Gaikwad immediately saw Jay at the far corner. He was sipping a beer.
Jay looked up at him and smiled. “Inspector, drink?”
“Too early for me. Besides, I’m on duty.” But looking at that frosted glass, and thinking of the heat outside, all he wanted right now was a sip.
“So what do we have?” Gaikwad said as he sat down, wasting no time on pleasantries. He picked up the menu on the table and perused it: He could visualize his thickening arteries.
The waiter arrived.
“Tandoori Chicken,” Gaikwad said.
“Chicken korma,” Jay added. “And bring an assortment of rotis and naan.”
The waiter nodded and walked away. Gaikwad looked at Jay.
“I may have information that may be relevant to you,” Jay said.
“Then I’m interested in hearing it.”
“Not so easy, Gaikwad sahib. Tell me what you have on the murder.”
“We can’t let details like that out. You paper wallahs are printing all sorts of garbage about this case.”
“Have you seen anything in my paper that is false? Have you seen my name on any of those stories?” There were few things that annoyed Jay Ganesh more than the sweeping generalization that all journalists were unreliable hacks who would print any half-truth in order to get attention. He knew some crime reporters acted as fronts for certain gangs, arranging deals with rival gangsters, tipping off criminals before police raids, but he wasn’t one of them. His indignation must have shown on his face. Gaikwad looked apologetic.
“I didn’t mean you, yaar. This case is a pain in the arse.”
Jay took the last sip of his golden beer when the waiter arrived with their orders. The chicken korma was swimming in oil; the tandoori chicken looked unappetizing, as if the masala on it hadn’t quite been cooked. Oh the hell with it, Gaikwad thought. If the food’s going to be awful, I might as well have a drink.
“One Haywards,” he told the waiter.
“Make that two,” Jay said, smiling.
It was as they dug into their meal, Jay seemingly oblivious to the quality of his food, that Gaikwad realized the journalist was probably a bachelor. This, to Jay, was regular food. For a moment, he felt bad for Jay.
“This is excellent,” Jay said, looking up at him enthusiastically. “Inspector, you should try some. But also tell me more about the case.”
Gaikwad gave him a rundown of what he had. His questioning of Barton, Hazra, and Kohli. His phone conversation with Khurana and the fact that he was planning to meet him. Jay listened to him silently. He did not take notes, lest the policeman was put off by the idea of being on the record. Each bit of relevant information was tucked away within the recesses of his mind from where it would be summoned when he had to write a story.
“OK. That’s it from me,” Gaikwad said. “What do you have for me?”
“Do you know Eagle Services?”
“Yes,” Gaikwad replied. “Chhota Mirchi’s attempt to attract a better class of criminal.”
Jay could not help but be amused by that apt description.
“What about it?” Gaikwad asked.
“I saw your Vikram Hazra coming out of it.”
“So what?”
“So obviously it must be something important. Why would he go himself? Someone like him risking his reputation when all he had to do was send an underling.”
“Fair point. But that doesn’t mean he did anything to the American woman.”
“I didn’t say it did, but it’s an awful big coincidence given the timing of this case.”
Gaikwad had to acknowledge Jay was right. “OK,” he said. “I’ll look into it. What else do you have?”
“At this point it’s only a rumor.”
“Rumors are always good, as long as we can substantiate them.”
“It’s about Kabir Khurana. He was in my school. There’s a scandal involving him, and I’m meeting an old priest later today who can tell me more.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“I just wanted to keep you posted—and remind you that I have first dibs on this story when it breaks.”
“OK, OK,” Gaikwad said. But he cursed the entire journalistic profession as a bunch of leeches.
* * *
As he headed back toward Nariman Point for a meeting with Kabir Khurana, Gaikwad wished he hadn’t eaten that chicken, hadn’t had that drink, hadn’t met Jay Ganesh. And he wished that DCP Adnan Khan were conducting this interview instead.
Like everyone in the city, he’d heard of Kabir Khurana. But knowing a man by reputation and speaking to him on the phone was one thing, meeting him and questioning him about a murder was an entirely different matter. And then there was that element about the city’s nawabs that he couldn’t quite put his finger on: Was it a disdain for the laws of the land; a disdain for people like him? Certainly, they possessed a casual arrogance that they didn’t hide. It was almost as if they were trying to say they were too important to talk to you. But, he thought, I shouldn’t categorize Khurana before I meet him. It was important to have an open mind.
Gaikwad walked into the lobby of the Express Tower building. Security was tight. A rent-a-cop wanded those who entered. Gaikwad, probably because of his uniform, was given a free pass. This would normally irritate him because it showed a flaw in the security system, but today he was glad for it. He got into the elevator and went to the top floor where Khurana had his office.
A secretary acknowledged him and asked him to wait a few minutes.
“Mr. Khurana is in a meeting,” she said. “He apologizes for the inconvenience.”
Gaikwad sat on the leather couch and leafed through the newspaper on the table. He’d already browsed through the news today. There was nothing else that caught his eye.
He fidgeted until the secretary caught his attention.
“He’s waiting for you,” she said, and went back to whatever she was doing.
Gaikwad entered the office. Khurana rose to shake his hand. He was dressed simply.
“How can I help you, inspector?” he asked. “And what will you have to eat or drink?”
“Nothing for me, sir. I just had lunch. And thank you for seeing me.”
“I was curious what the police would want with me,” Khurana replied. “I thought we’d taken care of everything on the phone.”
“Well, sir, it’s a murder investigation and we are still making inquiries.”
Khurana paused and took a deep breath. “Yes, a very unfortunate business,” he said. “One never likes it when something like this happens to one’s colleagues.”
“Sir, I have to ask you again—what was your relationship with her?”
“I told you, inspector. We were acquaintances. Nothing more.”
“Sir,” Gaikwad said, “we have it on good authority from more than one person that you enjoyed a close relationship with her.”
“What are you implying, inspector?” His tone didn’t change; neither did his expression.
“Just what I learned, sir,” Gaikwad continued. “You were spotted with her several times. At cafés, restaurants. And yet when I asked you about it, you denied everything.”
Khurana paused and took a breath.
“OK,” he said. “We were close. You have to understand . . .”
The composure dissipated.
“We were friends. Not more than that. We would talk. I liked spending time with her. She was intelligent, charming, beautiful. But it was nothing more than that. Mainly we discussed business, the business climate in India.
“She was having some issues with the bureaucrats in Delhi and I told her how to circumvent it.”
“Any reason why anyone would want to hurt her?”
“I can’t think
of anything, inspector. Naturally, I was devastated when I heard. Who could do such a terrible thing? And it sends such a bad message to the foreign investment community. Not to pick on you, inspector, but safety is becoming a problem in this city.”
Gaikwad let the comment slide. The police were the first to be blamed for anything that went wrong. It was as if the city’s residents had forgotten that they too were part of society and if the city had become unsafe and the force crooked, it reflected on the citizenry as much as it did the police department.
“But she was getting threats, inspector,” Khurana continued.
“Yes. We are aware of that. Did they frighten her?”
“To tell the truth, no.”
“Did she suspect anyone?”
“She didn’t trust Vikram Hazra, but she didn’t think he could threaten her. She said he didn’t have it in him.”
“What about Gaja Kohli?”
“Ah,” Khurana said. “Gaja.”
“You know him then?”
“We studied together in America, inspector.”
“And did you know of his campaign against her?”
“Yes. In fact, I advised her to strike a deal with him,” Khurana said. “Let’s just say I know Gaja to be a very flexible man.”
“And did he prove to be flexible?”
“I don’t know the answer to that, inspector. The next thing I knew she was dead.”
Gaikwad paused and re-examined his notes for what seemed like an eternity. He collected his thoughts.
“What was your relationship with her husband, sir?”
“Ah, that’s a little complicated, inspector,” Khurana said.
“Why?”
“He thought we were having an affair.”
“And were you?”
Khurana looked Gaikwad right in the eyes. “No, inspector. I told you. No. Was I attracted to her? Yes. But she was married to her job.”
Khurana looked at his watch.
“Well, inspector, if you don’t mind, I have another meeting soon.”
“Of course. Of course, sir,” Gaikwad said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
“It’s my duty as a citizen, inspector. And tell me who your DCP is?”
“Adnan Khan, sir.”
“Khan—yes, a good man. I’ll bring both you and him up in my next meeting with the inspector general and the chief minister. Tell them what a good job you boys are doing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I always take care of those who look after us, inspector.”
* * *
Outside, workers were streaming out of their offices, walking with their briefcases, purses, and bags toward Churchgate station, where they’d take the train home. The sun was low on the horizon, imparting a pink tinge to the water. Gaikwad walked toward his bike, assessing his interview with Khurana. The man had been forthright once he knew he’d been caught lying. But there was that bit in the end when he brought up the inspector general and the chief minister: almost as if he were reminding Gaikwad that he was well-connected. Was that a warning or was he merely making conversation?
Gaikwad knew he would have to dig deeper to find answers. This was like playing a slow game of chess. Gaikwad was usually a patient man, but the fact there were few leads was beginning to annoy him. He wanted answers—and he wanted them fast.
Chapter 14
In Andheri (East), not far from Chakala Junction, on the way to the historic but decrepit Buddhist-era Mahakali Caves, lies a Jesuit school for boys founded in the 1960s. Nothing unusual about that—except that behind this school lies a facility where old Jesuit priests from the city spend their retirements. Many are engaged in fund-raising for the church and for the schools and colleges they once ran, soliciting contributions from men with fond memories of both the camaraderie and the canings. Others spend their time in prayer, while still others spend their time bitterly contemplating the state of the nation. Fr. Casale was among the third group. He was born in France and came to India soon after the war, the only war that ever mattered for men his age. He’d spent so long in India, so long in Mumbai, that he had lost any vestige of a foreign accent. His fieldwork, conducted while still a young man, among the tribal population of the state, was now a prescribed textbook at the college level. He knew more about India and Indians than many who had been born in the country. And for all practical purposes, he was Indian—at least to the boys of the school who doted on him during his tenure as the school principal. Most important, Fr. Casale considered himself a keen judge of human character. And so when he saw Jay Ganesh and Fr. Sandeep Fernandes walk toward him, smiling, he knew almost immediately what they had come for.
Jay had called Sandeep earlier that morning. At worst, talking to Fr. Casale would be a dead end. At best, Jay knew that this could be his passport back to respectability, even more so than the case of the burglaries, which had seemingly stalled once he had handed over the evidence from the videotapes to Gaikwad.
Fr. Sandeep had agreed to take him to meet the old priest in Andheri. Jay would meet him in Bandra and they would head there on Sandeep’s motorcycle. The ride was uneventful. Even the traffic was compliant.
“Do you think the old man will be willing to talk?” he asked Sandeep.
“It depends on the father’s mood,” Sandeep replied. “You know he’s always been cranky—it’s just worse now that he’s older.”
“Should I take him anything?”
“You mean a bribe?” Sandeep said, blurting out the words and laughing. “He’s a priest, not a government servant.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean that,” Jay replied, not knowing what he actually meant. “I was thinking more like a box of chocolates or fruits or cake or something.”
Sandeep thought for a few seconds.
“Get him Scotch.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. He told me how much he misses it. Because of his age and his health, they don’t let him have any anymore.”
Jay didn’t need to be told twice. They stopped at a liquor store on the way. It was like all old liquor stores in the city. There was a storefront where men—and it was always men—lingered, and a counter behind which sat two men—typically two men—immersed in newspapers. The customers would bark out orders and the men would take turns conjuring up the liquor from the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind them. They mostly sold quart bottles, which were priced relatively modestly. The country has a complicated relationship with alcohol. While Hindu myths typically tell of gods drinking and becoming intoxicated, and alcohol consumption is common, it is still viewed with a certain amount of disapproval, a disapproval introduced perhaps by Victorian-era morality that has never left the country, though it’s been more than sixty years since the British left. A few states around the country even have a prohibition against it.
Jay walked up to the counter.
“Black Label?”
The clerk handed him a box from under the counter, passing it to Jay as if it were a precious commodity. In many ways it was. Johnny Walker Black Label is arguably the most popular whiskey in the country. For many years, it was a coveted gift from overseas. Jay paid for his purchase, wondering if he could expense it (it would be a tough sell with Manisha), and walked back to the bike.
“Put the bloody thing in your bag for God’s sake,” Sandeep said. “I don’t want you to enter that place with whiskey and get everyone in trouble.”
* * *
Fr. Casale was sitting in an oversized leather chair engrossed in the cricket game on television when he sensed someone approaching. He looked up to see Fr. Sandeep and someone else. He immediately knew it was Jay Ganesh.
“We’d better go inside to my quarters,” he said with resignation, even before they greeted him.
The quarters were small—a room
with a bed; a bookshelf weighted down by the volumes it carried. Jay perused the titles, which showed off the tastes of a Renaissance man.
“You’ll have enough time for that later,” the father said. “Tell me, which batch were you?”
“Ninety-one, father,” Jay replied. “Same as Sandeep.”
Fr. Casale nodded. “I remember your face, but couldn’t place the year. So, tell me, what are you doing now?”
Jay told him about his work at the Tribune and the burglaries he was working on.
“And you had that unfortunate incident with that dirty rag, right?”
“Yes, father,” Jay replied, surprised that the old priest was so plugged in.
“You’re probably thinking how an old coot like me knows so much,” the father said, smiling. “But it’s all here,” he said, pointing to his brain. “When the mind goes, everything follows.”
“Reverend father,” Sandeep said. “Jay has something for you.”
“Of course,” Jay said, extracting the bottle from his backpack.
“Ah,” Fr. Casale said, with a twinkle in his eye. “Just what the doctor ordered—just not my doctor.” He looked at Sandeep. “Bring three glasses from that shelf.”
Sandeep did as he was told. Jay looked at his watch. It was before five. He was not a Scotch drinker. He seldom, if ever, drank this early, but he was not about to say no to his old headmaster.
Fr. Casale poured a peg for each of them.
“Drink up, boys,” he said. “For the old saints.”
Down the hatch it went. Jay wished he’d eaten more for lunch.
“Now tell me why you’ve come.”
“Father,” Sandeep began, “we’ve come about Kabir Khurana.”
“Ah, yes. I somehow knew you would be back when you asked me all those questions the last time.”
“Father,” Jay said, “I’m working on a story about the murder of the American executive Liz Barton. Khurana featured prominently in her life. I just want to know if there is something about him that should be known.”
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