“How old is she? Your daughter?” Madrone asked.
“Sixteen.”
“Uh-oh,” Madrone said.
“Yeah. Well. I do the best I can. I don’t know if I’m ready for a — a relationship.”
“Well, I’m not asking you to marry me,” Madrone said. “Nice place. I’ve got to be at work at six.”
“My partner just screamed at me and called me an asshole,” Michael said. “I don’t know if I’m ready for —”
“I said I’ve got to leave in — four hours,” she said. She took off her raincoat and threw it on the couch. “You should clean the place up — I mean, if your daughter is coming over.”
Madrone crossed the room and kissed him. He put his arms around her waist and tried not to feel ashamed of himself. But he wanted her, the closeness of a woman’s body again. The feel of it in his arms. He’d missed that more than he’d realized.
She helped him clean up the house a little before she left. He let her sort the piles of mail. He watched while he did the dishes. She was quiet while she went about it, as if she’d lived there. He admitted when she’d left that he liked the feel of her in the house. It seemed a different place with a woman in it again.
He took his daughter out to Marinitas, her favorite Mexican restaurant in San Anselmo. They had a long talk about where she might go to college. She was leaning on him again, asking his advice. They talked about her coming home from Sacramento. He said he was still not ready. He wanted to be honest, he said. She reached across the table and held his hand. She said she understood and she would wait for him to get better, and then she would come home and everything would be all right again. She’d changed too, he noticed. She seemed more grown up than when she’d left for Sacramento.
They drove home. Despite what he’d said, he told her she should come home if she wanted to. They made plans and had a laugh about his changing his mind. It was their first real laugh together since the accident. A friend rang his daughter on her phone; a boy, he imagined. She took the call but winked at him.
It all seemed normal again in the flash of an eye. He felt his wife’s presence in the car. It was palpable. He turned and looked into the back seat, and saw her. She was smiling. His daughter didn’t notice. He never told anyone about seeing his wife. He knew what it had to mean about his state of mind. But she’d been with them in the car on the way back to the house. It had been comforting to feel her presence again, the three of them back together again as they drove down the tree-lined streets.
CHAPTER 16
Detective O’Higgins sat behind the wheel of his Ford on the half-empty parking lot of the Target store on Geary Blvd. The store was closing for the night. Bedraggled raincoat-wearing shoppers filed out, mostly Asians, clutching red and white Target bags. A strong wind was blowing straight up Geary from Ocean Beach, knocking into people on the parking lot and forcing them to lean and hurry to their cars.
Asha Chaundhry had called his cell phone. She asked him to meet one of her Indian girlfriends, saying the woman wanted to talk to him about the case, but in private, and anonymously. He’d agreed to meet the woman at the Geary Street Target’s parking lot, saying she should look for his white four-door Ford.
But it wasn’t a woman who pulled up next to his car two hours later. It was a young Indian man who looked almost like a teenager; he appeared that young to O’Higgins. The well-dressed young Indian opened the Ford’s passenger-side door and looked in at him.
“I’m Asha’s brother. Neel Roa. Thanks for meeting with me, Detective. I’m afraid I had Asha lie to you. It was my idea. I will explain.”
“Okay,” Michael said. “I can see you’re not a girl.” He waved the kid into the car.
Roa slipped into the passenger seat of the Ford and closed the door, fighting the wind that wanted to keep it open. The young man was tall, thin and wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and tie his hair like his sister’s, coal black, and very thick, was combed straight back.
“You have to help us. Asha is in danger, Detective. Anything could happen to her now.”
“Danger from who?” Michael said, annoyed that he’d been lied to.
“Nirad Chaundhry,” Roa said.
“Nirad Chaundhry? Her father-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“You look like your sister.”
The kid leaned over, offering his hand to shake. Michael took it. “Asha says that you are a kind man. My sister needs your help, Detective. She didn’t kill Rishi. I swear to you.”
“What about the nanny?” Michael said. The question was defensive, designed to allow him a moment to sort out what the kid wanted and to get the upper hand.
“My sister didn’t kill anyone. You have to believe that,” Roa said.
“I don’t really have to believe anything right now. Your sister is a person of interest, as is her father-in-law, and that’s all she is. The investigation is ongoing,” O’Higgins said, using cop lingo to stop the kid from speaking to him as if he were convinced of Asha’s being innocent.
“Nirad Chaundhry is a powerful man, Detective. A very powerful man in India,” Roa said. “You wouldn’t understand. My country is very — you wouldn’t understand what it means when you’re that rich in India. There is no law for Nirad.”
“Why would Nirad Chaundhry want to hurt your sister, if she’s innocent?”
“I’m not sure yet. But he’s taken my nieces to India without asking Asha’s permission. He just did it. And he is telling everyone at home—including important people in the government—that my sister murdered Rishi. People are turning against Asha. People in high places. They believe Chaundhry’s lies,” Roa said.
“Were you at the house, the day of the killings?” Michael asked.
“No. I was in New York,” Roa said. “I’ve come here to try and help my sister as best I can. But I can’t — how can I say this — I can’t be seen helping her. That’s why I wanted to speak to you in person. My helping you has to remain a secret.”
“Why?”
“I’m an Indian government employee. That’s all I can say.”
“I don’t need your help. What I need to know is who murdered Bharti Kumar and Rishi Chaundhry,” O’Higgins said.
“I can help you find out what you want to know about the murders. I’m an Indian government employee. That’s all I can say. But if you tell anyone about meeting with me, I’m afraid that it will get me dismissed, and perhaps worse. It has to be a secret.”
“What are you trying to say? Nirad Chaundhry is guilty of killing his son?”
“This is what I came to tell you: the Chaundhry Company is working on an important project for the US government. The Chaundhry plant here in Silicon Valley is not what people think. It is not a production plant for motherboards at all. It’s in part a research facility. The Chaundhry Company is cooperating with the US’s Argonne National Laboratory on a joint Indian/US government project that is top secret.”
“What’s this got to do with the murders?”
“Maybe nothing, but I thought you should know that the US government is going to protect Nirad, and so will the Indian government. No matter what Nirad might have done, including murder.”
“Protect him?”
“Yes. I think they will. I think my sister might be a convenient scapegoat for the killings.”
“Did Chaundhry send someone to try and take Kumar’s cell phone from me?”
“Yes.
Nirad Chaundhry wants you and your partner Marvin Lee off the case. So does the Indian government — and probably your government as well. You have no idea what you and your partner are facing,” Roa said.
“How do you know all this?” Michael said.
“I just do. You have to believe me,” Roa said.
“Do you work for Indian intelligence?”
“I can’t answe
r that. I can say I’m posted to India’s New York consulate, and I’m a diplomat. That’s all I can say. But I do know the Indian government, at the highest level, ordered the Research and Analysis Wing —RAW— to take Kumar’s phone from you. And there are other RAW officers, here now, in San Francisco, trying to disrupt your investigation.”
“Indian intelligence sent someone to steal Kumar’s cell phone from the police? Why?”
“Obviously there must be something on that cell phone they don’t want you to find. I heard they were unsuccessful, and you have the phone. If that is true, you are in danger. They will try again.”
“Well, they didn’t succeed. We have the phone and it’s safe,” Michael said. It was a lie, but only Marvin knew that the phone’s memory had been wiped clean.
“Then you can expect them to try again to kill the nanny’s phone, and they will succeed. And they will ask for help from the US government.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. They will ask US intelligence to step in if they’re not successful in stopping you. They will want that phone killed. Do you understand? They’re not afraid of the local police.”
“Okay,” Michael said. “Well, I’m not afraid of them. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds foolish, frankly, but I’m glad. I’ll try and help you all I can. But you must keep our meeting a secret. I have to know if I can trust you. I’ve no one else to help me protect my sister.”
“I’ve no reason to tell anyone we met, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’ve nothing to do with the case as far as we’re concerned,” Michael said.
“Take this. It’s a phone NSA or the Indian government won’t expect you to use. They’re listening to your phone now—yours and your partner’s phones. NSA and RAW. You should know that. This phone I’m giving you should be impossible for them to hack into, I hope. I’ll call you on this phone when I know more. Do we have a deal, Detective? You’ll need my help, you have to believe me.”
“Okay. Why not.” The appeal of a fight with anyone was something he’d been spoiling for. He felt a strange relief in the idea of being a soldier again. He didn’t care about the odds. Formidable odds only made him feel better. Would they kill him? They’d be doing me a favor.
Roa handed him what looked like a normal old-school Blackberry, albeit very used looking. “Good luck. I’ll do what I can to find out what they’re planning,” he said.
“Listen — I found some strange kind of wafers in an envelope on Rishi Chaundhry’s desk. They were in a Lockheed Grumman envelope. The wafers were clear and felt like glass, but I couldn’t break one, or even bend it,” Michael said.
“Diamonds,” Roa said.
“Diamonds?”
“Yes. Synthetic diamonds. That’s what they’re working on, for computer applications. Diamond chip technology. That’s all I know. That’s what they’re working on with the people at Argonne Labs.”
Michael looked at him. He’d not mentioned the envelope to anyone, including his partner, mostly because he’d not thought the wafers of importance to the investigation. He’d put the envelope back on Rishi Chaundhry’s desk where he’d found it.
Roa got out of the car and turned to him before he closed the door.
“The Indian official who asked to be let into the Chaundhry house, the night of the murders, is a RAW officer. He’s a dangerous man—Colonel Ankur Das.”
“There’s one thing, Roa,” Michael said. “I’ll have to tell my partner what you’ve told me. Everything.”
Asha’s brother nodded quickly. He closed the car door. Michael turned off his recorder, having taped the entire conversation. He sat for several moments thinking about what he’d agreed to. Marvin might not approve or stand for cooperating with Asha’s brother.
The rain that had obscured the Ford’s windshield turned the night-time headlights into shimmering, striated lines, running helter-skelter across the Ford’s windshield. Roa’s car, sporting a rental company sticker, disappeared, turning right toward Geary Street from the parking lot.
O’Higgins started the Ford and pulled out of the almost empty parking lot into the night. He did something he’d not done since Iraq: he took his weapon and laid it on the seat next to him. It felt better that way. He had the nanny’s phone in the glove box. He’d told Marvin he wasn’t turning it into the crime lab yet, knowing they would write a report saying the phone was useless to the investigation, and that report might be leaked.
His phone rang as he pulled out onto Geary Street. It was Madrone. He took the call. She told him that there would be an inquiry into the man she’d killed. He could tell she was frightened. She could lose her job if she was judged to have used excessive force.
***
The lobby of the Clift Hotel, with its famous Redwood Room, was full of young hipsters looking for a good time. It was late, past midnight. O’Higgins didn’t want to go home to an empty house. His daughter was moving back at the end of the week, but until then he would be alone there. So he’d come instead to the Clift Hotel to be close to Asha Chaundhry, who was on his mind all the time.
He felt restless. He wanted to see her and ask her about her brother, ask her about Nirad. He wanted to ask her point-blank again if she had murdered her husband and her nanny. Not asking as a policeman, but as someone who cared about her. It was not right, that wanting to be near her, but he did. It was all unexplainable. He’d never felt like this before. The woman was some kind of lighthouse, her strong beam coming around and around his dark place, flashing a powerful light.
He would have to play the tape recording of Roa’s conversation for Marvin, but he didn’t want to do it yet. Marvin was already angry, and he could only imagine what he would say after hearing it. O’Higgins had crossed the line, and he could lose his job.
He’d parked right in front of the hotel, flashing his badge at the gaggle of bellboys who were watching young girls on Geary Street. The night was alive with young people bar-hopping and enjoying night life. He couldn’t imagine what that was like anymore, that sense of freedom. The kids passing his car made him feel old. He’d had their carefree optimism before going to war, and been robbed of it.
He walked into the hotel lobby and into its famous bar. The Redwood Room’s lights were designed to create a boudoir make-out atmosphere for a perfect date. It was pleasant, the yellowish pools of intimate lamp-light bathing young couples’ faces. It all seemed so innocent and comforting. He and Jennifer had come here when they’d dated. It seemed a thousand years ago.
He ordered a brandy neat from an over-tattooed bartender who looked like he belonged in a perfume commercial and sat nursing the drink, processing the last few days.
A text came in from his daughter, saying that she’d decided to stay. Her aunt—his sister— was to have picked her up and taken her back to Sacramento. He texted her back that it was okay, and to go to bed. They would sort it out in the morning. He was glad that their separation was ending. Maybe the worst of it was behind him, he thought, killing his drink and getting up mindlessly. He went out to the lobby and got into an elevator with a mixed couple who were going, quite obviously, to play boom-boom.
Asha Chaundhry, out of her head on something, had danced around him in the demi-light twirling like a dervish in a red sari, very stoned. She’d opened the door barefoot; the grand hotel room behind her was filled with lit candles. Indian sitar music was playing on a CD player. He could smell the sweet pungent smell of dope—hash, mixing in with the smell of incense. It smelled good.
She was drunk, or high, he couldn’t tell which. Probably both, he decided. He’d come back to the hotel because he’d wanted to talk to her. He’d wanted to tell her he’d seen her brother, and, against his best judgment, he was entering their conspiracy. He believed that Nirad Chaundhry was an uber-wealthy asshole who probably had the Indian government in his back pocket. He didn’t lik
e him.
He had a strange desire to tell Asha he would protect her. He wanted to be in her presence, it might be as simple as that. Did he want to make love to her? Probably.
What was it about her, Asha Chaundhry, that was pulling at him? He didn’t know, and he couldn’t explain it. But he felt it. It would be palliative, like the no-strings sex he’d had with Madrone. Only, unlike sex-ecstasy, with an end to its grip, this feeling was incoherent, and not exactly physical, although it felt physical as well. It was a sense of merging, of being overwhelmed by some force that was greater than his selfhood. It seemed to have no end. He’d felt it since the moment he’d first seen Asha on the ferry, and it was only getting more powerful. The murders were only circumstantial to it.
He’d not expected to find her this way, out of her mind. He’d wanted her sober and motherly. Instead she was barefoot, her hair down, smiling in a drunken stupid, lost way. The bindi was still painted on her forehead, smudged slightly, bigger than he’d seen it earlier.
She led him into the candlelit living room, sat on the floor and motioned for him to sit across from her. Between them was a bong with its bowl filled with hash. She lifted a Bic lighter and lit the bowl’s contents, sucking on the bong’s mouthpiece. The hash, lit red, produced lots of smoke. She blew the hit out into his face and said in a sing-song way:
“There is a cobra in my house and its diamond hooded head is the darkest blue.
It is. It is. It is dear Vishnu only you— you my lord. It is you.
And when the Cobra moves through the house, along the hall’s dark seam
While Monsoon winds whistle fierce …
The deadly house-snake sings:
“I’ll dinner soon”
But I am not afraid God Vishnu because it is you. It is only you.”
“Asha, stop it,” he said. “Please. I want to talk.”
“About what, ferry man? You’re the ferry man.” She stared at him, sitting with the pipe in her two hands. Several hash rocks were on the coffee table. Someone, perhaps one of her friends, had brought her the drugs—to help her?
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