Джеффри Дивер - The Cutting Edge

He’d explained the loosest of the ends: “How did Jatin Patel come into possession of the kimberlite in the first place?”

She’d cocked her head. “Never thought about it. A good question.”

He’d asked with more than a dusting of irony, “Somebody strolling past the geothermal site or the refuse dump happens to notice an unremarkable dark hunk of rock and takes it to a diamond merchant for assessment?”

“Doesn’t make sense.”

“Another problem: Didn’t the whole fake-earthquake thing, didn’t it seem just a bit improbable? Almost as if we were supposed to figure out it was staged.”

“True. You get caught up in a fast-moving case, you don’t step back.”

Rhyme had said, “Say there’s a Mr. Y.”

“Is ‘X’ taken?”

A smile. “Remember? I used that before.”

“Okay, go ahead. Mr. Y.”

“He has a plan too. Mr. Y or somebody working for him calls Krueger — anonymously — and claims he’s working for New World Mining. They’re all in a frenzy because a drilling site in Brooklyn has dug up diamond-rich kimberlite. They hire Krueger to create fake earthquakes to shut down the drilling and kill Patel and anyone else who knows about it.”

“And,” Sachs had said, “Mr. Y ships some kimberlite from Africa and plants it at the geothermal site.”

“Exactly. Remember the trace we found? Coleonema pulchellum — the confetti bush — also from Africa.”

Rhyme had then enjoyed another piece of veal in a fennel cream sauce, laced with vermouth. Back in the day, for years after the accident, Thom had had to feed him. Of late, as long as someone cut up his food, or it arrived naturally in bite-sized form, he could handle the dining part on his own just fine.

She had said, “Got it, so far. Mr. Y sets up this elaborate plan for fake earthquakes apparently to stop diamond production... but he’s got some other plan entirely. Which is...?”

“I couldn’t figure that out. Not at first. But then I asked myself, why Brooklyn, why the Northeast Geo site? Mr. Y could’ve picked any construction site in the area. No, there was something special about Cadman Plaza. And what was unique there?”

“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.”

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.