“Actually, it’s not as bad as it could be. It’s Kabir Khurana’s.”
“The industrialist?”
“How many others do you know?”
“You know I met his father once.”
“Of course, I know. We all know that story,” Manisha said, a smile forming at the corner of her mouth. “You’ve told it to me a million times.”
Jay looked sheepish. “Fine. What’s the party in honor of?”
“Do these people need a reason? But this time they actually have one. It’s a do bringing together the city’s business community.”
“Is it Barton related?”
“Good question. It was scheduled weeks ago, but you never know. You may get some tidbits about the case there.”
“So, I suppose in a way it could be related to crime,” he said with a grin.
“We’ll hold a spot open on page three, so come straight back.”
“We’ll need a good photographer. Can you get me Janet?”
“You like them young and pretty, don’t you?” Manisha said with a knowing smile.
But Jay had already left her office.
* * *
Like everyone in the city, whether they could afford to go in or not, Jay had affection for the Taj. Guidebooks would tell you that The Taj Mahal Palace and Tower, to give it its proper name, was built in the Indo-Saracenic style, opened its doors in 1903, and was the last word in old-world luxury. But to the city, it was more than that. It was a symbol of Indian nationalism from an era when there were few signs of any; a story of Indian pride when the nation was colonized; a window to the past; a foothold into the future. The story goes that the hotel was built after one of the city’s great industrialists was refused entry into Watson’s, the grand hotel of the time, because of its whites-only policy. Whether true or not, the story had stuck. The Taj stood in its illuminated splendor overlooking the harbor, still the venue of choice for such events, while Watson, long closed, now lay crumbling only a few miles away.
Although he had been here more times than he could count, Jay felt like an impostor as he walked through the heavy security cordon, installed after the 2008 terrorist attacks on the city that had bloodied the iconic hotel and all of Mumbai. All around him, Jay saw familiar faces from the business pages. Some he knew from school. They waved at him and smiled. The thought of shared memories filled him with dread. He didn’t want to be talking to any of these people. He wished he were somewhere else, preferably an event bringing together the city’s criminal gangs.
What a group photo that would make. He smiled at the thought.
“You’re wearing a suit,” said an amused voice from behind him, one that he instantly recognized. “Whom did you piss off?”
“You’re a very funny woman, Priyanka—but you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“If only you’d thought of that,” she said with the amusement never leaving her voice, “when we were married.”
“Ah, yes,” he replied with a sheepish grin. “Kick a man when he’s down.”
Jay Ganesh and Priyanka Sahani had a brief and troubled marriage at a time that now seemed too far away to remember. His zeal, the very thing that she found attractive before they were married, had begun to grate on her. He worked impossible hours, immersed himself in his job, and seemed to fill his time with everything but her and their marriage. Whenever she raised it with him, he had a stock reply: “But this is how I’ve always been.”
When it became too much, she left. But being in the same business meant that they kept running into each other, and they decided early on—well, she decided—that they wouldn’t let what happened between them ruin their once-close friendship. Time didn’t heal his actions, but she had long accepted that he was a better friend than he was a husband.
Besides, she had moved on—and perhaps that’s why making her peace with what once deeply hurt her was possible. She’d met a man who was devoted to her and married him. She’d segued from a career as a high-flying reporter covering the courts to being one of the city’s top columnists. Of all the people whom she’d known as a young journalist, Jay was the most like Peter Pan. He resolutely refused to grow up. While the rest of them had maintained their liberal views while reveling in luxury and hobnobbing with—some even becoming—the city’s elite in their new avatars as columnists, editors, and TV journalists, he was still the man who’d go down to a messy crime scene, talk to the beat cops, call the gangs and get a gory story. And at the end of the day, he’d go to one of those dives and drink late into the night with his sources so he could find out what was brewing in the city’s underbelly. She envied that about him, but was happy she did not have to do it anymore. After all, the luxury of the Taj was something you could get used to.
Jay felt a tinge of regret whenever he was around Priyanka, regret for what might have been. Despite the years, the failure of his marriage never left him. It loomed over his other relationships, all doomed, since then. He sometimes wondered if he’d ever meet anyone else.
“Boss,” Janet said, breaking him out of his thoughts. “You made it—and in a suit. It’s Christmas.”
Jay couldn’t help but notice the transformation. Her usual photographer’s uniform of jeans and T-shirt were replaced with a black salwar kameez that showed off her youth. But the camera around her neck and her press pass left little doubt as to why she was there.
“Janet, you know Priyanka, right?”
“Yes, we’ve met,” the women said in unison as they smiled.
“OK—time for me to take some pictures. I’ll catch you back at the office, boss,” Janet said. “Do you need a ride?”
“That’d be great. Call me when you’re leaving.”
Jay scanned the room. He could see the closeted industrialist drooling over a young man while his wife was on the other side of the room nursing a drink. He could see the once-dashing cricketer now known more for his clichés on television than his fluent straight drive; the aging actor with the failing kidneys was surrounded by still-fawning fans, all the while smiling but avoiding eye contact. He recognized a couple of journalists, conveniently placed near the open bar, who recognized him, waved, and urged him to join them. One of them worked for a paper notorious in the business for accepting money for stories. Jay could not help but notice his TAG Heuer, which cost as much as he earned in a month. Immaculately coiffed and manicured women in saris that clung to their bodies sipped goblets of Bordeaux flown in from France for the event. They wore bedazzling gold and diamond jewelry and traded air kisses with passersby. Their husbands stood with permanently fixed smiles on their faces, almost on display like their wives’ Ferragamo bags. The others were models, starlets, people famous for being famous, and businessmen in shiny Italian suits, which did little to conceal either their wearers’ stomachs or their poor grooming. Invisible waiters waltzed through the room with outstretched trays that proffered caviar, miniature crab cakes, and, since this is India, cocktail idlis with coconut chutney and samosas skewered on toothpicks with tamarind chutney for a spice kick. Every event in the city was centered on food, which was invariably excellent. Priyanka looked amused. Jay felt out of place.
“How do people get this rich?” he asked.
“They are the people who keep us employed,” she said.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “God help us.”
“So what do you know about the Mohini CEO case?” Priyanka asked.
“Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing,” Jay said, smiling.
“You first.”
“Not much. You’ll read about it tomorrow, of course. But she was discovered near Mahim Creek in a garbage dump. Police reckon she’d been there a week, but it’s hard to tell because of the rains. She was concealed in a large red suitcase.”
“A red suitcase?” Priyanka said.
“Yeah. But
there are no other clues, at least for now. And what can you tell me?”
“Well, this event was scheduled a while ago but it might turn into an impromptu memorial service of sorts. Lots of people here knew her, including Khurana. And he apparently knew her very well.”
“Very well? What does that mean?”
“Can’t be sure. Only rumors.”
“But wasn’t she married?” Jay asked.
“You do know that people don’t need to be married to each other to engage in a relationship, right?” Priyanka said, smiling.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. Yes. She was married,” she replied. “Actually, her husband was screwing that woman there.” She pointed to a striking Indian woman with an older Westerner.
“Who’s she?”
“Uma Rhys. And that’s her husband with her, David Rhys.”
“Is that also a rumor?”
“No. That’s more than a rumor,” she said, chuckling. “It is as we say in the gossip business a well-known fact.”
“Maybe that’s what I should write about for my piece tonight,” he said.
“Yeah, I can see that going down well with Manisha.”
He smiled. “Maybe I can attribute it to a well-informed source who deals in well-known facts.”
“I am well-informed, but definitely not your source.”
“So what other Barton dirt can you give me?”
“Well, she’d been here a few months. Actually, apparently it was unexpected. Their local man—a desi—was supposed to get it. But they went outside the company to get a new national head.”
“And how did he react?”
“Like a stellar company man, but rejection can be hard for anyone to take. Besides, I’ve met him once. Slimy fellow.”
“Isn’t that Kabir Khurana?” Jay said, looking at a man in the distance.
“Good,” she said in mock praise. “You’ve been reading the papers.”
Khurana was one of the city’s biggest industrialists, with interests that spanned textiles, telecoms, mining, and entertainment. He was dressed simply: a white shirt and white pants, kolhapuri chappals, and Gandhi-style glasses.
“Kabir Khurana—the man with his fingers in every pie. That guy can probably buy everyone in this room and yet their drivers dress better than him,” Priyanka said.
“Well, he probably knows he can buy them all,” Jay said. “Still, he’s nothing like his father.”
“Ah, yes, his father,” Priyanka said, amused at the prospect of what would inevitably come next.
Khurana’s father, Khulbushan Khurana, was one of India’s most famous freedom fighters, a man known for his loyalty to Mahatma Gandhi and who despite his family’s wealthy background had immersed himself wholeheartedly into the country’s freedom struggle.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I interviewed the old man?” Jay asked.
“Only a million times,” she said, laughing. “Ah, there’s Gaja Kohli. Now there’s an interesting story you need to hear.”
“Oh?”
“There was a party here last month. Barton was there. And Kohli was there, too.”
“That must have been interesting.”
“You have no idea.”
Gaja Kohli was an environmental activist whose campaign against Mohini’s operations had been making the news with unfailing regularity, primarily because of his habit of going on hunger strikes, a tactic that always yielded results in a nation that thrived on emotion. He was invariably portrayed as a champion of the oppressed. He dressed the way old socialists in India often did, in khadi. He wore plastic-rimmed glasses. His lean frame and weathered brown skin lent credence to reports of his Spartan lifestyle. He was engrossed in conversation with a much younger woman. Even from this distance, Jay could see hero worship in her eyes.
“So, what happened?”
“So they’re at the party. And he walks up to her, and starts screaming.”
“Screaming?”
“Well, maybe not screaming, but enough to create a scene.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Perhaps a little. When there’s free booze, even old socialists imbibe.”
Jay laughed. “And what happened?”
“He went on and on about how the company was killing his people, displacing them. Called her a killer. He was in a rage.”
“Did they call security?”
“No. Khurana was here. He escorted Kohli away.”
“Now, that is interesting,” Jay said. “You are seriously awesome.”
“I know that. Now I need to go and you need to mingle.”
“I suppose I should. Can’t I just follow you?”
“Too late. Besides, I’m here with Shantanu—not on work.”
“Ah—the lucky Shantanu.”
“You had your chance,” she said, smiling, as he walked uncomfortably away into the crowd looking for familiar faces to talk to for a piece that he knew would be execrable.
He spotted Janet, trigger happy with the camera, and wandered over to her.
“So, how long are you going to be here?”
She looked at him, amused. “Not much longer.”
“Get any good pictures?”
“A few, but I’ll know better when I head back to the office.”
“OK. Find me when you’re done.”
“Don’t worry,” she said with a smile. “I’ll look for you.”
* * *
At eleven o’ clock that same morning, a well-dressed man wearing Ray-Ban shades, dragging a large red Louis Vuitton bag, walked into the Good Luck apartment building in South Bombay. If there was anything else distinctive about him—whether in clothing or appearance—no one noticed it: not the sweeper who cleaned the compound, the drivers who loitered in corners, chewing paan or smoking beedis and ogling at maidservants, not the vegetable vendors who went door to door to offer the freshest produce. No one saw him leave, either. He walked in past the watchman who may have been dozing at the time. Even in his half-asleep state, the guard, one of a legion of Nepalis who left their homeland in search of a better life, would have recognized the Ray-Ban’s: They were the kind worn in the summer’s Bollywood blockbuster. But the watchman’s memory was less clear when it came to other details—what the man wore, whether he had any distinctive features, whether he had spoken, how tall he was. Men like the watchman did not question men like the one who entered the building. And it didn’t help that the watchman was dozing off at the time the incident occurred.
The watchman was seated behind the desk with a register on which visitors were, in theory, supposed to sign in and sign out. But in practice, few people were willing to question someone who looked at ease in Western clothes and walked toward the elevator with the casual arrogance of someone used to having his way. The man with the Ray-Bans had ignored the watchman who was sitting two feet away. In such circumstances, the watchman, who had risen early and donned his neatly pressed khaki uniform with the words Good Luck Apartments embroidered in gold lettering upon his chest, was hardly going to ask: “Sir, which floor?”
* * *
Later that evening, when Mrs. Rukmini Mahajan turned the key and opened the door, she didn’t notice anything unusual. An hour later, when her daughter, Anjali, came home, she noticed that something was wrong.
“Mama, where’s my laptop?” she shouted.
“Did you check your room?” her mother said unhelpfully.
“Of course I checked it.”
“Maybe Papa took it,” Mrs. Mahajan said. “Check inside.”
Anjali Mahajan walked across the apartment to her parents’ room, muttering under her breath. There she found that not only was her laptop not there, but her parents’ desktop wasn’t there, either. The wires were
hanging idly from the walls and where the CPU and monitor would sit, there was nothing. The wire from the mouse oscillated gently in the air.
“You’d better come here, Mama.”
“What is it, beta?”
“The computers aren’t here.”
“What computers?”
It didn’t take long for the two women to figure out the machines had been stolen. Mr. Mahajan was out of the country—in the U.K.—in the hopes of getting a new customer for his outsourcing firm. The servant had called in sick. It was the younger woman who called the police. By the time the squad arrived, the two women had also discovered jewelry missing, along with a digital camera, USB sticks, and iPods. Surprisingly, at least surprisingly to them, the TV, DVD players, and assorted entertainment devices were left alone.
Inspector Vijay Gaikwad, already burdened with the Barton case, asked the most experienced constable with him, Sakharam, to question the watchman. But the watchman could not be sure if he saw the man leave. Sakharam was sure he was hiding something.
While his men compiled an inventory of the items that were missing and questioned neighbors and other building staff about who had entered and left the complex and whether they had seen something unusual, Gaikwad asked the Mahajans about their servant and whether they had any reason to suspect her. They didn’t, they said. She’d worked at their home since 1991 and had known Anjali since she was a little girl. There’s no way she could be involved, the women insisted. Still, in spite of the fact that he knew there was a possibility, a strong one, that this theft was part of the same series that had hit the city, Gaikwad asked them for the maid’s address and sent a constable over to the slum where she lived with her children.
On their way out, he asked Sakharam what came of the inquiries with the watchman.
“Sir, you know how these people are,” Sakharam said. “It’s always an inside job. A few slaps and he’ll reveal everything.”
Gaikwad sighed at the comment. There were so many things wrong with it. Yet, he knew that the constable was right: It was typically an inside job.
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