gone. Forty-Seven took it with him but some Midtown North uniforms’re collecting video from the street. Most of the stores’ cameras are interior but there’re a few outside. We’ll see what they turn up. They’re checking the loading dock on Forty-Six too; that’s where the fire exit leads to.”
She asked Cooper for the clearest screenshot of S, from the hallway outside Patel’s. He processed the image and sent it to her via email. “I’ll get it to the canvassers. See if they can get a name.” She sat down at a nearby terminal, logged in and uploaded the shot for citywide distribution.
Mel Cooper turned to the others. “I’ve ID’d the stones that the apprentice, or whoever he was, was carrying—what the bullet hit. Looks like it’s in the serpentinite family—it’s called that because of the coloring and mottled texture; looks like snakeskin. If it’s got garnets or diamonds in it it’s kimberlite. That’s what this is. I can see little flecks of crystal that could be diamonds. Patel probably cuts and polishes it into necklaces or earrings.”
The parlor landline rang. The caller ID was a country code Rhyme did not recognize.
Sachs glanced at it. “South Africa.”
She hit Speaker and answered. “Yes?”
“Yes, hello. I’m trying to reach a Detective Amelia Sachs.” The accent was that melodic blend of Dutch and English.
“This is Detective Sachs.”
The caller identified himself as Llewelyn Croft, the managing director of Grace-Cabot Mining, Ltd., in Cape Town.
“Mr. Croft, you’re on speakerphone with Lieutenant Lon Sellitto, New York Police, and Lincoln Rhyme, a consultant.”
“I got your message. You said there’s been a theft that might involve us?”
“That’s right. I didn’t leave details on the phone but I’m sorry to tell you the diamond cutter who had the stones, Jatin Patel, was killed in the robbery.”
They heard a gasp.
“No! Oh, no. I saw him just last week. No, this is terrible.” His voice faded. “I can’t…killed?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“We’ve worked with him for years. He was one of the best diamond cutters in New York. Well, in the world.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and continued, “Are you saying our diamonds were stolen? Are you sure?”
“No, not for certain. One of the reasons I’m calling. I found an empty box with a receipt for a shipment of four items, ID numbers GC-one through -four.”
“Yes,” he said, sounding dismayed. “Those are ours.”
“In rands they’re worth about sixty eight million?”
A sigh. Then nothing.
“Sir?”
“Yes, that’s the insured value. They were rough so when finished they would have sold for much more.”
“This is Detective Lon Sellitto. As far as you know then, Patel had the stones with him? Could he’ve sent them out to be worked on?”
“No, no. He’d never do that. Only he was talented enough to work on them. My God. Those stones…Do you know who did it?”
“We’re investigating,” Sachs said.
Sellitto asked, “Who’d have known that Patel had these diamonds?”
A pause, then Croft said, “I couldn’t say, of course, who Jatin told. But I doubt he mentioned them to anyone. I don’t know how familiar you are with the diamond industry but no one talks about jobs. Especially with incomparable stones like these. Security is paramount. And within our company? An inside job, I’m sure you’re thinking. Only a few executives knew they were going to Jatin. But we’re all partners in the company—and, frankly, we’re all fairly well off. As for the line workers and miners? Once the stone is extracted and processed, they have no idea where it goes. Sometimes transport companies sell information to thieves but I flew the rough to New York myself. It was that valuable.” A pause. “That irreplaceable.”
“The what?” Rhyme interrupted. “You’ve said ‘rough’ before. What is that?”
“Sorry. That’s what we call uncut diamonds. Rough.” He paused once more. “My educated guess would be the thief didn’t know about our stones in particular. He picked Jatin’s store at random then demanded uncut diamonds. Finished stones have laser registration numbers—you can only see them with a loupe. But that makes moving them very difficult. There’s a much better illicit market for uncut diamonds. The pros always go for rough.”
Sachs asked, “Do you know anyone in America the thief’d approach to fence the diamonds to?”
“In America, no. But I can give you the number of our insurer’s New York office. I’ll have to put them on notice anyway. And they’d have somebody on staff who’d be able to help you.” He gave them the number; Sachs jotted it down.
Croft said, “I do hope you can bring all your resources to finding this man. This is such a tragedy. Unspeakable.”
Three people slaughtered, one of them tortured. And two witnesses in peril.
But Llewellyn Croft meant something else, it seemed.
“You see, I don’t think the thief will sell the stones outright. What he’ll do is have them cut quickly—he’ll butcher them and the finished diamonds will disappear into the mass-market trade in Amsterdam or Jerusalem or Surat. Those diamonds were destined for greatness. And now? They’ll be ruined.” He repeated, “Tragic.”
Sellitto’s face twisted into a grimace. It was Amelia Sachs who said, “Well, Mr. Croft, we’ll do our best to track him down.” She added a cool tone to her voice. “And make sure no one else loses their life.”
Chapter 9
Shivering in the mid-March chill, arms encircling his narrow chest, Vimal Lahori sat in Washington Square Park, that pleasant enclave of peaceful urban greenery in Greenwich Village. Here, on days nicer than this, you saw quite the mix: fringe musicians and nannies, uninspired drug dealers, earnest students, notebook-scribbling poets, thoughtful academics and the businesspeople who could walk home from their hedge fund and law offices in Wall Street but generally preferred limos.
Now, early evening, Vimal was in a shadowy, deserted portion of the place, far from the towering, and well-lit, arch, which echoed Paris’s Arc de Triomphe. He glanced at the New York University classrooms and residences and the fine Hamilton-era town houses, the windows glowing with yellow lights. People would be inside preparing to go out on the town, showering, primping, dressing. Or chopping vegetables and sipping wine for a dinner party soon to be. The sight of these small, inaccessible pleasures made Vimal Lahori want to cry. He played absently with the brown cloth bracelet that Adeela had made for him. His father had wondered if it might interfere with his working the dop stick, so he didn’t slip it on until after he’d left the house.
Literally looking over his shoulder frequently on the long, cold walk here, he had made his way via a complicated route from the Port Authority, which was thirty, thirty-five blocks north. He’d been planning to take the train but the shock of that man at the bus station, returning his phone, had shaken him so much that he’d decided to walk.
Not very likely that the killer was prowling the subway, taking train after train in hopes of finding him. He, of course, had seen Vimal, knew exactly what he looked like. But the diamond cutter’s apprentice had seen only a mask, gloves and dark clothing.