‘You probably didn’t say anything to Sylvie, either.’
‘Didn’t get the chance. I returned to meditation after a week just to see her but she didn’t show up. Not for the next several weeks, either. I tried calling her. Couldn’t get her on the line. I feel terrible for not trying harder.’ Atticus gave a hiss of frustration. ‘This might seem abrupt, but suppose I made an offer to retain you for your services. Would you consider taking on my case? Find out who was behind what I went through and why and, more importantly, what happened to Sylvie? I’m on thin ice. I could use some help. I won’t get much from the police, I know that for sure.’
Startled, Maya sat back. In the last several months she’d successfully worked on cases that included background checks, recurrent office theft, accident reconstruction and a missing child. This would be the first homicide for her to deal with, an order of magnitude more difficult and perhaps a bit out of her league. In trying to hunt down the criminals, she could get herself in trouble. Then came a small voice from within: she hadn’t thrown herself fully into saving Sylvie. She owed it to her. And she was already involved in the case, if privately.
Still, she asked, ‘Why do you think I can help you?’
Atticus, leaning forward, met her eyes. ‘I met you only yesterday but I can see that you’re sharp, committed and intuitive. You’re a desi. You won’t screw me over. Pardon my language. You pay attention to details. I can tell from the way you questioned me and how you took my keys that you’ll make a fine P.I. Besides, this is a personal issue for you as well, isn’t it? I can see in your face how much you’re grieving. You might be the only one who can—’
‘If protection is what you’re concerned with, then why not hire a professional bodyguard?’
‘No, no, a muscular armed man would attract too much attention, which I don’t want. I would rather you looked into this whole tragedy, working privately for me, find out the identity of those goddamned goons and clear up what both you and I are puzzling through. As Sylvie’s spiritual brother, I feel responsible.’
‘Could it also be that you’re concerned about the safety of someone close to you?’
He sighed. ‘Yes, my guru’s. That’s uppermost in my mind. He wouldn’t hear of having a bodyguard. Being a spiritual being, he doesn’t worry about himself.’
‘Is there any way I could meet with him?’
‘He’s in mourning for Sylvie and not receiving any visitors. But I’ll do my best to make sure you get the chance at some point. What’s your fee structure?’
Maya named an amount, discussed terms and conditions and sized Atticus up. Obviously he was well-off and would be able to pay. He got his cellphone out from his pocket and made a few notes.
With a glance at the keys in her hand, she asked, ‘I’m still wondering about the locked door.’
‘Oh, it’s a precautionary move, so my ex doesn’t get in.’ Atticus wiped under his eyes with a hand. ‘I’ve been a mess since she left. She said I was the oddest duck she’d ever been with. So what’s new? I don’t fit in, I have some quirks. I’m ugly. I’m boring. She also said she married me for my bank account but realized eventually that it couldn’t make up for my lack of charm. Didn’t it buy her a most comfortable six months? I’d also have liked to ask her where she buys charm. But she was gone.’
‘Join the club. My relationship with a cop broke up too.’ Maya regretted the words that had flown out of her mouth.
‘Maybe we can cry together.’
‘I’d rather that we talked more about—’
‘My leg hurts if I listen too long.’
Here we go again.
A truck rumbled by on the street below, causing the windowpanes to tremble. Atticus’ face became distorted by dread. ‘You know, Maya, I think you should leave. You might have brought trouble for yourself by visiting me. You could be the gang’s next target, now that you have a Sylvie connection.’
‘How would anyone know I visited you, Atticus? Or that you’re employing me? Do you suppose someone is watching your place?’
Atticus stirred and looked toward the window. ‘Quite so. Maybe I’m paranoid, but sometimes I sense that I’m on a watch list. Bad people waiting in dark places, ready to clobber me again. Bad people breaking in here, going through my stuff. Bad people waking me up at night, shaking me, staring at me.’
‘Why didn’t you warn me ahead of time?’
‘If you’d rather not engage in this case, I can understand.’
‘Look, I already am involved.’ She popped up to her feet and grabbed her purse, wondering what she’d locked herself into. Worse yet, she might have involved Uma. How much she loved her mother. Her well-being … Maya couldn’t process any further. ‘Perhaps we’ll touch base another time?’ she said to Atticus. ‘At least over the phone?’
Eyes darkened with apology, he uncoiled himself from the chair and moved slowly to the door on his crutches. ‘Yes, do keep in touch, but not a word to anyone.’
‘My assistant will draw up a contract.’ She stepped up to the door, twisted the key in one of the locks and turned it. ‘You’re really scared, aren’t you, locking up tight like that?’
He kept his chin down, pulled open the door and stood aside. Maya offered a word of thanks and returned his keys.
‘Let me escort you to the elevator,’ he said in a fatherly fashion.
‘Not necessary.’ Even as she waved, he maintained a deeply disturbing silence. She heard him relock the door.
Out on the street, Maya looked up toward the roof of the building across the street and up and down at the street itself, scanning the doorways and balconies to determine if any surveillance was going on. She detected the movement of a shadow on a lower balcony. She raced to her car, plopped into the driver’s seat and locked the door.
SIX
The following morning, at 9 a.m., Maya sat in her office, a cup of homemade chai and an iPad in front her. She keyed in a link to a news item in her iPad, which continued to churn out details about the fiery protest and eventually landed on an analysis titled ‘Tibetan Spring.’
Hank strode into the office, said hello and took a chair opposite her.
‘Have you heard of Tibetan Spring?’ Maya asked.
At Hank’s headshake, Maya turned the iPad around so both of them could read the screen. The analysis stressed that the two Seattle suicides were isolated incidents. Harold J. Francis, a local psychotherapist who’d been interviewed, was quoted as saying, ‘Suicide is an iconic expression for those who feel helpless against a powerful, oppressive force.’ Francis further insisted that people who had no outlet for expressing their grievances often used self-harm as a tactic, considering it an effective form of protest. ‘I might die but I’ll make a point.’
Maya raised her eyes. ‘No, no,’ she said angrily. ‘Sylvie was too smart for that.’
They went back to reading the screen. Further down, Francis expressed his fear that a wave of politically motivated, copycat immolations could follow, the ‘porous human psyche being susceptible to contamination.’
‘We don’t want that,’ Maya said, and Hank concurred.
Next they studied a brief profile of Sylvie that appeared in a side column. Titled A Trailblazer, it contained mostly routine material about her academic history, including graduate degrees from the University of California and scientific papers she’d published, along with a few tidbits of personal data. Sylvie’s Tibetan birthparents had given her the name Silver at her birth on a full moon night, which was changed to Sylvie by her adoptive parents.
‘Silver.’ Hank looked away from the iPad. ‘A person by that name has to be fascinating.’
‘She used that name in signing cards and letters. She had a large, loopy, memorable signature. The last birthday card I got from her even had a brief, handwritten note. Her penmanship was exquisite.’
‘Something you’ll keep forever, I’m sure.’ Hank paused. ‘Can I ask you more? If Sylvie was a big Tibetan activist, why didn’t
she turn to her sister or anyone else for support?’
‘This is what I’m guessing.’ Maya enumerated the reasons. ‘Sylvie might not have felt her family would approve of her advocacy. Or she might have been the kind of person who compartmentalized her life. Or it might have had to do with her being an adopted offspring; her ancestry was so sacred to her that she didn’t want to share it with anyone. It could also have been that Sylvie and Veen had serious issues between them and a dialogue wasn’t possible.’ Maya concluded by saying, ‘Regardless, how could we all have missed the signs?’
Several hours later, after answering her emails and doing some research on the Internet, Maya left the office and drove home. As she parked her car on the driveway, she watched her neighbor’s black-and-white cat run across the street and that, once again, reminded her of Sylvie. One evening, months ago, she and Sylvie had been talking in Veen’s kitchen when Veen’s cat, Pearl – silvery, with black markings, practically a fur pillow – had slipped into the room, sniffed at Sylvie’s ankle and meowed at her. Sylvie had scooped up the cat, held it to her chest and stroked its head. ‘I have a calico at home,’ she’d said to Maya, her eyes shining. ‘Her name is Augustine.’
Those images faded from Maya’s mind when she entered her living room, sat on the sofa and booted her iPad.
A sandal-footed Uma swept in from the kitchen. Fresh-faced, with a flash of silver-gray in her hairline, she looked smart in a sky-blue sari and a chain necklace. ‘I thought I heard you.’
Maya pointed to the Sylvie article on her iPad. ‘Have you seen this?’
Uma sank down on a chair and glanced at the screen. ‘Yes, it disturbed me so much I burned my breakfast. I hope people have sense enough not to engage in copycat acts. And, oh, Veen called late last night after you went to bed. She sounded terrible. Poor Veen. I want to hug her, sit with her, lend her a helping hand.’
Uma, the sharp one, could help Maya with the investigation. ‘Would you consider extending your stay, Ma?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Uma smiled; her eyes sparkled. ‘I got a letter from Neel, my friend and neighbor, the tall, fair one. Do you remember him? Retired professor. He asked me to come back soon. His afternoon tea tastes bitter because I’m not there to share it. He also said our neighbor’s boys missed the beautiful stories I read to them. And, apparently, the building potluck last week was so dull without me and my squash sauté that Neel left early.’
‘You’re blushing beautifully, Ma.’
‘Me? I’m not a spring chicken.’
‘Romance can happen at any age, Ma. But you’re also needed here. You have an open ticket, don’t you?’
‘Let me have a think.’
Maya peered at Uma, expecting to see her smile – a woman who liked being useful to others. Instead, Uma peered at the street outside the window, blazing under the sun. Her forehead tightened into wrinkles and her face became clouded, as though a sense of dread trembled her insides.
‘What is it, Ma?’
‘Since yesterday … I’ve been getting the strange feeling we’re under observation. Have you noticed a blue sedan that parks across the street? It passed by only moments ago. I know what your neighbors’ cars look like. It’s not one of them. Last night someone sat in that parked car and watched our house for at least fifteen minutes.’
Maya’s neck prickled, like cold fingers were grabbing her, but she kept her expression unperturbed. She rose, went over to the window and saw only an empty street, its monotony dissipated by the lush foliage of a pear tree. She returned to her chair. ‘Did the driver have sunglasses on?’
‘He might have. Let me check next time. I might even speak with him.’
‘No, Ma, don’t. He could have a firearm. If you ever see someone loitering, call Justin immediately.’
‘Justin, that sleazebag? Even if I was being stalked, he’d be the last person I’d get in touch with.’ Uma looked away for a second. ‘I’m having second thoughts about that poor girl’s final act and your involvement in it. Have you already been poking around, dear? Because it looks like you’ve pissed somebody off. Why else would they be keeping an eye on your house?’
Pissed off. Even with being poked by a feeling of unease, Maya marveled at Uma’s usage of slang, which she’d been picking up regularly.
‘I was at the scene, Ma. There were a lot of people there. Who knows who might have seen me? Other than you, I’ve only talked to four people about Sylvie – Veen, Justin, Atticus and Hank. I can’t imagine any of them staking out my house. And Atticus, too, is being watched, or so he says.’
‘Who’s Atticus?’
Maya gave a summation of her meetings with Atticus. That included details about him being attacked by goons and facts about his guru.
‘The guru – I must say I find him interesting,’ Uma said and went back to her chores.
Maya scooped up her cellphone from a side table, called Atticus and asked for an appointment with the guru.
‘No visitors, that’s still the guru’s order,’ Atticus said. ‘And he doesn’t want a bodyguard. He’s getting on in years and mostly stays indoors, except to do prayer walks or visit relatives. But I’ve talked him into giving his part-time assistant, Samuel, a full-time position. Samuel is a judo expert. He’ll accompany the guru on his errands whenever he can.’
‘Good move,’ Maya replied.
After disconnecting, Maya checked the time and approached Uma in the kitchen. ‘I’ll pop out for a while to check out a lead. Call me right away if you see or hear anything suspicious, will you?’
Uma nodded. She drew her eyebrows together and her eyes darted about in concern. That look would stay with Maya.
SEVEN
At a few minutes to 1 p.m., Maya entered Spices & Sweets, where the walls were painted a candle-glow yellow. She paused and inhaled a multitude of fragrances: incense, rosewater and sandalwood, with chili and turmeric battling for attention in the background. Much like in an Indian bazaar, every wall displayed jars, paper bags and plastic packages. A glass display case lined up next to the counter was loaded with confections in white, maroon, yellow and orange, all laid out in trays. Arranged on the floor were café-style tables and chairs for those who wished to nibble while in the shop.
At this hour, the store was empty. The only sound came from a television fixed high up on one wall, blaring out a Bollywood musical. Jazzed by the tune, Maya stood for a moment and tapped her foot. On the screen, a coterie of khaki-uniformed policemen, in the process of arresting a crook, improbably broke into an energetic bhangra dance routine while wielding their guns.
‘Afternoon.’ A woman’s strangled voice came from behind the cash register. Maya turned. Aged about forty-five, dressed in a multicolored cotton dress, she had a nest of curly hair and a restless gaze. Her face had the sheen of someone far better educated than this job demanded. She swept a hand toward the display case, saying, ‘If you have any questions or want a sample …’
‘My name is Maya.’ Bending down, she pointed to a tray containing rich, plump, spongy, white rounds of raj bhog. Once in a while, they won’t kill you. ‘I’ll have my usual order of a pound.’
‘I’m Jeet, the owner.’ A brisk but cultivated voice, a wan smile, a no-nonsense manner – an all-work, little play type of person. She reached into the display case, scooped out a few raj bhog pieces with a spatula, laid them into a square white bakery box, weighed it and placed it on the counter, saying, ‘Did you come in the day before yesterday? We closed early so we’re giving fifty percent off to those customers who didn’t get their orders filled.’
Maya shook her head and produced a credit card. ‘Any particular reason why you had to close early?’
‘Haven’t you heard? We lost our most valued sweet-maker, Anna Kamala. I feel so miserable, I didn’t make it to work yesterday. Wouldn’t have come today, either, except one employee called in sick and another is on vacation.’
‘I know all about how you lost your employee.’ Maya paused, fee
ling the creeps. The incident had happened so quickly, like the sudden snap of a cruel whip, two self-immolations well-choreographed and perfectly executed, as though part of a larger plan. Once again, Maya was put on edge. ‘My best friend’s sister, Sylvie, was also involved in that protest. She died with Anna. Did you know Sylvie?’
Jeet shook her head. A pen resting on the counter clattered to her side of the floor. She didn’t pick it up.
Maya dug a business card from her purse and handed it to Jeet. ‘Hate to disturb you so soon after the tragedy, but if you have a minute to talk …’
Jeet’s brown eyes held Maya with distrust. ‘Two law enforcement officers have already been here. They gave me such a grilling, made me sick in my stomach. And now a P.I.? I always thought a P.I. would be a big, muscular man who carried a gun. You look like a grad student. Who do you work for?’
Never mind how I look. Chin up, Maya stood straight and made herself appear taller. ‘That’s confidential.’
Jeet looked toward the door. ‘What’s the point? My most valuable employee is dead. You poking your nose into it isn’t going to change a thing.’
‘Sylvie was like a sister to me. She died too. Her family is heartbroken. It’d mean so much to them if I—’
Jeet thought a moment longer. Something must have clicked; her eyes rounded and softened. She guided Maya to a table, saying, ‘Fine. Have a seat.’
The flat box in hand, Maya drew up a chair. ‘Even though I’ve come here a few times, I don’t believe I ever met Anna. Do you have a picture of her?’
Jeet grabbed a remote, turned the television set off and receded into the back room, her necklace and bracelets clicking as she hurried away.
Maya checked the surroundings for a pointer to get in with the retailer. A collection of framed photographs depicting bountiful farmers’ markets and a large, black-and-white poster flyer on malaria decorated the walls.
Jeet returned with a nine-by-twelve-inches group photo. Four women and one man stood in a semicircle, frozen in time. ‘Your staff?’ Maya asked, glancing up at Jeet.
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