The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(9)
“What about the land deeds for the site at Aksa beach?”
“Land mafia, sir. Vijayan had grabbed the site years ago, heaping it up with debris, but Taneja Estate Holdings bought the land from the state government at throwaway prices instead of paying Vijayan. Taneja has since received death threats, and requested police protection. Someone has been using a local environmental nonprofit to bring in stay orders to prevent Taneja from building on the site.”
“Give me the names in the ministries involved with the permission for sale.”
“Sir, the current Home Minister, Mr. Namit Gokhale, was in the Urban Development Department then. He signed off on the sale.”
Arnav made a note of this. He’d tried to get in touch with Taneja all morning with no success.
“Who else is named in this spa project at Aksa? Anyone we can access?”
“It appears his fiancée, Kittu Virani, won the contract to design and furnish the interiors of the spa. She’s mostly known as the mother of her sons, Rehaan and Karan Virani.”
Karan Virani was a name from long ago. Tara and her slightly overweight, much older friend Zoya were mad devotees of that movie star. Zoya—he hadn’t thought of her in ages. She’d disappeared the same night as Tara. The other bar girls claimed they had run away. Or at least that’s what Shetty, their Malayali hulk of a boss, had said to them.
“We could go, sir?” Naik looked nonplussed.
He should have slept last night. His lack of sleep was showing him up.
“You’ll have to repeat that, Naik.”
Arnav let a hint of apology seep into his voice. He must focus on cornering Taneja. Naik repeated herself: one of Kittu Virani’s interior decoration projects, a restaurant, was opening that night. Her family was likely to be there, along with her fiancé.
The restaurant launch was invite only, but as an inspector of the Mumbai Police, Arnav had his own sources. He thanked Naik and made a few calls until he hit pay dirt. He’d have to break out the sleeker of his two evening shirts tonight, and say hello to Taneja and his fiancée.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BILAL
The boy had been jittery lately, and Bilal didn’t like that one bit. It never boded well, especially not this close to Diwali.
Each year, the boy promised him that it would be the last. And Bilal repeated the words to Bhai. He didn’t believe them himself anymore, but what choice did he have? On some nights it wasn’t the boy’s nightmares but his own that woke him up, and he threatened to quit. The boy called his bluff each time.
At the end of the day, it was not pity or duty that held him back against his conscience.
In front of the world, the boy leaned on no one, but it was a different story behind closed doors. With no family to call his own, Bilal needed to be needed.
He was terrified of each event, loathing himself for helping clean up after. But when the boy cried out for him at night, in the throes of a nightmare, it made Bilal feel large and powerful, a man who could protect his boy from all menace. The menace he knew about, the ones he didn’t.
He used his burner phone to dial the number he’d been given. After brief greetings to an assistant, he was able to speak with the Bhai himself.
“We had no call planned today,” Bhai said. “What do you need?”
The man’s boyish, high voice was at odds with his fearsome reputation in many quarters. Bilal wished the Bhai a long and healthy life, then broached the topic.
“Of course, it’s been taken care of,” Bhai said. “Are you trying to insult me?”
“No, Bhai, not at all.”
“You’re never late on payments, so I’ll let it slide. Never question me again.”
CHAPTER NINE
ARNAV
Nursing a drink for an entire evening usually put Arnav in a bad mood. He made it a point never to get drunk, but he did savor an occasional glass of wine. The fresh-lime soda he’d ordered, after a cursory glance at the menu without prices, tasted like dishwater. His contact had wrangled him onto the guest list, but hadn’t showed up yet.
Arnav aimed to keep this as casual and nonconfrontational as he could—his boss would not thank him for riling up a tycoon and his movie-star-mom fiancée, which might make headlines. Not the kind of attention he wanted on himself or his career. It called for a lighter touch.
Arnav took stock of his situation—seated on a barstool, holding his drink, returning interested glances from a woman or two. He must fit in—a man on a night out, not a police officer.
The Mediterranean music was muted, waiters appeared solicitous and spoke in hushed whispers as they cleared plates or refilled glasses, the lighting dim and strategically placed to make faces glow.
Kittu was surrounded by Bollywood types, and despite Arnav’s complete lack of interest in Bollywood, he thought he recognized a few faces from screens. Nandini spoke often of these events, the air-kissing, the flicking of hair, the exaggerated laughter, the expensive fragrances. Gleaming watches and jewelry.
At a dark corner table right next to his barstool sat a large man, beard and sunglasses covering most of his face, his thick hair tied in a ponytail. His stance seemed to telegraph to everyone to stay away, and they did. He scrolled on his phone and Arnav let him be, focusing on Kittu instead, keeping an eye on the distant entrance for his friend who could take him to Kittu’s table.