The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(12)
The sprawling, scuffed complex at 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue was, in reality, a massive bus terminal, despite a name that suggested ocean liners from exotic locations were queuing to dock.
The place was a churning tub of harried suburban commuters, of travelers bound for, or journeying from, the region’s airports, of tourists. Here you’d also find energized young hopefuls from all over the world, carrying gym bags and backpacks stuffed with jeans, sweats, plush animals, condoms, sheet music, sketchbooks, good-luck theater programs and plenty of dreams sturdy, and dreams fragile.
Here too, hustlers, dealers, scam artists, chicken hawks—not particularly clever ones. But then you didn’t need to be a keen tactician when the herd you preyed upon was made up of na?ve and enthusiastic kids from Wheaton, Illinois, or Grand Rapids. The Port Authority saw fewer of these sly players than in the past but that wasn’t due to a moral surge in looking out for our youth; terrorism had kept the police population on the Deuce high.
Vimal Lahori knew a lot about this—or speculated much upon it—because the Port Authority was a home away from home.
He would slip over here to have some fast food for lunch; it was a short walk from his job at Mr. Patel's, on 47th. To watch the people, their expressions, their gestures and emotions—to find inspiration he would take home with him and, in his workshop, try to render that vision into three dimensions.
He sat on a waiting area bench and enwrapped his throbbing torso with his arms. He squeezed hard. The pain subsided a bit but then returned. Spread, in fact, as if he’d broken a thin sack of acid and the discomfort now flowed to places where it hadn’t been. The worst was in his right side, where, at elbow level, he felt a large lump beneath the skin. As the killer had raised the gun, Vimal had instinctively turned away. Either the bullet or part of it or a fragment of stone had ripped through his clothes and lodged. He’d heard if you went to the emergency room and either told them you’d been shot or they deduced it the medical workers had to call the police.
And that, of course, would not work.
Reaching under his jacket and up under the Keep Weird sweatshirt, he probed with his left hand—the only one that could reach the site. He withdrew his fingers and saw blood. A lot of it.
Vimal closed his eyes momentarily. He was at a complete loss, paralyzed. Mr. Patel dead—the vision of his feet angling toward the dim ceiling of the shop wouldn’t go away. That couple too. William Sloane and his fiancée, Anna. And the man in the mask, walking into the doorway, eyes squinting in surprise to see him. Lifting the gun and the two sounds almost simultaneous: the explosion then the snap of the bullet striking the bag in his hand.
He’d stumbled back and then was sprinting flat-out through the fire door—the alarm hadn’t worked for years—and stumbling down the stairs. He’d been terrified the man would follow but no. He must have assumed Vimal had run for the stairwell in the front of the building. Or maybe he’d assumed the bullet would soon be fatal.
And now here was Vimal Lahori.
Finding comfort, to the extent comfort could be found.
His cap pulled low, hunkered down on the bench, Vimal gazed around him. Even now, not a workday, the place was crowded. The Port Authority terminal was near the Theater District. The rush for the Saturday matinees was over. The plays had started or were about to. But there were still a million things to see and do on the weekends, even on a cold March afternoon: the Disneyland of Times Square, movies, brunch, shopping. And his favorites: the Metropolitan and MoMA, the galleries south of 14th Street.
Hundreds streamed past.
Under other circumstances, he would be absorbing the energy. Under other circumstances, he would be gazing at the electronic departure signs and wondering about the destinations the buses might take him (Vimal had never been out of the metro area). Now, of course, he was looking for the man who was possibly looking for him.
The fire stairs outside Mr. Patel’s shop had led him to a delivery bay behind the building. He’d sprinted to 46th Street and turned west. And kept on sprinting. Facts are facts and a skinny South Asian speeding from the Diamond District suggested someone on an errand—the way a sprinting black or Latino young man might not. No one had paid him much mind. He’d glanced back frequently and had not seen the killer in pursuit.
He’d stopped only briefly. When he’d hit Sixth Avenue he’d searched for and finally found a pay phone. They were being replaced by the wifi-enabled LinkNYC system, which was highly traceable—the kiosks even video recorded users—but he’d managed to locate an old-fashioned phone, call 911 and report the crime. How helpful the information was, Vimal couldn’t say: He’d called primarily to have them send police and an ambulance in case anyone was still alive. The three people in the shop appeared dead but perhaps not. As for a description of the robber, all he could say was it was a man of medium build, wearing gloves and ski mask, both black. He seemed to be white. Vimal didn’t know the gun. Maybe somebody who was allowed to watch TV and movies more than he was would know what kind it might be. To him it was just a gun.
Then he’d hung up, sprinted another block and plunged into the crowds of Times Square, looking back frequently.
Now he was in his sanctuary, the bustling Port Authority.
He tried to think of anything else that might help the police. But Vimal was sure this had just been a random crime. There’d never been any threats before, never any robberies at the shop. Mr. Patel was known throughout the world as a master diamantaire. Sure, he had some amazing stones in the shop, but that wasn’t known to the public. His retail operation was very small, and generally customers were referred to him from other retailers when they wanted special fancies.