shield and an ID card. The billfold snaps shut before Chin can read a word.
‘Lieutenant Epstein,’ the cop says. ‘May I see your driver’s license and registration?’
‘Am I doing something wrong, detective?’
‘Yeah, you’re not complying with a lawful order. Show me your driver’s license and registration.’
With no real choice in the matter, Chin produces the documents. ‘The car’s a rental,’ he explains.
Epstein slides a pair of reading glasses on to his nose before scrutinizing Chin’s license and the rental agreement. He takes a spiral notebook from his pocket and writes down Chin’s name, address and driver’s license ID number.
‘Mr Chin, will you tell me what you’re doing here? You’ve been parked for the last two hours.’
Chin has the right to refuse and he knows it. He’s in a legal parking space and he’s not committing a criminal act. But then the cop smiles apologetically.
‘I’m not tryin’ to harass ya. I got a good reason.’
‘I’m a private investigator, detective. I’m on a case.’
Epstein’s eyes widen. ‘Yeah? A private eye?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’re licensed, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Can I see your license?’ When Chin complies, Epstein examines the license, then says, ‘Mr Chin, do me a favor. Step out of the car and take a look around. Please.’
Epstein’s tone is so reasonable, the expression on his face so mild, that Chin simply exits the Camry to stand in a heavy mist that instantly coats his face. He looks around, as asked, discovering a single pedestrian, a massive black man in a red football jersey walking a dog that can’t weigh more than two pounds.
‘I don’t see anything.’
‘Ah.’ Epstein raises a finger. ‘See, that’s the whole point. We’re lookin’ for a serial rapist and we’ve got this whole area under surveillance. But you don’t see anything out of place because the whole point is to stay invisible until the mutt shows up.’
Chin looks at the ground for a moment. He’s thinking any port in a storm, any excuse to get himself and the gun out of Dodge. ‘You’re telling me that I’m messing up your operation and I need to leave?’
‘You’re definitely conspicuous. I mean, who sits in a car for two hours? People walkin’ the street see you, they’re gonna make you for a cop. Definitely. Now, I can’t order you to leave. You’re a private investigator, licensed by the NYPD, and you’re goin’ about your regular business. But I’d really appreciate your cooperation. We’ll be outta here by tomorrow morning, one way or the other. You can always come back.’
Chin accepts with a nod. Of course, he’ll cooperate. When Epstein hands over his paperwork, he slides into the Camry, starts the car and drives off. The relief that follows proves nearly overwhelming. Only at the last minute does he notice a stop sign at the end of the block.
Chin comes to a halt in the crosswalk, blocking the path of an elderly woman crossing the street. With the window still open, he listens to the tap of her cane on the pavement as she works her way around the car. Chin’s not resentful when she pauses long enough to favor him with a raised middle finger, not at all. He thinks he deserves the salute.
SEVENTEEN
Angel arrives at the Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art ninety minutes before her appointment with Vincent Graham. A dedicated multitasker, she’s combining business with business, the first order of the day to choose a painting. Angel has a paper due for her last Art History class at Brooklyn College, a final thesis. She’s decided to compare storytelling traditions in Christian and Tibetan art, and to connect both traditions to the illiteracy prevailing in those cultures.
The paper, Angel’s certain, will be easy to write, its essential point beyond dispute, yet at the same time original because no one else in the class will think of it. In medieval religious art, candles symbolized holy illumination, flames the fires of hell. The lamb substituted for Jesus, the iris for the Virgin and the dove for the Holy Spirit, while eggs indicated the fertility of nature and chains symbolized slavery. Each of these symbols, and many more, would have been recognized and understood by the general population, just as today we instantly associate the golden arches with McDonald’s, or the swoosh with Nike.
Angel works her way up three levels before she comes upon a painting that nicely illustrates her main argument, a
A series of concentric circles, the wheel is held by Yama, a fanged, three-eyed demon tasked with judging the dead. The wheel’s outer circle depicts the Twelve Causes and Effects, among them birth, conditioning, ignorance and desire. The next circle is divided into six sections and illustrates the six realms, the Realm of the Gods on top, the Hell World on the bottom. Between them, to the left and right, are the Realm of the Asuras, demigods burdened with every human vice, the Worlds of Humans and Animals, and the World of Hungry Ghosts. From the painting’s upper corners, two Bodhisattvas look down at the wheel. Finally enlightened after lifetimes of effort, the wheel no longer turns for them. Which probably accounts for their serene expressions.
Angel puts her notebook away and steps back, for the first time immersing herself in the painting. The colors are bold, the glaring demon, Yama, ferocious enough, with his tiara of human skulls, to thoroughly impress. This is no joke – that’s the message any Tibetan, even the most humble peasant, would understand. Since they’d instantly associate the three figures at the center of the wheel, a rooster, a pig and a snake, with the three poisons, greed, hatred and delusion.
After a few moments, Angel lifts a camera from her purse, a Nikon SLR, then meticulously photographs the painting’s every detail. She takes more than fifty shots before returning the camera to its case. Angel’s thinking, as she heads off to the lobby, that the
For just a moment, Angel toys with the idea of using twenty-first century symbols to illustrate a swing from religious concerns to a culture obsessed with consumption, a world of hungry ghosts. Then she shakes her head as she tells herself not to be a jerk. She’s already got an ‘A’ paper. There’s nothing to be gained by injecting armchair sociology into the equation, no reason to search the bush when the bird in her hand is already made of gold.
Angel spots Vincent Graham in the museum’s lobby. He’s standing with his back to her and his hands in his pockets, contemplating a Buddha carved from gray stone. He turns at her approach, his expression wary, as well it should be. Angel didn’t explain her mission when she arranged the meeting and Graham is a client, a repeat client whose fantasy boiled down to kidnapped-princess-sold-into-slavery. This is a script he certainly wants to keep from his wife and two adolescent daughters, a script Angel can reveal. But Angel hasn’t come with blackmail on her mind, far from it. Although he’s not Donald Trump or Bruce Ratner, Vincent’s a player in the city’s ongoing real estate game.
‘Angel, it’s good to see you again, though I have to admit I was surprised to hear from you.’ In his forties, Vincent Graham is short and round. Ordinarily a jolly sort, he’s not jolly now.
‘Believe me, Vincent, I never would have called you if I wasn’t desperate. But I’ve got a big problem and I know you can help me out.’
Angel’s deliberately cryptic statement does nothing to reassure Vincent Graham, but he doesn’t object when she takes his arm and leads him up the museum’s spiral staircase to a statue of the sleeping Buddha on the second floor.
‘Have you heard about Pierre?’ she asks.
‘Pierre?’
The suspicious note in Graham’s voice doesn’t surprise Angel. He’d put a move on her at their last meeting,
