They both smiled.
That much money would get him out of the city. If he lived cheaply he could make it stretch until he got a job, something modest, menial — perhaps at a university that had a fine arts program. Even janitorial or in the cafeteria. He felt the first blush of what approached joy that he’d experienced in ages.
The man put the diamond onto its sheet and folded the paper, slipped it into his breast pocket. “I’ll get your money.” He stepped out of the workshop and into his office.
Vimal stepped to the basin in the corner to wash up; scaifing is dirty work. As he walked past the others they were regarding him with variations of admiration or awe. He didn’t like it. Anything that cemented his ties to the diamond-cutting world left a bad taste. He washed his hands and, as the others returned to their workstations, Vimal walked to the doorway and stepped into the office.
Mr. Nouri was putting cash into an envelope. He was offering it to Vimal when the door to the stairwell opened and two figures entered.
Vimal gasped, stabbed by dismay. He was looking at Deepro Lahori. His father. With him was Bassam Nouri; the young, stocky man looked down.
No, no...
“Papa. I...”
Squat, gray-skinned, his father strode forward angrily.
“Deepro,” Mr. Nouri said, frowning, confused.
Papa looked at the envelope. “That’s my son’s money?”
“Yes, but—”
His father snatched it from the man’s hand. “I’ll take care of it for him. He’s not responsible at the moment.” To Vimal he snapped, “You will come home. Now.”
Mr. Nouri was understanding that Vimal had not been completely honest earlier. He said to Vimal, “He didn’t know? You lied?”
“I’m sorry.”
Then Papa walked to the rack of jackets. He reached into the inner pocket of his son’s and lifted out his wallet. That and the envelope holding the cash vanished into his own coat.
Now the answer to the betrayal became clear. Papa nodded to Bassam, a look of thanks. So his father had offered a reward to anyone in the community who saw or heard of Vimal.
Vimal was furious, torn between screaming and sobbing.
He turned his cold eyes toward Bassam, who looked away and muttered, “He’s your father. Respect.”
Vimal wondered how much had been the price on his head. In the mood for blood, Vimal turned suddenly to his father. The man was only an inch taller than his son and was not as broad in the shoulders, nor was he anywhere near as strong. An image of himself pushing his father down, rifling his pocket for his wallet and the cash and sprinting out the door came to him.
But it was a fantasy as insubstantial as diamond dust.
“You’ll come home.”
As if there were any other options.
Vimal walked slowly to the door, his father behind him, saying firmly, “Son, I’m doing this because it’s best for you. You do understand that, I hope.”
Chapter 22
Amelia Sachs was in Cadman Plaza, at the subway station where their unsub had caught the train to Manhattan after ditching his hard hat and safety vest. She had been canvassing shops and restaurants nearby, those with a view of the subway entrance. The hour-long effort had been useless. No one remembered seeing anybody who’d pitched out the gear. This had not been unexpected.
It seemed that the construction site to which Unsub 47 had some connection wasn’t devoted to birthing yet another apartment or office building; it was a high-tech energy project.
She now surveyed the huge jobsite, surrounded by an eight-foot-high plywood wall. Before her was a large sign mounted on two wooden pillars.
Below this was a small billboard, the background off-white with lettering in green script, as if fashioned out of vines. Paintings of leaves and tufts of grass were prominent. It all reeked of eco. The text explained that the earth was itself a huge solar collector, which absorbed energy from the sun and maintained a constant temperature, however cold or hot the surface. That energy could be tapped for use in heating and cooling buildings. The geothermal facility being constructed now would do just that, servicing hundreds of buildings in the area. Pipes would be sunk deep into the earth and a solution would be pumped through them. When it returned to the surface, the liquid would then pass through regulators to generate air-conditioning or heating.
It was basically a massive heat pump, the notice reported, of the sort that environmentally minded residents used in their houses.
Reducing fossil fuel use for heating and cooling... Seemed like a good idea to Sachs.
But not everybody thought so, apparently. Thirty or so protesters stood on the sidewalk holding posters against the drilling. A tall, lean man with frizzy gray hair — and matching beard — seemed to be in charge. From the posters and some lapel pins people wore, she noted that the movement was called One Earth. She wondered what their objections were. Geothermal seemed just another environmentally friendly process. Some of the posters, though, referred to fracking and poisoning the groundwater.
The lean man stepped in front of a flatbed, loaded with girders. He crossed his arms and stood his ground. The rest of the crowd cheered. Every time the truck driver blasted the man with his horn, the protesters exploded with catcalls and applause.
A job for a patrolman, but no patrolman was around.
Sachs walked into the street. “Sir.” She showed her badge. “Could you step out of the street?”
“And if I don’t? Are you going to arrest me?”
This was, of course, the last thing she wanted to do. It would involve a trip to the local precinct, as she no longer carried her citation book. But there was only one answer. “Yes.”
“You’re in their pocket. The city’s kissing their ass.” He nodded at the site.
“Sir, you don’t want to go to jail for this. Step out of the way.”
Without protest he did, and her impression was that he’d planned the tactic as a mosquito bite, a small irritation.
“Could I see some ID?”
He complied. He was Ezekiel Shapiro and lived in upper Manhattan.
She handed it back. “No disrupting traffic. And I hope that can you’ve got in your jacket is for home repair.”
It seemed to be spray paint. She’d noticed where graffiti had been scrubbed off the sign and the walls of the barrier.
“They’re fucking up everything, you know.” He looked at the site with wild eyes. “Everything.” He returned to the crowd and many of the people hugged him as if he’d just faced down an entire army.
Then Mother Earth left her thoughts and she got to work. She pulled a small evidence collection bag, red canvas, from the trunk of the Torino, parked nearby, and walked to the subway entrance where the CCTV had captured the unsub’s image. She turned, recalled the direction of his route, and found the trash bin where he’d disposed of the hard hat and vest. Not empty — that word would never apply to any trash receptacle in New York City — but it was empty enough to see those items weren’t inside.
She then spotted the likely gate he would have taken to leave the construction site. The large mesh panels were open and, as she’d hoped, some workers were here, despite its being Sunday. She showed her shield to a trim, vigilant man in a private security uniform, richly toned with a suntan that testified to the fine vacation he’d just taken. She asked if she could speak to the supervisor. He lifted a walkie-talkie and said a detective with the NYPD wanted to speak to him.
The clattering answer: “Uh, yeah. Hold on. Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”