Now it was time to get to work.
Still pressed against the tree, Rostov waited until the pedestrians, the dog and the bicyclist were gone and he made certain no one else was around. He started toward the Lahori house.
This neighborhood differed from Barrikadnaya in another regard: There was more landscaping here. Rostov took advantage of the cover offered by hedges and trees to get close to the house and not be seen by neighbors.
He noted lights on in the house and, through the lace curtains covering most of the windows, it was clear that there were inhabitants inside. Kirtan had told him that Vimal lived with his parents and a brother. The father was on disability, the mother was a nurse who worked irregular hours and the brother was a college freshman. Any or all of them could be at home.
Rostov would kill them all, of course, but to do so he would have to plan carefully. Those inside could be in different rooms and that meant a risk that somebody would hear the intrusion, dial 911 and drop the phone behind a couch. In a city like New York, the cops would arrive in minutes. He’d have to do some surveillance, wait till they were together, move in fast, brandishing the gun. Tie or tape them. Then the knife. It would have to be the knife. The houses were so close a gunshot could be heard by dozens of people.
In a crouch, taking cover behind evergreen bushes, he skirted the house, which was pale green, in need of paint. At a window toward the back, where he could see shadows in motion, he rose to full height. This allowed him to peek inside, the kitchen. A woman of about forty-five stood at the stove. She was obviously Indian. Pretty enough but not appealing to Rostov, with her gray-brown skin and short, wavy black hair, shiny like the plastic do on a doll. He could see her face was troubled. As she absently stirred a pan, she cocked her head and Rostov believed that she was listening to something that upset her: voices. He listened carefully and he could hear them too. Male voices engaged in an argument, it sounded like, though Rostov could not hear the words. They were quite muted. He heard pounding like soft hammer blows at a distance.
A moment later she turned and a man in his fifties, gray and paunchy, appeared from what seemed to be basement stairs. He was agitated. Rostov ducked but kept his ear cocked toward the window.
The woman avoided his eyes and said, “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“It’s for his own good. He’s full of stupid ideas. Stupid! You were too indulgent when he was young.”
This was probably true, Rostov thought.
Women.
Good for one thing. Well, that and cooking.
He now heard the muted sound of a power tool somewhere in the house. It sounded like a grinder, electric sander. Somebody was doing some construction.
Another voice asked something. Younger, male. Rostov couldn’t detect the words.
The man who’d come from the basement, surely Vimal’s father, barked, “Sunny, you will go to your room. Don’t worry about this. It’s not your business.”
A response, indiscernible.
“He’s in his studio working on a sculpture. He’s fine. Go. Now!”
Sunny. Vimal’s brother. This meant it was Vimal whom the father had been arguing with in the basement.
You shouldn’t be doing this…
What would that mean?
So then: four people inside: mother, father and two brothers.
This was a challenge, indeed. But he decided that simple was better. If Vimal was in the basement, he’d slip into the house and take the first person he came across by surprise, slash their throat, then when someone came to see the disturbance, kill that person. And so on. Vimal wouldn’t hear, with all the racket from his sander. He’d then walk downstairs and have his visit with the boy.
All right, you kur. Here we go.
He turned toward the front of the house and made his way, crouching, to a bush beside the porch. He dipped his hand into his pocket to grip the knife. He was almost there when he heard the sound of an urgently approaching car. He stepped back fast, and a flash of red appeared in his periphery. An old American car skidded to a stop in front of the kuritsa’s house.
Shit. He dropped behind the bushy shrubs, fragrant with dog pee.
A woman climbed out of the car. She was trim and tall, her dark-red hair pulled back into a ponytail.
No, no, no!
This fucking kuritsa is a cop. He saw a badge on her hip, just peeking from beneath her dark sport jacket. And he noted how her hand absently slipped farther back to orient herself as to where the grip of her long-barrel Glock was. He knew this was a kuritsa who knew how to draw and shoot.
Rostov was furious.
If only he’d been a half hour earlier, this would have been finished.
At least she hadn’t called in backup. The boy was no suspect, only a witness. She’d just want to ask him questions. And warn him that he’d be in danger. And probably take him to protective custody.
Then Rostov squinted. He was only about fifteen feet away and noted something else about her. A faint shimmer: She wore, on her left hand, the heart finger, a ring with a stone that glinted blue. Was it a diamond? Her engagement ring, then probably yes.
A blue diamond…
He thought of the Winston Blue. This was tinier. Flawed, undoubtedly.
The Winston would never be his, of course.
But this one?
The cop woman was at the door now, ringing the bell. He heard it, muted, chiming inside.
He revised his plan but only slightly. He decided this might be a godsend. The woman would gather together everybody in one room to talk to them and interview Vimal.
The hens would be rounded up together, never expecting the fox to burst in on them with his gun and his razor knife claw.
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.”