The Cutting Edge (A Lincoln Rhyme Novel) by Jeffery Deaver

Author:Jeffery Deaver [Deaver, Jeffery]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2018-04-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 33

So you’re telling me that Vimal isn’t here?” Amelia Sachs was asking.

“I’m afraid not.”

She was speaking to Deepro Lahori who, despite his easy smile, exuded discomfort, if she could read his body language right.

“What did he say when you heard from him?”

Priming the pump.

“Oh. Well, it was yesterday. He said all was good. He would be away.”

“I see. What was your son’s connection with the victim? Jatin Patel?”

“Oh, no, no, not at all.”

That wasn’t a response.

“His connection?” she persisted.

“No, no connection at all, really. He just did a little work for him.” Lahori was a short but broad man, with sunken eyes and dark circles under them. Dark-complexioned, grayish skin. His thick black hair was streaked with gray. His wife, Divya, had a handsome face and sharp eyes. Sachs had seen a laundry hanger in the hall with a set of woman’s hospital scrubs under the plastic. She was a doctor or nurse, apparently.

And she was clearly uncomfortable with her husband’s words. Crossing her arms and shooting him a dark glance.

“A little work?” Sachs asked.

“Some diamond cutting.” Lahori seemed irritated that his wife’s body language had tipped off his deception. He glared. She ignored him and said, “Vimal was Mr. Patel’s apprentice.”

He snapped, “Not apprentice. That suggests he worked all the time with Mr. Patel. He didn’t. He didn’t study with him.”

Sachs wondered why Lahori seemed to feel that the nature of the boy’s chores for Patel correlated to what Vimal knew or didn’t know about the robbery and murder.

The noise of power tools rose. Somewhere in the house, somebody was doing some construction work. Power sanding, it seemed.

“Someone else is in the house?” Maybe another family member who knew something about where the boy might be.

But Lahori said quickly, “Only some workers.”

“What did he say about the murder? He was there.”

“No, he wasn’t there. He was going there but it happened before he arrived and he left.”

“Sir, the evidence shows that someone fitting your son’s description was present and was injured when the suspect shot at him.”

“What? Oh, my goodness.”

Lahori was an appallingly bad actor.

A young man appeared in the open, arched doorway to the living room. She thought at first he was Vimal but then noted he was younger by a few years, a teenager.

Sachs was about to play the obstruction of justice card with the father; instead she smiled at the teenager and asked, “You’re Vimal’s brother?”

“I am, yes.” Looking down, looking up, looking sideways.

“I’m Detective Sachs.”

“I’m Sunny.”

“Go to your room,” Lahori snapped. “This doesn’t involve you.”

But Sunny asked, “Have you found that man yet? The one who shot at Vimal?”

Lahori closed his eyes and grimaced. Busted by his own child.

“We’re working on that now.”

His father snapped, “Your room.”

The boy hesitated and then turned and left. Sunny would be a backup—if the father didn’t start cooperating soon. She sensed the wife would not directly cross her husband, though Sachs knew that she had information about her son.

The grinding, from downstairs, ceased. Sachs was grateful. The sound had been piercing.

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