The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(80)
On his board, Arnav circled three of the abbreviated names as Tara’s possible mystery client—Joshi, Mhatre, Taneja—and added Rehaan Virani.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
TARA
Pia nestled in the crook of Tara’s arm, a squirming bundle of towels that made the quietest of sighs as she stirred in her sleep. Tara breathed as lightly as possible so as not to move and awaken this tiny thing, all heartbeat and impossibly soft skin. A mess of wavy hair underneath the cap the size of a fist, finer than silk, nestled against her heavy, aching breasts, the smell of baby powder on her clothes. Tinkling bells in the distance. The bells grew louder, turning into the keening siren of an ambulance. They’d come to take Pia away—Tara startled, to find herself resting against Arnav’s chest. She’d fallen asleep in a moving van, headed to the Filmistaan Studios.
Silent air-conditioner, muted music, plush seats, bottled water, and magazines, a far cry from the transport Shetty had sent her. This ride sent for Arnav, that cut across evening rush hour traffic, was exactly how a movie star would enter the sets. In another life, Tara might have burst for joy. She had dragged Arnav to the Filmistaan grounds more than once.
Arnav’s sensei sat on the front seat, seeming restless, quite unlike his normal calm. Arnav spoke on the Bluetooth with his assistant, Naik, in whispered tones: the entire police department was gathering the next day for Shinde’s funeral. The body would be handed over after postmortem. With the erupting crisis, she hadn’t bothered to think about what Arnav had gone through—two attempts on his life, his best friend, however sleazy, shot down—and now, a daughter he hadn’t met, kidnapped.
Tara sought to cool her anger at Arnav. He was Pia’s father. Not a mythical figure in the one photograph Tara had showed Pia over the years, but a father who had promised to bring her back safe. Who would keep searching for her—because that’s what fathers did, protected their children. Didn’t sell them to the nearest predator, like Tara’s father had. She hoped she wasn’t wrong about Arnav.
Filmistaan had changed: more security, or maybe it was this particular set. It loomed against the growing dark, a ghost object made out of bamboo and cloth, tarpaulin and plastic sheets. Once they’d parked outside, they were issued guest identity cards, and went through a round of checks.
“Both Karan and Rehaan Virani will be on set today,” the woman who issued their identity tags said. “The director is busy. Please wear your tags at all times. Keep your phones in the car. They are not allowed on the set—security instructions.”
The idea of being separated from her phone sent Tara’s stomach into free fall. What if the thugs who held Pia called, and she couldn’t receive it?
“It won’t take long.” Arnav held her hand.
The security person in charge led them through a gloomy, cold space lit by distant yellow lamps—the temporary ceiling made of canvas and asbestos several stories high. Tara had no idea sets could be that big, or that chilly. Everyone, including the security men, wore jackets. She heard a hum rise from the lighted space at the center, the “shooting area,” as their guide called it. Arnav took her aside, making sure no one heard them.
“Remember how you told me you thought the jackal was at the Blue Bar at its opening? I’ll watch you, and will know if you sense anything amiss.”
According to Arnav, the man who haunted her nightmares was behind Pia’s kidnapping, one way or another. He’d murdered women in blue-sequined sarees over decades, and now that he was about to be caught, he wanted the investigation derailed. Arnav had reason to believe the jackal would visit the set.
“If he’s here, he might spot me first.”
Tara felt a shiver go through her. She remembered her dread at Borivali Station—peering into faces to figure out who was watching her. Arnav wouldn’t tell her who he suspected because he didn’t want to influence her—but he squeezed her arm, his eyes on her a caress and a reassurance.
“I’m counting on it. You have nothing to fear as long as you’re within my sight.”
Tara steeled herself. Her daughter was missing. Fear wasn’t an option. She would do it for Pia. Turn into bait.
“All right. Let’s go.”
She followed Arnav’s lead through the cables thick as wrists that snaked all over the floor. Men and women carried tables, flowers, cameras, bags. The set was a bungalow sliced neatly in half, with a winding staircase on one side. A large camera, bigger than her old television, moved on the rails placed around it. The action director greeted them—a tall, limber man with an open smile. They spoke, and Tara tuned out. Arnav introduced the sensei, his gaze darting around, as if he expected threats from shadowy corners.
Tara hugged herself in the cool air. Arnav took off his jacket and wrapped it around her. She would have protested—he needed it more than she, with all his injuries—but he seemed on edge. He seated her against a darkened partition, right behind the director’s chair, tucked away from the hustle.
“Stay alert,” he said.
Arnav picked his way to the director and a group of assistants deep in conversation, avoiding tripping over the cables, tripods, rails. She liked that he didn’t limp anymore.
“Rehaan is on his way,” the action director said to Arnav. “We’ll finish the close-up shots while we wait. We only need you for his first shot. No one wants to work during these Diwali days, but what to do?”