Jeffery Deaver - The Cutting Edge

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2018 by Gunner Publications, LLC
Cover design by Jerry Todd. Cover razor blade photo Steve McAlister/Getty Images.
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First Edition: April 2018

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2017961459

ISBNs: 978-1-4555-3642-9 (hardcover), 978-1-4555-3641-2 (ebook), 978-1-5387-1367-9 (large print), 978-1-5387-4688-2 (B&N signed edition)

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To the Texas crew: Dan, Ellen, Wyatt, Bridget, Ingrid, Eric and my favorite cowgirls Brynn, Sabrina and Shea.

I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.

Michelangelo

Saturday, March 13

I s it safe?

He considered this briefly. Safe? Why wouldnt it be safe?

Im just saying. Its kind of deserted. The woman looked around the poorly lit, shabby lobby, the floor ancient linoleum so worn it looked sanded down. They were the only ones here, standing before the elevator. The building was smack in the middle of the Diamond District in Midtown Manhattan. Because it was Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath, many stores and companies were closed. The March wind hissed and moaned.

William, her fianc, said, I think were good. Only partially haunted.

She smiled but the expression vanished fast.

Deserted, yes, William thought. And gloomy. Typical of Midtown offices built in the, who knew? Thirties? Forties? But hardly unsafe.

Though not very efficient. Where was the elevator? Damn it.

William said, Dont worry. Not like the South Bronx.

Anna chided gently, Youve never been to the South Bronx.

Went to a Yankees game. Hed once commuted through the South Bronx, and for some years, too. But didnt mention that.

From behind the thick metallic doors, gears ground and pulleys pulled. The soundtrack was creaks and squeals.

The elevator. Now, that might not be safe. But the odds of getting Anna to walk up three flights of stairs were nonexistent. His fiance, broad-shouldered, blond and pert, was in great shape, thanks to the health club and her charming obsession with the devil-red Fitbit. It wasnt the exertion she objected to, with that wonderful wry glance; it was, as shed once said, that girls dont do stairs in buildings like this.

Even on joyous errands.

Practicality raised its headyet again. Are you sure this is a good idea, Billy?

He was prepared. Of course it is.

Its so expensive!

True, it was. But William had done his homework and knew he was getting quality for the sixteen thousand dollars. The rock that Mr. Patel was mounting in the white-gold setting for Annas pretty finger was a one-point-five-carat princess cut, F, which meant virtually colorless, very close to the ideal D. The stone was graded nearly flawlessIF, meaning there were only some minor flaws (Mr. Patel had explained they were called inclusions) detectible only to an expert under magnification. It wasnt perfect and it wasnt huge but it was a magnificent piece of carbon that, through Mr. Patels eye loupe, took your breath away.

Most important, Anna loved it.

William came very close to saying, You only get married once. But, thank you, Lord, stopped short. Because while that was true in her case, it was not in his. Anna didnt mind his past, or didnt offer any evidence that she minded, but it was best not to bring up the topic (hence, editing out the story about the five years of commuting to Westchester).

Where the hell was that elevator?

William Sloane pressed the button again, though it was already illuminated. And they laughed at the pointless gesture.

Behind them the door to the street opened and a man walked in. At first he was just a shadow, backlit through the greasy glass of the door. William felt a moments unease.

Is this safe?

Maybe hed been a little quick with the reassurance some minutes before. He and Anna would be walking out in ten minutes with a house down payment on her finger. He looked around and was troubled to see there were no security cameras here.

But the man walked closer and offered a pleasant smile and nod, then returned to reading his texts. He had pale skin, wearing a dark jacket and knit stocking cap, carrying cloth gloves in his phone handall necessary accessories on this unusually frosty March day. An attach case too. He worked in the buildingor maybe was picking up a ring for his fiance at Patels too. No threat. Still, Williama health-club and Fitbit aficionado himselfwas in top form and could take down a guy of this size. A fantasy, he supposed, that every man engaged in from time to time.

Finally, the elevator arrived and the doors squealed open. They got in and the man gestured to the couple to enter first.

Please. An accented voice. William couldnt place the nationality.

Thank you, Anna said.

A nod.

At the third floor, the door opened and the man again gestured with his palm. William nodded in response and he and Anna continued toward Patel Designs, at the end of the long, dim hallway.

Jatin Patel was an interesting man, an immigrant from Surat, western India, the diamond-polishing center of that countryand of the world, now. When the couple had been here some weeks ago, placing their order, Patel had chatted away, explaining that the vast bulk of gem-quality diamond polishing was done there, in boiler roomstiny factories like apartment buildings, hot and filthy, with terrible ventilation. Only the best diamonds were cut in New York or Antwerp or Israel anymore. Because of his skill, hed risen above the pack of cuttersthousands of them in Suratand managed to save enough money to come to the United States and open a shop.

He sold jewelry and diamonds retailto the soon-to-be-Sloanes, for instancebut he was best known for his cutting of high-end diamonds from raw stones.

On that earlier visit William had been fascinated to learn about the diamond trade, fascinated too that Patel would, from time to time, grow coy and steer the conversation away from Williams innocent questions. He supposed the diamond world was a shadowy, secretive place in many ways. Look at blood diamondsthose mined in Africa by warlords and terrorists, who used the profits to finance their horrific crimes. (The princess cut William was buying came with a guarantee that it had been ethically mined. William, though, couldnt help but wonder how true that was. After all, was the broccoli hed steamed last night truly organic, as the placard at their local store promised?)