George the doorman — he quipped, “Dressing down today, are we?” — and
headed to the subway. Walking down the ste ep stairs into the fetid tunnels
always made me feel like a rat disappearing down a hole.
Thirty minutes later, I entered the New Yorker Diner. The hard, bright
winter sun shone through its huge plate - glass windows and blinded me —
but then my eyes adjusted. Yes, Orlando Epps was sitting in his booth, his
face reduced to a dark silhouette.
I took a seat at the counter and ordered a coffee. From this vantage
point, I could observe Epps: Between sips of coffee, he ate a blueberry
muffin methodically, licking crumbs from his fingertips, saving the crusted
cap for last. He paged through The New York Times, then the Post and Daily
News, and occasionally tore out part of a page using a small metal ruler.
Then he took out his cell phone and made a series of long, in volved calls,
taking copious notes in his r eporter’s notebook.
What was he writing?
I pulled my baseball cap down low over my face and walked past Epps’s
booth — ostensibly to use the bathroom — and saw that he’d neatly logged
each call: name of caller, time, duration, and a bullet - point summary of the
conversation. This was not the behavior of a decr epit old man. Epps was
clearly working hard — perhaps even investigating me.
I returned to the counter and sipped my rapidly cooling coffee. Next to
my elbow was a bulky manila envelope — not unlike the one that Maryam
had passed on to Epps — but this one contained two stacks of banded
hundred - dollar bills. A total of twenty thousand dollars. It was a small
fraction of the vast salary I now received from Tiger Corp, money that I
could have sent home to my parents — but instead I was using it to bribe
Orlando Epps.
It had been Kyle’s idea. Kind of.
A week ago, I’d been tempted to confide in Kyle, but I hadn’t.
For two reasons. First, as Ma always said, “When someone shows you
who they really are, believe them.” Kyle had lashed out at me when he
thought I was undermining his position with Abbas, and only after he
realized that the EB - 5 scheme was lucrative did he try to make nice. Kyle’s
subsequent apology was strategic — even in my despair I could see that.
Second — and this says more about me than Kyle — I was afraid that he
would burst out into laughter at my confession: Farhan is your type?
Really?
Instead of the truth, I’d fed Kyle a fictitious situation: What if, say, a
building inspector had found a flaw in one of our construction projects —
just a cosmetic flaw, nothing lethal — and was threatening to shut that
project down, causing enormous losses? What would he, Kyle, do?
Kyle was not an educated man — he scorned what he called “book
knowledge” — but he compulsively read self - help blogs, and he’d also spent
years observing how Abbas operated. His advice was precise and tactical:
“Do your research. Discover your enemy’s Achilles’ heel. Use that to turn
the situation in your favor.”
For the next four days, I scoured the internet for every piece of
information about Orlando Xavier Epps.
It was easy to determine how old Epps was — eighty - two — and
reconstruct his past: He was a decorated NYPD detective, and he’d worked
closely with the FBI in what was now known as “the last years of the serial
killers,” the early 2000 s, before cameras became ubiquitous and computer
algorithms detected hidden patterns.
And then came a surprise. It turned out Epps’s biggest case was a serial
killer who had stalked Jackson Heights, murdered eight young Indian girls,
and cut out their hearts. These were the same girls that I’d heard about in
Abbas’s barbershop out in Queens, and my questions were finally
answered: The brutal deaths of these girls explained the reluctance of the
neighborhood men to speak about them. What a coincidence that Abbas had
paid for the funerals of these girls, and it occurred to me that perhaps Epps
and Abbas knew each other. The thought sickened me and made me speed
up my research.
That first day, I read up about JHK.
Back then, it had been a huge story. There were scores of newspaper
articles about Epps — and I realized that I was up against a formidable
enemy: He was smart, de eply principled, willing to speak out about the
institutional racism of the NYPD. On the second day, I found nothing new
and despaired. On the third day, I returned to the newspaper articles I’d
previously read and realized that the NYPD had eventually sidelined Epps
— and after he k ept speaking to the press, fired him. Did Epps’s abrupt
d eparture mean that he’d forgone his hefty cop’s pension?
More relentless searching led me to a proprietary real estate database,
and I discovered that Epps’s sixth - floor walk - up on the Lower East Side
had recently hit its rent - stabilization cap and jumped to market rate. Also,
scouring Epps’s website, I realized that there was a huge gap — almost a
year — in the dates of the testimonials. He limped and walked with a cane —
and hadn’t the waitress at the diner mentioned something about a hip
r eplacement?
I called Mount Sinai, Presbyterian, Memorial — using Maryam’s name
and medical ID number — and I finally hit pay dirt at Beth Israel on the
Lower East Side. Epps had indeed undergone r eplacement surgery on both
hips, and one had failed, requiring another surgery and endless physical
therapy.
Finally, a complete picture had emerged: Epps’s ivory - handled walking
stick. His shabby suit and worn Panama hat. It all made sense. Orlando
Xavier Epps, upstanding ex - NYPD detective, was probably living hand to
mouth and in constant pain — and most importantly, he had a mountain of
medical bills.
Now I sat at the counter of the New Yorker Diner with the manila envelope
at my elbow. The twenty grand was just an opener — I could offer Epps
more if I had to — but how was I going to approach him? The old man
thought of himself as incorruptible, and a clumsy bribe would just anger
him.
Somehow I had to convince Epps to deliver a r eport back to Maryam —
Your husband is clean as the driven snow.
And I had to do it fast — because things between Maryam and I had
worsened. Last night when I got home, there was no television watching
and no cuddling on the couch. Maryam got directly into bed with her laptop
and watched an old episode of ER while spooning salted caramel ice cream
right out of the carton. She left the empty container on the bedside table,
and Nussie had a field day lapping at it. Her body language was brutally
clear: Leave me the hell alone. And very early this morning, she had
received another phone call. I heard her in the bathroom whispering
vehemently, and I definitely heard my name: “Ali” and “No, he didn’t” and
“Yes, he did, but...”
Sitting in the diner, I finished my third cup of black coffee, and the
caffeine ran bright through my veins. I had to act — but how? Then Epps
solved the problem for me. He finally finished his blueberry muffin, folded
his newspapers, and slid them into a battered leather satchel. He must have
k ept a tab at the diner, because he did not pay. Slipping on a doublebreasted camel hair
coat, he grabbed his walking stick and headed for the
door, moving surprisingly fast.
This time I was ready. I threw down a ten and followed Epps. I’d tail
him as he went on his morning errands and gather more information — and
that would hopefully allow me to tailor my approach. I jammed the
envelope of cash into an inside pocket of my jacket and left the diner.
From the Fulton Street subway station, Epps hopped on to the local up to
Grand Central and then headed to Queens. He really behaved like an old
man: I sat at the far end of the subway car and watched him doze off, his
walking stick across his knees, his head dipping lower and lower. What if
he k ept snoozing, and the train thundered to its final stop, all the way in
Flushing? It would have been a total waste of my morning.
Luckily, Epps snapped awake at 103 rd Street in Corona and darted off
the train. He set off at a brisk, lolloping pace down Roosevelt Avenue,
staying under the massive elevated tracks that stretched overhead. Every
few minutes a distant rattle built in volume, became deafening, and a train
passed above me. Then the sound receded, only to be r epeated moments
later, creating an endless metallic surf. Added to this noise was the loud
cumbia music blaring from the stores, and the constant chatter in Spanish.
Epps occasionally stopped to chat with a storeke eper, and twice beat
cops bumped fists with him. Clearly, he was well known here from his days
as a police detective.
He veered off Roosevelt Avenue into a used - car place, talked briefly to
the owner, then stood for a long time in a far corner, staring at a patch of
weeds. Farther down the avenue, he pushed away a sheet of loose plywood
and vanished into a boarded - up lot. I could not see what he was doing, but
he emerged ten minutes later, looking pensive. Ten minutes after that, he
paused for a long time by a dumpster in an alley, but when I checked, it was
full of scraps of colorful fabric.
None of this was information I could use, and I was hard - pressed to
explain his behavior. Maybe Epps was no longer a crack detective, just a
nostalgic old man visiting his old beat.
Eventually, he left Roosevelt Avenue and walked into a low - rise brick
housing complex with neat, bordered flower beds, empty now, the ground
covered with l eprous patches of snow. He looked down at a basement
apartment with its own entrance, a narrow slot of stairs descending into the
earth. The place seemed unoccupied, but Epps walked carefully down the
stairs and peered into its dark windows.
He stayed there for a few minutes, and when he came back up, he moved
slower, with a sle epy, pensive air, and shambled slowly back to Roosevelt.
Finally, he entered Aparna Fabrics, an Indian sari shop, the walls lined with
bolts of brightly colored cloth. Through the windows, I watched him in
de ep conversation with the elderly bald Indian owner. Aha, this was finally
something — I could return later, chat with the owner, and discover what
questions Epps had asked.
The temperature had fallen into the twenties. While Epps was in the
fabric store, I took the opportunity to run across the street and buy a cup of
chai from a food truck. I gratefully sipped it and watched the store entrance,
but Epps did not emerge.
I finally walked into the store, but it was empty. Behind the counter, the
owner had lit a stick of incense and was performing a puja — eyes closed,
chanting in Sanskrit — in front of a statue of Lakshmi, the goddess of
wealth.
Epps must have left by the rear — I could see a metal door, bolted shut —
but it would take too long to wait for the owner to finish his puja and then
convince him to unlock his back door. Instead I ran out into the main street
and found a gap between two storefronts that led into the alley. It was dark
and narrow, and the rusty fire es capes overhead cast a thick lattice of
shadows across me.
I ran faster, passing a lit window, where a young woman in a sari —
intent on threading a sewing needle — looked up and jumped when she saw
me. I ran past a barred kitchen window where a disembodied forearm with a
cleaver thwacked into a frozen purple goat carcass. I ran past a Sikh man
guiltily emptying a container of hot cooking grease into a garbage dumpster
that clearly said NO HOT OIL.
Had I passed Aparna Fabrics? I sprinted on, frantic, but the alley ended
abruptly at a blank brick wall, painted with the ghostly remnants of a giant
cola ad — P EPSI, THE LIGHT REFRESHMENT — and I skidded to a stop.
It was oddly quiet, and I sucked in de ep breaths, my hands on my knees.
A faint rustle came from behind me and I became intensely aware that I was
— very foolishly — carrying twenty thousand dollars tucked into the inside
pocket of my parka. Shit, shit, shit.
A raspy voice said, “Hold it right there.” The voice told me to turn
around slowly and to ke ep my hands up. “Don’t do anything stupid,” it
added. “I’d hate to have to shoot you.”
Shoot me? In the most crowded part of Queens, with eyes in every
window? This was absurd. People in America watched too many bad
thrillers.
I whirled around — and something hit me.
Just like that, it was peaceful and dark and completely silent.
I’m not sure how long I lay unconscious.
When I finally woke, I was slumped against a brick wall in the alley, and
Epps loomed above me, his Panama hat tipped to the back of his head. He
peered at me, his eyes narrowed with concern, and said, in his gravelly oldman’s voice,
“You were assaulted.” He glanced down at his ivory - handled
walking stick. “Well, to be precise, I assaulted you. You have every right to
call the police, but I strongly recommend that you don’t ... Mr. Azeem.” He
dangled the manila envelope in front of my face. “It would be hard to
explain why you’re carrying twenty grand in cash. Also why you’ve been
following me all day.”
“How ... how do you know my name?”
Epps sighed at my stupidity and handed over my wallet, my driver’s
license clearly visible. Then he reached out a hand. “There is a coffee shop
around the corner. Why don’t we talk there? Much more conducive than
lying in this alley, yes?”
I gave in and took the old man’s hand. He yanked me upright, and he
was surprisingly strong.
I would have preferred a Starbucks, but Epps escorted me into the Athens
Diner, straight out of the 1950 s. Brown leatherette booths, fake - Greek font
on the menu, each table stocked with individual packets of grape jelly,
ketchup, creamer. It reminded me of the New Yorker Diner, and I wondered
if Epps k ept a list of these shabby, outdated places.
“They have a great fish plate, and the spinach pie is good, too.” Epps
considerately handed me a laminated menu.
The man who knocked me unconscious was making lunch
recommendations.
I ordered a coffee, black, and Epps, without being asked, poured in a ton
of sugar, muttering, “Helps with the shock.”
“Look.” I gulped the coffee and instantly burned my tongue. “We’ve
clearly gotten off on the wrong foot. I wasn’t stalking you. I was just trying
to find the right moment to make an approach.”
“You don’t seem like the shy type, Mr. Azeem. In fact, your wife thinks
you’re very personable.”
My cheeks burned. Epps definitely knew about the affair. He was
mocking me.
“Maryam is completely mistaken. I was not in volved with her sister.
We’re just ... just good friends. She’s overreacted by hiring you.”
Epps had ordered a coffee too, and he was busy pouring in creamer and
sugar. He stopped fiddling with his drink and looked up. “Let me get this
straight, Mr. Azeem. You think that your wife — Maryam Khan — has hired
me to investigate a putative affair between you and Ms. Khan’s elder sister,
Farhan Khan?”
“You own Hawk Investigations, right? Infidelity, disgruntled spouses, et
cetera?”
Epps ducked his head and gasped for breath. I thought he was having an
asthmatic attack — but then he let out a throaty chuckle, and I realized he
was laughing. Asshole.
“What’s so funny? You knock me unconscious, and now — ”
Epps raised up a palm to stop me. His face became a mask, his eyes cold
and flinty, but I would not be intimidated and pressed on.
“Look, I’m not stupid, I saw Maryam and you at the diner downtown.
And you’ve been calling her, early mornings, late evenings.”
“Wasn’t me on the phone. My guess is — with the time difference and all
— that was your wife’s sister. From Tokyo. Those girls really ke ep you in
the dark, don’t they?” Epps saw the confusion on my face and smiled
grimly. “Look, your wife was just conveying some papers to me. Maryam
didn’t hire me — Farhan Khan pays my bills. All of this has nothing to do
with you.”
I could not believe what I was hearing: I was in the clear. My shoulders
slumped with relief. Then my train of thought caught up: Wait, why had
Farhan hired a retired NYPD detective?
Before I could speak, Epps drained his cup, stood up, and stalked to the
door — but then he returned to the booth and slapped my manila envelope
onto the table.
“Almost forgot. You won’t be needing this bribe money. I don’t work
like that.” He leaned down, and his voice was a low hiss. “If I were you,
son, I’d stay away from Abbas Khan. That man has blood on his hands —
five girls dead. Five. What he did to his own daughter ... I would have
stopped it, but he...” He grimaced. “Aah, I’ve said too much. Just stay out
of my way from now on, okay?”
The bell over the door tinkled as Epps left. Through the window I saw
him swinging down the sidewalk, leaning on his cane, moving fast, and
soon he vanished into the crowd.
I sank back into the booth, and my head began throbbing again.
Thirty minutes ago, I’d thought Epps was collecting information on my
affair with Farhan. Now he had just said something completely different:
Farahan — with the help of Maryam — had hired Epps to investigate their
own father. I heard Epps’s voice again, thick with disgust: “I’d stay away
from Abbas Khan ... blood on his hands ... five girls dead ... I would have
stopped it...”
No. This could not be true. There is no way that my father - in - law, with
his Gieves & Hawkes suits, his patrician air — the man who had just told me
that I had a bright future at Tiger Corp — had anything to do with the death
of five girls in Jackson Heights.
And then I stopped. Why five? Weren’t eight girls murdered? Aah, five,
eight, what does it matter? The accusation was completely absurd. Abbas
Khan was a germaphobe: He never so much as touched a car door — forget
about a subway pole. He could never strangle a woman to death — and then
crack her ribs, slice open her chest, stick a hand into the bloody cavity and
extract a still - warm heart. Unimaginable.
Epps was a nut, a kook. That was the only explanation. Epps, in his
faded purple suit, lapels dusted with cigar ash, fired by the NYPD. To give
his sad life some meaning, Epps had to insist that the Jackson Heights
Killer was still at - large. Out of loyalty to his community, Abbas had rushed
to the aid of the victims’ families and paid for the funerals — and Epps had
taken these humanitarian acts as the workings of a guilty conscience.
Okay, fine, maybe Epps was delusional — but he was being bankrolled
by Farhan. I remembered what Big Mike had told me at that Sunday lunch:
that Farhan went through periods of addiction. Was drug use making her
paranoid? And if Maryam knew that Farhan was unstable, why was she
helping?
What a mess. What a huge mess, and I couldn’t make any sense of it.
Funny, how I thought I was the one hiding a secret, but Maryam had me
beat. I had no choice: that evening I would confront her and find out what
the hell was going on. Surely there was some simple explanation for all this.
I unbuckled my watch and stared at the engraving at the back: TO MY
BELOVED HUSBAND AT THE START OF OUR MARRIAGE.
I left a huge tip at the Athens Diner, st epped outside, and called an Uber.
It was midafternoon, the temperature had dropped, and my breath came out
in a feathery fog. The winter chill was American, but the dingy, cluttered
shop fronts were straight out of Mumbai, and I felt again that sharp pang of
homesickness.
As I waited for the Uber, I dialed Ma, and she instantly answered.
“You haven’t called for ages. Everything okay? How is Maryam?”
“Fine, good,” I lied automatically. “I’m in Jackson Heights, Ma. It’s the
Indian part of town, it makes me homesick, and I just wanted to hear your
voice, and — ”
“It’s a weekday, isn’t it? Why aren’t you at work?”
Ma could always read the distress in my voice. I cleared my throat and
put on a loud, cheerful tone. “Oh, just looking at some development
opportunities up here. Part of my job.”
“I’m glad it’s going well. And thank you for the money. It’s a great help.
I’m fine, of course I am, but your father ... well, he’s d epressed. This new
apartment doesn’t suit him. He says that it’s too stuffy. He misses the sea
breeze. And it doesn’t help that Hassan ke eps calling and yelling at him.”
“I’ll send more money.”
I tried not to imagine my parents in a small rental apartment with one of
those tiny balconies, barely large enough for a chair. My father sitting out
there, mourning the loss of his empire. How could he have been so foolish
with his investments? I thought of the canny way Abbas managed Tiger
Corp. His employees were afraid of his outbursts, but they were also de eply
loyal, and that mixture of emotions was the combustible fuel that propelled
the success of the company. To be successful was to be ruthless. And to be
ruthless, you could not afford to be sentimental, sloppy — and so you made
enemies, and those enemies spread rumors.
Everything will be cleared up soon, I told myself. There is no way that
Abbas had anything to do with the dead girls.
My mother went on with her litany of complaints and ended by saying,
“It might cheer Papa up to take a trip. Why don’t we come and visit you for
a bit? You have that large apartment, yes, all those bedrooms?”
I thought of Maryam’s icy behavior, Farhan’s lunacy, the old detective
she had hired to investigate her own father. If I had foreseen any of this, I
would have stayed away from the Khans ...
“I’d love for you to visit, Ma. The thing is ... we’re redecorating. Maybe
even moving to a bigger, nicer place. So a visit, absolutely, but maybe in a
few months’ time?”
Then my mom was off again, giving me marital advice: how “high
expectations resulted in disappointment, but on the other hand, low
expectations could be problematic, and the key to arranged marriage was to
find a happy balance” and blah, blah, blah.
Luckily, the Uber arrived. I claimed a bad connection and ended the call.
Now, on top of all my problems, I’d have to stave off a visit by my
parents. If Ma set eyes on me in person, she’d instantly sense my distress.
She’d weasel the whole story out of me, and that would be disastrous.
I rode back into Manhattan in silence, and the lump on the back of my
head throbbed the whole way.