The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(63)

Tara flicked on the news, picturing the life of a broadcaster—or a journalist like Nandini. Some of the broadcasters on the screen dressed like Bollywood actresses. She snuggled into the sofa and tried watching a movie, failed, settling instead on a video channel with Rehaan Virani, the main man in Bollywood these days, dancing with his brother, Karan, and a string of new actresses, derisively termed “nubile nymphets.” Tara only had eyes for Karan, the eternal lover boy—a stark contrast to the bad-boy Rehaan, who danced as if chased by demons.

Zoya was a fan of both. Tara and Pia teased her about it. She missed Zoya, the one person to whom she could vent, who stood by her no matter what.

She was dozing off, her body reclaiming the rest that had eluded her during her time in Mumbai, when the landline rang.

Tara picked up the notebook and pen Nandini had left her in case she needed to take down a message, and said hello.

“Tara, thank Allah I found you.” It was Zoya, her voice trembling.

“What’s wrong? Is Pia OK?”

“She’s fine, but we had a scare today. I think someone has been following me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“The same dark-blue Maruti has stalked me the last two days. A few minutes ago, at Pia’s school, two tall men stepped up right behind me in the crowd of parents.”

“And?”

“They strode by me in a hurry and melted away onto a side street.”

“And Pia? Was she scared?”

“She wasn’t with me. I’d gone to pay her fees, leaving her with the neighbors.”

“You must be mistaken.”

Trust Zoya to be afraid of shadows. Lucknow was a small city. Crimes occurred, but not like in Mumbai.

“I’ve been a don’s girlfriend, Tara. These men were not local. You’re with your policeman now, correct? Pia’s father?”

“No, he’s in the hospital. He had an accident.”

“Tell him about Pia. Come back as soon as you get your money. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”





CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE


ARNAV

Arnav walked into the corner room, where Shetty sat at a table under a bright overhead light. This was not a hard-interrogation room that stank of blood, urine, and fear. Here, a ceiling fan whirred overhead, and a jug of water sweated on the table in front of Shetty. The man looked beaten, but no one had touched him. So far. His white clothes could use a wash, and the smear of holy ash on his forehead was smudged.

“You’re saying you have nothing to do with Neha’s murder?” Arnav stepped into the room, Naik behind him.

It was best to cut to the chase with men like Shetty. His interrogation had lasted all night, and if he wanted to walk out, he could. Shetty must have realized he’d lost Shinde, because Shinde had stopped taking his calls. Arnav didn’t have enough evidence to charge Shetty with murder, but enmity with the police would cost his business in the long run. This knowledge kept the man docile and cooperative.

“I told them already.” Shetty used a white handkerchief to wipe his face, spreading the ash markings even farther. “I’m a businessman. How can I run my business if I get involved in a crime? This is my busiest week at work, right before Diwali. Your men keep badgering me with the same questions. They don’t believe me.”

“What sort of business is that? You send bar dancers to clients.”

“I own lawful businesses—restaurants, grocery shops, licensed orchestra bars. The girls go where they please, sir. I give them a place to stay. They do their job well, I don’t bother them and they don’t bother me.”

Arnav did his best not to flinch with pain when he sat down to hear more of the bar owner’s whining. It gave him a better look at Shetty’s face, while hiding the fact that his legs were not holding up. This man might have been the instigator of his accident, having alerted the killer that Neha’s body had been found.

Arnav let silence work for him.

Rogues like Shetty meshed lies with truth. Shetty did own legitimate businesses, no doubt, and they made money. Most bars might have shut down in Mumbai because the government stopped renewing licenses—but some of Shetty’s bars still held valid permits. With restrictions, it was true, but Shinde had helped with those. Shinde looked the other way when Shetty’s bars stayed open beyond the permitted hours, when his dancers walked through the audience instead of remaining onstage, when they prostituted themselves to customers. Shetty profited from all of it. He didn’t look pleased he’d been caught.

“Why did you deny recognizing Neha Chaubey’s body in the pictures?” Arnav straightened more. With medication in his system and mounting fatigue, the room swayed before his eyes. He longed for a glass of water.

“The body didn’t have a face. How did you figure out it was her? I thought she’d gone back to her village. I cleared her final payment.”

“She’s from your bar. We have witnesses. Your bar dancers will testify in court that you send them out on assignments. You’ll be charged.”

Arnav reached out for the papers, and Naik handed them to him. “Or you can write your statement here and sign it. Give me the name and number of the client who asked for Neha.”

“No one can say I sent them anywhere, because I didn’t.”