The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(30)
The blue sapphires, delicate teardrops encased in silver, were the genuine goods. Blue sequins and a blue adult toy—the killer might harbor a fascination for the color blue. And a relationship to the letter M or W.
Dr. Meshram had mentioned that the cuts showed surgical experience. A medical professional, maybe.
Arnav placed his odds on the clamp being custom-made, so he’d asked his team to check if it was sold in a shop locally, or bought outside the city. A constable had prepared a list of boutique shops in Mumbai.
“Any luck with the jewelry shop list?”
“We’ve eliminated quite a few, sir.”
“Keep me updated. What’s new on the CCTV footage?”
Ali still hadn’t managed to photograph the hidden van, but had passed on the address of the garage. CCTV in the area might provide glimpses of that vehicle. Arnav hadn’t yet spoken to Shinde, who had to go in for surgery on his arm.
“We may have some relevant footage, sir. We’re working with video forensics.”
Arnav asked for updates on other assignments he’d given the unflappable Naik, and cut the call. The conversation had taken fifteen minutes, and Rehaan hadn’t come in.
Arnav started switching off the lights, preparing to hand over the keys to the guard, when Rehaan Virani walked in, leaving his shoes at the door. He seemed to overwhelm the low-ceilinged hall and the faint strains of zen music wafting in the air. A bright-blue cap held his long hair in place, and he wore dark glasses.
“Sorry to be late,” Rehaan said as he extended his hand, “but very pleased to meet you again.”
“I wish I could say the same.” Arnav smiled to show he was joking. “But I’m here on official orders.”
Rehaan raised his hands in a sheepish gesture of apology quite at odds with his wrestler’s build. “I’d asked my agent to look you up, but my mother had already ‘helped’ me by then. She’s a huge fan of using people for her own ends.”
Arnav disliked the way Rehaan spoke of his mother, but having had a father married to the bottle, he felt a certain sympathy for a man who couldn’t stand his parent. And Arnav himself was no different from Kittu Virani—teaching karate with ulterior motives. The sensei wouldn’t have approved, had he known.
Arnav didn’t want to train an actor on orders from his superiors, but he did want information on Taneja. This was as good a way as any.
“Why don’t we sit?” He gestured to a shiny wooden bench, one of several lining the wall.
Rehaan took off his cap, placing it on a shelf near the door. “We’ll begin with shooting the climax of the movie—that’s why all this.” He waved his massive hands around his beard and ponytail.
Arnav had read up on Rehaan before this meeting. Two of Rehaan’s girlfriends had called the police—one because he was being abusive, and the other for wrecking her car. So much for his talk about Taneja’s treatment of women. Rehaan had a reputation for his temper, despite being the brother of Karan Virani, the star known for his genteel calm. Tara worshipped the ground that sappy chocolate-boy walked on. Arnav caught his wandering thoughts and focused on Rehaan’s spiel.
“I’m playing a Mumbai Police ACP in my next film. I have some martial arts training, of course, but my director wants me to work with a karate expert, because the character was a competitive champion before joining the police. You’re an inspector—I could learn aspects of protocol in the police force as well.”
“Sure. I’ll do my best. When does your shoot begin?”
“In a week, but they won’t require you right away when the shoot begins.”
“What sort of preparation?”
“Depends on what you think I need. Some consultation during the shoot. The action director might request guidance on the set with Karan. Also, a little help with the body language and life at a police station. The struggles, the rewards.”
“Karan Virani is part of this movie?”
Rehaan laughed, and Arnav realized why girls swooned over this man. Despite all the facial hair, his rich laughter turned him charismatic.
“Yes, he’s the villain,” Rehaan said. “His first-ever negative role, so there’s a lot of excitement. I must get each nuance exactly right.”
Tara used to drag him to Karan Virani’s singsong movies, which were as balmy as the man himself. No one was sad. Everyone drove Ferraris. Their biggest problem seemed to involve not having the perfect outfit to wear to a party—typical cotton candy Bollywood nonsense. Arnav used to sit through the headache-inducing crap in order to watch Tara alternate between rapture and tears, an unspoken ambition and longing in her gaze.
“The action director had asked to join us today,” Rehaan’s voice broke in, “but I told him I should talk to you first.”
“Let’s try out a few stances.” Arnav wanted to gauge the work that lay ahead. “Follow my lead. We can try sparring. Kumite.”
Rehaan nodded, left his sunglasses on the bench, and rose to take his place on one of the mats. Arnav switched on the lights and placed himself at the ready. Rehaan was the taller of the two and broader, but once they bowed to each other and began the kumite in earnest, Arnav noted Rehaan’s slower responses. The way he carried his muscular bulk, and instances when the actor’s crescent and roundhouse kicks lacked finesse. As Arnav moved from one stance to another, Rehaan faltered, but soon fell into the rhythm of the exchange. He was trained—although he moved with a certain flourish, like a dojo ballerina who’d never been in a real fight. Arnav was about to call a halt when he heard someone call Rehaan’s name. A woman.