The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(29)

Joshi and Mhatre would look the other way due to Taneja’s connections in high places. A tycoon like him could certainly afford a contract for the disposal of bodies, or sapphire jewelry.

Arnav’s phone rang—the very man he wanted to speak with.

“Why have you spoken to the papers without telling me?” Shinde snapped, with no attempt at a greeting. Arnav paused before responding to his friend. Shinde needed to ease off on people and take his painkillers on the regular.

“You asked me to assist on the case—this is part of the process. If someone has a tip, they will come forward for the right reward.”

“I’m taking you off the case.”

“I may have useful information. It could lead to Rasool.”

“Doesn’t matter. You may already have warned Rasool off now. Return the case to the Versova station.”

“Let me talk to you at home first, all right? Why are you—”

“No more interviews to the press, you hear?”

“Fine.”

“You’ll hand over the case as soon as I’m back at office.”

Arnav must stall this till he knew more on the black getaway van, and the sapphire. Shinde would act reasonable once he noticed progress.

When his phone alerted next, Arnav clicked on the picture Dr. Meshram had sent him. He scrolled through the photos of the bones, noting the chips Meshram had remarked on. The jewelry, silver with blue stone teardrops, had no hoops or fasteners, only thick clamps at the ends that you could bend. He asked Dr. Meshram to send him the item. The good doctor may not have specified what it was, but Arnav had a good hunch about it.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


BILAL

It was a risk for Bilal, deploying the items he’d bought from Rasool at the boy’s apartment or the farmhouse. If the boy found them, Bilal would be the sole suspect—the only one who cleaned the bedroom and, occasionally, the study.

Not keeping track of the boy made him anxious, and with good reason. If caught unaware, he wouldn’t know if and when to cut and run. Hunkered in his den, Bilal stared at the device he’d sneaked out from under the boy’s bedside table. It could easily be mistaken for a screw in the furniture, and didn’t come cheap. Long-lasting battery, the best microphone, large memory.

He downloaded the file, connected his headphones, and listened.

Much static, music. Voices. The boy’s conversations, some of them with himself. It didn’t amount to a lot. Some were on topics Bilal had zero interest in. Others, he already knew about. This was how he liked it.

One of the calls gave Bilal pause. The Home Minister had risen in the ranks with help from the boy, and the boy had decided to call in a favor. The poor policeman who had found the package would see a transfer, routine or otherwise. Bilal huffed in relief—once the investigation stalled, no one would come looking for Bilal. If things turned hairy, the boy wouldn’t hesitate to make Bilal a scapegoat.

The next call was with Uhnna, the one man the boy addressed with respect. No more deliveries, Uhnna remained firm, even if the packages remained intact. Not to the farmhouse, and not even to the railway station.

“This case won’t go any further.” The boy’s recorded voice remained steady. Bilal could picture him, sweating, dressed in khaki, having snorted a line of white from the table. The boy never sounded as measured as when he was high as a kite.

“My men did their job. I won’t put them at risk. They cost good money.”

The boy begged, promised favors. Swore it wouldn’t happen again.

Bilal chuckled. In Mumbai, everyone performs for someone else. Everyone comes with a price tag. He scrubbed the device clean, ready to plant it again. All was safe, for now, as long as the boy succeeded in stalling the Versova investigation.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


ARNAV

The irony of the situation was not lost on Arnav. He wanted to meet Mhatre, but there he was instead, seated on a wooden bench at the dojo, waiting for his appointment with the actor his bosses had dumped on him.

His sensei had let him have the place this afternoon—the large, well-lit hall with its cement floor covered by exercise mats. The dojo sat hidden by entire rows of street shops selling everything from bright plastic Chinese toys to groceries and traditional cast-iron pans, flanked by the odd tailor shop, and a shop selling ittar, little bottles of perfume distilled from old herbs and dried flowers. The fragrance drifted in, a faint whiff of jasmine and lavender, the scent of Tara at her neck, her hairline, a mixture of her hair oil and talcum.

The actor was late. Ten more minutes, and that would be the end of that. Arnav dialed Naik, who he hadn’t seen in two days because of their clashing shifts at work.

“Any progress on the Aksa case?”

“Not so far, sir; the sequins on those bodies were too old. I checked some of the evidence from the Versova case—the watch strap from the site is not an expensive brand, but it’s not cheap, either. No serial number on the strap. The blue sequins are pricey, but quite common. Most bigger markets stock them. We’re asking around about their use.”

“And the other item?” Arnav didn’t bother spelling out nipple clamp. He trusted Naik to know what he meant based on the internet links he’d sent her along with the pictures from Dr. Meshram. After the initial jokes, his team had researched all companies that offered online deliveries of sex toys in India. This particular design, like an unwieldy ear ornament with added clamps, was not included.