Murder in Mumbai (3 page)

Gaikwad could spot clues that others had missed; his powers of deduction were to be envied; and more than all of that he had instinct. If there was anything Jay found amusing about the policeman, it was his vanity. His uniform was always neatly pressed; he wore his knockoff Ray-Ban Aviators with pride; and the tip of his Rajput-like mustache was neatly waxed.

“So, Inspector,” Jay said. “What do we have?”

“It's a
phirang
,” he replied, using the word for foreigner.

“Any idea who?”

“Not yet. But Khan wants to know now.”

“Any identification?”

“No.”

“A prostitute?” The city was now home to call girls from Eastern Europe and other exotic locations, seeking a slice of the rising India and its obsession with light-colored skin.

“Not sure,” Gaikwad replied. “Though she doesn't look like one.”

“Could I take a look?”

“Absolutely not. I don't want you messing up the crime scene.”

“You can walk with me. I won't touch anything. Besides, I might be able to recognize her.”

Gaikwad saw he had a point. Although Jay claimed to stay away from places filled with the good city's glitterati, his schooling and college ensured he knew a veritable who's who of Mumbai's elite.

“All right. A quick look.”

The two men walked toward the gurney on which the woman's body had been placed. Gaikwad lifted the shroud to reveal her face; one hand dangled. He looked at Jay, who grimaced. Under normal circumstances, the body would have shown the normal signs of decomposition, but the rains had not been kind.

“What's that on her wrist?” Jay asked. It was a silver bracelet.

Gaikwad used his baton to prop the arm up. He knelt down, putting on rubber gloves, and removed the bracelet.

“Liz Baar-Tone,” he said, reading the name engraved on the inside.

From the expression on his face, Gaikwad knew Jay recognized her.

“Know her?”

“I know the name. Yes. She's Liz Barton, the CEO of Mohini Resources, the mining company.”

Chapter 2

By the time Jay Ganesh had returned to the newsroom and quickly typed out six hundred words on the discovery of the body of Mohini Resources CEO Liz Barton, practically everyone knew that he'd been the one who'd identified her. News of the murder spread quickly. Jay tried to call Gaikwad again in the hopes that he could ferret out some more information that no one had. But that one tidbit—of the red bag that her hand had been sticking out of, leading to her discovery—was all Gaikwad had. Jay knew the paper would lead with the story. He looked at the photographs Janet had taken and went with her suggestion.
She's more than a pretty face,
he thought to himself, immediately chiding himself for his sexism.

His phone rang. It was Manisha Thakkar, his editor.

“You free?” she said. It was more a summons than a question.

“I'll be there.”

He walked through the newsroom, which had begun to fill up. Phones were ringing; some went unanswered. He walked into Thakkar's office. She was engrossed in her monitor.

“Good story,” she said, without looking up. “We need to be ahead of the curve on this.”

“I'm on it,” he said.

“What's happening with those burglaries? Anything new?”

“Not since the last one.”

“There's something else I need you to do.”

“Oh?”

“There's a party at the Taj.”

“Tell me you want me to go as a guest,” Jay said, more with misplaced hope than the realization of what she was about to ask.

“I'm not sure they allow unshaven people who wear the same black T-shirt and jeans every day,” she said, chuckling. “Actually, it's an event.”

“You want me to cover a party?” He sounded incredulous. “Manisha, you can't be serious.”

“I'm extremely serious. With the exception of this murder, it's been a while since you've written anything. The bean-counters are asking me questions and it's a good way to get out there again.”

“For God's sake,
yaar
,” he said, in exasperation.

She looked annoyed, the way a mother does when she deals with her favorite child who is throwing a tantrum. They had been—and still were—very close. While many of the newer staff were terrified of Thakkar, Jay could walk in and talk to her with the same candor that he had when they were twenty-five.

She appreciated this, and retained a soft corner for him. She also knew Jay had the potential once again to be the city's best reporter. In a media world seemingly fast populated by young things whose attention spans were only matched by the gravitas of the reality shows they watched and their Twitter feeds, Jay stood out: He possessed exacting standards; he set a high bar for what he considered news.

“Why don't you ask Kedar to do it?” he asked. “He loves hobnobbing with those people.”

“Look, Kedar is off,” she said. “I know how you feel about this celebrity stuff, but it's paying your bloody salary. Besides, you'll know a lot of people there.”

“Don't remind me.” Jay was uncomfortable with the fact that because he'd grown up in the city and had gone to the “right” school and college, he knew many of its best-known personalities—some of them well.

“You think I like having this shit covered? But it's selling the papers,” Manisha replied. “The owners want it done. The public laps it up. Think of it as taking one for the team.”

Jay had a reputation for high-minded rants. His sanctimony often annoyed those who worked with him, and today was no different. Except he knew Manisha would put up with it because she wanted him to cover the assignment. The owners had specifically asked for a veteran who could write, and there were few of those. Few of the interns could write. If you asked Jay, he'd say they couldn't read, either. Those who could were too raw. And so Jay was “volunteered.”

“Fine,” he said with the petulance of a four-year-old being forced to eat the last morsel from his plate. “I'll do it. Whose party is it?”

“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.