“Why?”
“Want to clean up first.”
“Don’t bother with that. Who cares? Just come on in.”
She said nothing for a moment. He must have wondered about the pause. “I won’t be long.”
Sachs disconnected before he could protest further.
Chapter 25
Vimal’s childhood bedroom—also his present bedroom—was small, on the second floor of the modest home in this modest Queens neighborhood, Jackson Heights. This particular area was a largely Indian community.
It was a two-story, single-family brick structure, with small front and backyards, neither of which was any good for football, except to practice footwork.
He’d lived here, within these four very claustrophobic walls, for all of his life. At least he had it to himself now. He’d had to share the space with his brother for a few years until Dada, his grandfather, passed, and Sunny moved into the old man’s room.
Upon returning home from Dev Nouri’s, Vimal had taken a spot bath—washcloths only—not wanting to disturb the wound that Adeela had so carefully dressed. An examination of his torso revealed that she’d done a good job. There was no more bleeding and still no infection. Now, back in his bedroom, he toweled his legs and chest with one hand and, with the other, manned the remote. He was searching the news on the Samsung.
The murder was a prominent story but it was not the lead; that would be the earthquake that had shaken up Brooklyn and much of the rest of the city.
When the anchor got to the deaths of Mr. Patel and the engaged couple, he said there were some new details about the “daring” robbery, though Vimal wasn’t sure how much balls it took to walk into a largely deserted office building, kill three unarmed individuals and run out.
He wrapped the towel around his thin waist and watched the screen. The next bit of news stunned him.
Saul Weintraub, the assayer and evaluator Mr. Patel used from time to time, had been killed, as well. The police believed there was some connection between the four murders.
Vimal closed his eyes briefly in dismay and sat, heavily, on the edge of his bed.
So the killer—the Promisor—believed Mr. Weintraub had seen something Saturday morning, that he was a witness. Vimal recalled that Mr. Patel said he was meeting with the man sometime that weekend.
How had the killer found where Mr. Weintraub lived?
Vimal recalled the newscast of the press conference on Saturday afternoon, the police spokesman’s urging anyone with knowledge of the killing to come forward immediately.
And Vimal’s reading between the lines.
For their own safety…
How safe was he?
Vimal felt pretty secure, thinking again of his minimal connection with Mr. Patel: being paid in cash and keeping nothing personal in the shop to identify him. And trying to track Vimal down by scouring the Diamond District wouldn’t be very productive. Unlike in years past, there were few diamond merchants left in the old, musty office building at 58 West 47th. Only one or two cutters, two jewelry stores. And Vimal was sure that no one in the building or on the street would know who he was. He kept to himself, preferring to get home to his studio at the end of the day. And most of the diamantaires and others in the business who might know him were here in Jackson Heights, miles—and a river—away from the Manhattan Diamond District. Vimal had acquaintances who worked in the galleries of SoHo or NoHo, or were studying art where he so wanted to be: Parsons, or Pratt in Brooklyn. But he wasn’t close to any of them.
His closest friend in the diamond world was another cutter, about his age: Kirtan Boshi—they’d have lunch or drinks together frequently, sometimes double-dating, with Adeela and Kirtan’s girlfriend, an aspiring model. Kirtan worked for a diamantaire but some distance from 47th Street, in a building in the Fashion District; the shop had a name that gave no clue as to the Indian ethnicity of the owner—or that it was a jewelry store.
No, it seemed very unlikely that a killer, however determined, could find him.
Vimal tossed aside the towel, pulled on underwear, blue jeans, T-shirt and sweatshirt, his Nikes.
On TV: back to the earthquake. He couldn’t hear what the commentators were talking about. Two men seemed to be arguing. A crawl said that an environmental group thought that drilling work deep beneath the city might be to blame.
He shut the set off. Vimal Lahori had his own problems.
Filled with resignation, he trooped downstairs. In the living room, Sunny—younger, though taller, than Vimal—looked up from the TV screen and paused the video game. “Yo. Dude.”
The eighteen-year-old’s eyes revealed his concern, even if his low-key greeting and the deflecting grin hadn’t. Sunny was a freshman at Hunter, destined, the boy hoped, for medical school. Vimal believed he would—and should—end up in tech, an opinion he kept to himself.
“You, like, cool?”
“Yeah, fine.”
Awkwardly, the younger brother stood, as if debating whether he should embrace Vimal, who decided the question himself and dropped into the couch before the uneasy moment arrived. Vimal snatched up the controller and resumed the game his brother had been playing.
“Screw you,” Sunny said, laughing hard—too hard.
“You’re only at level seven?”
“I’ve been playing for ten minutes is all. You couldn’t get to seven in a day.”
“I got to eight on Thursday. Four hours.”
“Gimme.”
Vimal held the controller away as his brother grabbed for it. After some tame horse wrestling he handed the device over. Vimal took a second controller and they played jointly. A few more aliens died, another spaceship blew up. Vimal found Sunny looking him over closely.
“What, man? It’s freaking me out.”
“What?”
“That eyeball shit. Stop it.”
Sunny’s character on the screen got vaporized. Not seeming to notice, he asked, “What was it like?”
“Like?”
“Getting shot at?”
Vimal corrected, “It wasn’t getting shot at. It was getting shot.”
“No shit!”
“Yeah. I walked in. There he was. Bang. Loud, like totally loud. Not like on TV. I mean, loud.”
An abrupt voice from behind them. “You’re hurt?” His father had been standing in the hallway, it seemed. He walked into the living room.
Vimal wondered if he’d been hiding, to listen in on his conversation with Sunny. No other reason to be in the hall, except to eavesdrop. Son looked away from Father. “Nothing. I was just, you know. We were just saying stuff.”
“The news never said anybody was shot.”
“Because I wasn’t shot. I was just messing with him.” A nod toward Sunny.
“But something happened,” Papa said sternly.
“The bullet hit some rocks I was carrying. They stung me. That’s all.”
Papa was calling, “Divya! Come here. Come here now!”
Vimal’s slim, soft-spoken forty-three-year-old mother appeared in the doorway, looking affectionately toward her sons and then frowning as she saw her husband’s expression.
“What is it?”
“Vimal was hurt in the robbery. The man shot at him. He didn’t tell me.”
“No! That wasn’t on the news,” Mother said, her brow furrowed. She walked directly to her son.
“The bullet didn’t hit me. I was saying that. Some bits of rock. It was nothing.”
“My. Let me see.”
“It didn’t break the skin. Just some bruises.”
“You will show your mother. You will show her now.” Papa’s voice was a slow simmer.
“Where?” Mother asked, gripping her son’s shoulder gently.
“My side. It’s nothing.” Why had he said anything to his brother?
“Did you go to the hospital?”
“No, Mother. It’s all cool. Really.”