“What do you want?” Her voice was firm. In fact, she didn’t feel an ounce of fear. She had told herself that this man was an infection, a weak blood vessel, a shattered bone. This was a clinical problem to be addressed.
He stepped closer. She lifted the knife to waist level. The sharpened side of the blade was up. She’d learned this in some spy movie.
He blinked and paused.
A gun appeared in his other hand, fished from his pocket.
Her resolve faltered for a fraction of a second. But then returned. Somehow, Adeela smiled. “A gunshot. The neighbors are home. They’d hear. You’d get arrested.”
He nodded at her sister, still lost in the oblivion of pixels and digital sound. He asked in an oddly accented voice, “What she listens to? Music kids listening to now. Lots and lots of crap, aren’t you thinking? I like strings, I like smooth horns, you know what it is.”
“You want money? You want the TV?”
He glanced. “Sixty-inch Sony? Ah, yes, yes. You help me carry to car? Thank you, birdie. No, no. You know what I want. And you tell me.”
He pointed the gun at the back of Taalia’s head.
“No,” Adeela growled and stepped closer. Still holding the knife. “Don’t point that at her. Turn it away.”
“Ah, but you sure I not fire gun. Scaredy of the noise. So why you worry?”
“Now.”
He hesitated, not sure what to make of her, and pointed the gun at the floor.
“If I tell you what you want to know, you’ll leave?”
“When parents are coming home?”
“Soon,” she said.
“And father, he is cop or soldier with big gun he carry all the time. Right? And knows karate like Bruce Lee.”
“No. But the more people, the more fucked you are.”
“Ha! No, no, am thinking nobody home for long time. You have nice knife, I have knife. Maybe we roll around and see who is the stabbed one first.” A sick grin.
Still Taalia had no idea of the drama behind her. Her small, perfect head nodded in time to a song.
He lifted the gun to Adeela now. “Not having time for shit like this.” The smirk vanished. “Vimal. Where he is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes.”
He replaced the gun in his pocket and, with his thumb, pushed the blade farther out. He stepped closer to Taalia.
Adeela moved closer yet, chest heaving from the deep breaths, heart pounding, blood pressure through the ceiling, she thought with manic clarity, adrenaline levels soaring.
The man’s blue eyes were cold as marbles. He’d kill a child as easily as talk to her.
But then the frown. He cocked his head.
The sirens were just audible.
At last!
He looked past Adeela, into the kitchen—on the wall, where the central station alarm panel door was open, revealing the panic button for the police that Adeela had pressed when she’d picked up the knife.
The man’s shoulders rose and his eyes filled with madness. He lunged toward Taalia, maybe thinking he’d kidnap her and, somehow, trade her for Vimal.
This was not going to happen. Adeela jumped toward him, slashing with the knife. No design, no strategy, just swinging the blade toward his face, so fast the metal was invisible.
He was far larger than she, surely far stronger—and undoubtedly had experience with his knife. But he hadn’t expected her assault and he stumbled back. Adeela put herself between Taalia and him.
He stood still for a moment, and she fully expected that he’d pull the gun out and kill them both. Not for any particular reason—he had the mask on; she couldn’t identify him. But he would murder simply because he was insane.
Now the sirens were louder.
He grimaced. “You fucking bird. I am remembering you. I come back and visit.” He fled out the front door. Adeela followed and ran onto the porch. She saw him leap into a red Toyota and speed away. She didn’t get the license.
Adeela ran to her sister and pulled her to her feet. The headset fell off the girl, who gave a shriek of surprise and fear.
“What?”
“Come with me.”
“Why? I—”
“Now!” the older sister commanded.
Taalia’s round face—darker than Adeela’s—nodded slowly, eyes filled with fear. She was looking at the knife.
Holding the girl’s hand, Adeela sped out the back door and into the garage.
There, Vimal was looking out the window. He said, “I hear sirens. What’s that—” He stopped speaking as he turned and saw the blade and Taalia in tears.
Adeela raged in a whisper, “He was here. That man was here.”
“That man?”
She spat out, “You know who I mean!”
“No! Where is he?”
“He drove off. I called the police.”
“Are you all right?”
In an even softer, even angrier voice, she said, “After a knife fight, yeah. I’m great.”
“What?” He stared.
She glanced out the window—to make sure the intruder hadn’t circled back.
“We have to go. Get away. Now. We’ll drive to Westchester. You come with me for now, drop me at a train station.”
“No,” she said.
“Yes, get in the car. Please. Hey, Taal, want to go for a drive?” He had forced a smile on his face.
Taalia stepped behind her sister, wiping her tears. “What’s going on?”
“It’s okay,” Vimal said kindly.
“No, it’s not okay,” Adeela whispered.
Vimal opened the garage door, looked out.
“It’s clear,” he said, dropping into the driver’s seat of the car. “Get in. Get your phone and purse.” Nodding toward the workbench. “We’ll call the police and your parents on the way.”
“No,” she whispered.
“I have to go! I don’t want to leave you here.”
She gave him a soft smile. She walked to the window. And bent down.
He said, “You’re not coming?”
“No.”
She leaned forward and kissed him.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” she said.
And plunged the knife into the car’s front tire, which gave a slight shudder and hiss and then settled down to the rim.
Chapter 47
Vimal Lahori was in protective custody. Finally.
The Promisor, aka Unsub 47, had learned the address of his girlfriend and had gone there to, apparently, torture her into giving up the boy’s whereabouts. But the young woman had had the presence of mind—and grit—to summon police and fight him off.
In his parlor, Rhyme was learning these details from Amelia Sachs, who was relaying the conversation she’d had with the young man in an NYPD safe house on Staten Island.
Sachs added that the officers arriving on the scene moments later had radioed for assistance in locating the man’s car—a red Toyota, model unknown—and then detained Vimal.
The young man was sullen but cooperative, Sachs reported. She’d interviewed him in the Staten Island safe house where she’d stashed him. He couldn’t, however, provide any helpful additional insights. He explained that his failure to come forward had been out of fear, though Rhyme suspected it had also to do with the soap opera drama of his family life, as Sachs had suggested. He’d too had in his pocket, Sachs had reported, some chunks of stone—the kimberlite, it appeared. They had bits of crystals, possibly diamonds, in them, and Rhyme wondered if it was some of Patel’s inventory that he’d kept for himself. The fact he’d taken the stones that weren’t his would also have made him reluctant to go to the police.
As for the day of the killing on 47th Street, he’d returned from running an errand for Mr. Patel when he walked in on the horrible scene. He’d called 911 and told them what he’d seen.
She added that Vimal knew nothing of the rough that was stolen, nor had there been any discussions with his mentor, Patel, about recent security issues. The man never mentioned to his protégé concerns about anyone casing the place or unusual calls. There’d been no drop-in customers who might be inquiring about diamonds but who seemed more interested in cameras or guards. Patel had never, as far as Vimal knew, had any rivalries in the business that might give rise to such violence. While Vimal didn’t know for certain, it was ludicrous that Patel had had any connection to organized crime or had borrowed money from a loan shark.