Джеффри Дивер - The Cutting Edge

“A young couple like that. Any thoughts on why?”

“They were there to pick up their engagement ring. We don’t know if their killer knew that but then he could have figured it out.”

“He’s targeting engaged couples?”

Hand grenade away.

“All I can say is in my practice I’ve found it’s not uncommon for psychopathic killers to harbor resentment against those who have what they don’t.”

Successfully dodged.

“You’re thinking maybe he was jilted, left at the altar. Or he suffered because his parents had a difficult marriage.”

The doctor smiled patiently. “ Well, we’d really have to learn more. But it is clear that this doesn’t fit the mold for professional diamond larceny. ”

A commercial popped up. Rostov tapped the newscast off and sent his Dell to sleep.

He mopped up ketchup with the last of the fries, and — some balance still remaining — used his fingers for the rest of the condiment. After licking, he cleaned the digits by dunking them in his water glass and drying them with a napkin. He rose and bought several more sandwiches, these to go — so he could both eat and smoke, like normal people did (his sole gripe with Putin was that he had banned smoking in much of the dear Motherland). Rostov paid and stepped out into the cool gray March morning.

Well, Doctor, you are the fucking clever fellow, aren’t you?

We’d like to come visit, my box cutter and me.

Rostov had an image of the pitch and duration of the squealing sounds the doctor might make when he took the razor blade to the bony man’s fingers or ears. But like the sweaty bout of sex with the mother whose hips swayed à la an amusement park ride, this was pure imagination.

Coughing gently, Rostov walked steadily down the untidy sidewalk, alternating between bits of the heavenly sandwich and drags on his pungent Russian cigarette. Unable to decide which was the more delicious.

Dismayed at the sight, Amelia Sachs pulled her Torino to the curb on this quiet street in Long Island City, tossed the NYPD sign onto the dash and climbed out.

Four blue-and-whites were there. One unmarked. And an ambulance. Which was now unnecessary, as the polyvinyl tarp covering the body in the front hallway explained.

The body of Saul Weintraub.

Her first thought: What could they have done differently to save his life?

No answers came to her.

The killer would have spent his time since the killing in Midtown tracking down Weintraub. His canvassing had been just a bit better than theirs. The instant they’d learned his name, she’d called. Lock the doors. Don’t let any strangers in. And the local precinct, the 114, had gotten a car there as fast as they could.

That Weintraub himself should have called them the minute he learned of Patel’s death wasn’t a factor. No cop can blame potential witnesses for duck-and-cover.

Her phone hummed. Rhyme.

“I’m here,” she said.

“Got something interesting, Sachs. Text from a burner phone, now dead, of course. It went to a half-dozen TV and radio stations in the area. It’s all over the news. I just sent it.”

She minimized the phone screen and went to texts.

The concept of engagement is based on a binding promise to wed by the man to his betrothed. Now I have promise too. I am looking for YOU, I am looking every where. Buy ring, put on pretty finger but I will find you and you will bleed for your love.

“Jesus, Rhyme. You think it’s Forty-Seven? Or just a copycat?”

“I don’t know. I’m having somebody from downtown, a linguist, look at it. Not that’ll tell us much, I think. My gut says it’s from him. But you know how much I trust that. Well, run the scene there and we’ll talk more when you’re back.”

She started toward the home, a modest row house, painted white, in need of more paint, and windowsills lined with empty brown flower boxes, like droopy lower eyelids. Instinctively, she tapped her Glock — the Gen4 FS — to orient herself to the weapon’s exact position. There was a large crowd. It wasn’t impossible for Unsub 47 to be among them — here to learn of the police’s progress. Sachs eyed those on the street — fifty or sixty people — and the TV stations’ vans. Was the unsub among the spectators? Street Crime officers were canvassing. If anybody seemed suspicious or left quickly, they’d pursue the lead. Still, she suspected that the man’s business was completed and he’d fled after the murder. A shooting this time, she’d learned. No knife work. The victim had, however, been beaten.

“Hey, Amelia.”

She nodded to Ben Kohl, a gold shield out of the 114. He asked, “So how come you guys’re involved?”

Sachs explained to the detective, a lean balding man in his mid-fifties, “A wit in the killing at the diamond shop, Four-Seven Street yesterday.”

“Oh, that. Jesus. How’d the perp find him? They know each other?”

“We don’t know. How’d you hear?”

“Gunshots reported.”

“Anybody see anything? Get a description?”

“Maybe. But nobody’s talking. We’ve been canvassing but we got nothing so far. I mean, we’ll handle it out of our house, you want. But Major Cases want to take it?”

Hope blossomed in his voice.

“If I can borrow some of your people for the canvass. You mind?”

“Mind?” Kohl laughed. “I’m taking the wife out for our anniversary tonight. All yours. I’ll get you three, four uniforms to help out. Just keep our Homicide crew in the loop. This one’ll show up as our stat and we’ll need to report it out. You understand.”

“Sure.”

Sachs walked close to the scene to make sure it remained clear and to await the Crime Scene bus, so she could get to work.

Mikey O’Brien had a plan and he was unwrapping it in his mind right now.

After the wedding they’d stay in the neighborhood for one year. That was it. Three hundred sixty-five days. Less, if possible. But definitely no more than. By then he’d be a senior floor manager (okay, teller ) at the bank and be making close to 45K. Emma would be getting thirty from the hospital, more if she worked nights. Enough for a down payment in eastern Nassau somewhere.

Close enough to the in-laws (both sets) to visit. But not too close.

The slim redheaded man, twenty-six, strode with hope and a hint of cockiness down Avenue U. Past the tanning salon, the Progressive Medical Center, the deli, the meat market, the pharmacy. Signs in Greek, signs in Italian.

Nothing wrong with this neighborhood, Gravesend. But, it was a place to leave, not a place to stay.

For him at least. Michael P. O’Brien, future district manager of Brooklyn Federal Bank, had places to go.

Another block and he saw her, waiting on the street corner. After errands this morning they’d planned to rendezvous here then proceed to their apartment (the temporary apartment — one year, no more, he reminded himself firmly).

He smiled at the sight. Emma Sanders, blond, with stunning green eyes, was beautiful, an inch taller than he was, and round where a woman should be round — perfect for having, and making, babies. He smiled to himself as he thought this. There would be three children. Among the names to pick and choose from: Michael III, Edward, Anthony, Meghan, Ellie, Michaela. Emma had signed off on these.

Mikey O’Brien was a happy man.

“Hey, sweet.” They kissed. She smelled of flowers.

He assumed the scent was flowers. That was a subject he wasn’t familiar with — no gardening in his genes. But it seemed to be floral. On the other hand, he was soon to be very familiar with the subject. The groom’s side was helping contribute to the wedding expenses, and his family — that is, Mikey himself — was picking up the florist’s bill.