Джеффри Дивер - The Cutting Edge

Now, one gone. One more kuritsa to go: the skinny boy. Rostov was impatiently awaiting word from his little sniffy-cryee Persian friend Nashim, who had better be spending the Day of Rest making calls to his Indian counterparts in the diamond world.

Thinking of those daughters of his: Scheherazade and Kitten.

Pretty girls.

Vladimir Rostov was presently refueling. His residence was in Brighton Beach, the Russian enclave of Brooklyn, but he was in neighboring Sheepshead. He was sitting in what had become one of his favorite restaurants in the world. The famed Roll N Roaster, a landmark in Brooklyn. It was a neighborhood “joint” — a term he’d heard somebody use but that he didn’t quite get, English not being his first language. After he looked the word up, though, it made perfect sense. The man felt right at home in a joint. Especially this one, which served up magnificent roast beef sandwiches — with cheese, always cheese — and Coca-Cola better than in Moscow, no doubt on this.

His only regret was that one could not smoke in the Roll N Roaster, which would have made a meal here an exquisite experience.

A mother with two small boys walked past — the kids, like him, were crowned with blond crew cuts and had broad faces. They stared at his meal, maybe marveling at the quantity. Two and a half sandwiches were sitting before him, a mountain of fries.

Since they were near Little Odessa, the Russian émigré community, Rostov said to them, “ Zdravstvuyte. ”

The boys stared blankly with steel-blue gazes, also matching his. The mother nodded, a faint smile on her overly powdered Slavic face. “ Khoroshego dnya. ”

Rostov’s eyes dipped from face to crotch then, as she passed, to ass. She wore a short red jacket and tight black skirt — and he watched her hips sway as she walked out. Rostov debated but decided there was no reasonable scenario that would let his momentary fantasy come to life. Forcing himself on a mother with children in tow could have only bad consequences.

In his appetite for women, like in his appetite for beef (and most other things, for that matter, diamonds among them), he walked a tightrope.

Gone to the stone...

Which sounded better in Russian than in English.

He had his parents to thank for the phrase — and the condition itself, which Rostov equated with a form of controlled madness.

It had all begun with his father. One night — not an ounce of vodka in him! — the man had stabbed his wife, Rostov’s mother (though only in the face and only with a screwdriver, so hardly a problem). Then he’d stripped his clothes off and run into a nearby forest, where he spent the night, apparently chasing nocturnal animals and howling. At dawn, he’d used a rock to chip away the ice that had formed around him in the stream he’d fallen asleep in and returned home. After forgiving her for the affair, his father began to methodically negotiate the divorce with his soon-to-be-ex. The discussion included a number of real estate, financial and insurance details — but not a word about where little Vladimir would go; the boy had always been an afterthought, at best.

They decided that he would temporarily live with Uncle Gregor and Aunt Ro.

So the twelve-year-old packed a suitcase, not even a wheelie but one you had to heft, and shopping bag and boarded a plane for the picturesque town of Mirny, Russia.

If ever there was a place for a boy to go to the stone, it was Mirny.

Rostov lifted the rest of the sandwich, chewed it down in just a few bites, then vanquished another. Returning to the laptop, which was online, he scrolled. He lived on the device. He watched porn, played games, sent emails, hacked (he was Russian, of course)... and followed the news.

This is what he was doing presently, while he chewed and chewed and tried not to think about the Slavic mother’s hips. He read several accounts of the incident at poor Mr. Patel’s.

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.