The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(20)

He hadn’t gotten much of a look at the bodies at the shop, the encounter had been so shocking and so fast. And once the image of the motionless feet of his mentor had seared itself into his memory, he had seen little else. Vimal Lahori believed that image would be with him for the rest of his life.

He looked at his phone—his only source for the time—and noted seven missed calls from his father, twelve texts. As he stared, the muted phone lit up with another call from the man.

He hit Reject and put the unit away.

A grim smile. If only he could also reject the guilt he was feeling.

Mr. Patel, that couple…An unspeakable tragedy.

And yet…

Vimal couldn’t deny the warm, if tainted, feeling of relief, a burden lessening. He’d been crushed for a long time by a slow unstoppable pressure like that a hundred miles beneath the earth’s surface, pressing, pressing, pressing to form diamonds. Now freedom was possible. There was no way he could have taken this step on his own. Without some cataclysmic occurrence like the robbery and murder, he would have done what he had always done: acquiesced and accepted the life his father had chosen for him. Agreed. Kept mum. Hating himself for it, every minute.

As horrifying as the circumstances were, Vimal Lahori had been given a chance. He’d take it. His life was going in a new direction.

Some motion from across the park. He spotted her now.

First things first…

The young woman, with magnificent long, dark hair, walked purposefully into the center of the park, looking from right to left. Despite the horror of what had just happened, despite the pain in his side, he felt that tap within him, that familiar thud.

Every time he saw her—even after all these months of dating—it happened.

Oh, it wasn’t the smoothest of relationships. The couple didn’t see each other nearly as often as they would have liked. She was a busy medical student at NYU and he worked long and irregular hours for Mr. Patel and other diamond cutters his father would “rent” him out to. And Vimal needed to spend much of his free time in the basement studio at home.

This was typical of many couples, of course, in the metro area in this day and age. These were complications that got sorted out. But in their case there was a stickier problem. Vimal’s parents did not know about Adeela Badour, and hers did not know about him.

She wasn’t tall but her slim figure offered the impression that she was. Tonight her hair was purely black (occasionally, in defiance of a conservative mother, she would streak the strands blue or green—though hers was a tame rebellion; the tinting was never seen at family gatherings at home).

She now saw Vimal and her long face brightened. At first, that is. But she grew somber then alarmed, perhaps because he looked pale and drawn.

Vimal acknowledged her by lifting his head briefly. He didn’t want to wave. He was still thinking of the man in the mask. A look around revealed only a dozen people nearby, all oblivious to him and moving quickly to get somewhere less damp and chill.

She dropped onto the bench and flung her arms around him. “Vim…Oh…”

He winced and she released him immediately, then eased back and looked him over. He gazed at her beautiful face. She wore complicated, though subtle, makeup on her rich skin, so carefully applied he couldn’t actually say which of her features had been accented.

Vimal gripped her hand and kissed her hard. Her eyes, he now noted, were studying him clinically.

“I saw the news. I’m so sorry. Mr. Patel. And those customers. It’s all over the TV. But they didn’t say anything about anybody else being there.”

He explained to her about walking in and surprising the robber.

“I ran. I think he came after me but I took the back stairs.”

“Your text: You’re hurt?”

He explained that the man had shot at him but the bullet missed, hitting the bag he carried. Some pieces of stone or part of the bullet had cut him. “I need it looked at.”

She said, “Go to the hospital.”

“I can’t. The doctors’d figure out I was shot. They have to report it to the police.”

“Well…” Adeela lifted her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Meaning, That’s a good thing.

Vimal said simply: “I can’t.” There was no way he was going to explain the reason—no, make that reasons—he couldn’t go to the cops. “You brought what I asked for?”

She said nothing.

“Please.”

“Well, where can I look at it?”

“Here, I guess.”

“Here?” She barked a laugh. A medical exam in Washington Square Park on a cold, overcast March evening?

But she would realize that there weren’t many other options, as they both lived with their parents.

She glanced about, saw no one nearby and nodded toward his jacket. He unzipped the garment and tugged up his sweatshirt and undershirt. “Well,” she said softly. “Just like a sculptor to get hurt by flying rock. Good thing you don’t collect razor blades and knives.”

Adeela then lost her wry smile and went into a different place mentally, a place that would make her a fine doctor someday. He wasn’t Vimal Lahori, whose lips she’d kissed and chest she’d tickled as they drowsed after making love. He was a patient. And she, his doctor. That was everything. She squinted, studied him carefully, then reached into her bag. She pulled on blue latex gloves.