Chapter 4: In Which Inspector Vinod Spots a Turkish Carpet with Two Defects

Inspector Vinod sipped deeply on the whiskey. He grimaced with satisfaction at its bitter taste. He seated his iPod on the Bose dock that had come along with the apartment. Inspector Vinod scrolled through a playlist and selected Herbie Hancock.

The cold breeze that came in through the window gave him a slight shiver. He sipped on the whiskey and found that delivered a slight but right amount of warmth. His found that his senses were pleasantly stimulated. The moment was right for jazz.

The cymbals made a crisp sound. The piano keys went up in a lilting cadence. One two three four. One two three four. The saxophone broke in with a long wail. Inspector Vinod closed his eyes with satisfaction. Listening to Watermelon Man gave him a deep contentment, almost as though it were not Herbie Hancock, but he who had composed the song to begin with.

The weight of the sticky spittle still sat heavily on his face. Inspector Vinod sensed that he needed to reach for the sublime in order to wipe it completely from his face. There are times in life when Purell’s hand sanitizer just won’t do. At such moments, one has to reach for Tolstoy.

He opened his duffel bag and took out his copy of Anna Karenina. The book opened automatically to his favorite page, where Levin finds salvation. Inspector Vinod scanned the page for his favorite line.

At the peasant's words that Fokanitch lived for his soul, in truth, in God's way, undefined but significant ideas seemed to burst out as though they had been locked up, and all striving towards one goal, they thronged whirling through his head, blinding him with their light.

Inspector Vinod lay down on his bed and tried to picture the look of ecstasy on Levin’s face as his thoughts had blinded him with their light. But then he got lost in the fragrance of Evelyn’s hair that was still enmeshed with the satin of the pillow. He closed his eyes and thought of her black eyes, long black hair and the…

He had fallen asleep.

He was making love to Evelyn. The walls of their bed room crumbled into little particles of powder that were blown away by the wind. They were in Zuccotti Park. The protesters were shouting loudly. They were demanding that Inspector Vinod stop making love. Inspector Vinod thought that the world must have indeed become a bad place if people looked upon love with mistrust and suspicion.

A cold breeze blew through the air. He shivered.

-All right, let’s put an end to it. Inspector Crisafi handed Inspector Vinod his clothes. He continued to looking longingly at Evelyn. She gazed at him with defiance. But she couldn't control herself as he continued to gaze at her with a smirk on his face. She lurched towards him angrily. He took out his gun from the hoslter, and a loud explosion filled the air.

Inspector Vinod got up with a start. He sat up still half asleep like a zombie waking up from the dead. He sipped deeply from his glass of unfinished Famous Grouse. He opened his packet of Camel cigarettes, but found that the pack was empty. In almost any other city in the world, such a discovery would have prompted a muffled curse and a sigh of exasperation.

But this was New York. Everything was available, all of the time.

Inspector Vinod put on his trousers. He picked out the first T-shirt from the top of his suitcase and threw it over his head. He opened the door and stepped into the lobby.

The door of the apartment next to his was open. Inspector Vinod thought it strange that someone should leave their door unlocked before retiring for the night. Unless that someone was a coke fiend who laid every other consideration aside for the pursuit of immediate pleasure. Or if that someone was an old person who had gotten forgetful with age.

The apartment was silent and devoid of any noises of merry making. Inspector Vinod pushed at the door gently. A small hallway opened into the most ornate and spacious living room he had ever seen. He was immediately struck by the intricate avar Kerman and Isfahan hand-knotted motifs on the large Persian carpet that spread gloriously across the expanse of the room. Inspector Vinod had heard that the Persian carpet makers deliberately made one error while stitching these carpets, so that they could remain humble and below God, who in their mind, was the only being capable of a complete perfection.

Inspector Vinod saw that the carpet in front of him had a defect in addition to the one introduced by the carpet maker. A portion of it had been stained with a deep muddy brown, the color of dry blood. The blood was emanating from a head with a gaping hole. Inspector Vinod recognized the head.

It belonged to Dick Carr, the one time CEO of the now defunct Silverman Securities. And Dick Carr was dead. He was as dead as the firm he had once led.