Bad Day at the Vulture Club

by Vaseem Khan

  His instincts had been wrong before.

  Any one of these men might have murdered Cyrus Zorabian. All had grudges and a personal dislike for the victim.

  But he was increasingly beginning to suspect that perhaps something more calculated lay behind the Parsee industrialist’s murder.

  Cyrus’s ham-handed attempts to shore up his failing business by wading into the murky waters of fraud – under the guise of philanthropy – might well have led to his undoing. Chopra knew that he would have to confront Geeta Lokhani at some point. Yet he also knew that as a senior BMC official she would have signed hundreds, if not thousands, of documents. Could she really know, or be held accountable for, the machinations – nefarious or otherwise – behind each one? The fact that Cyrus had gone to meet her on the day of his death had taken on a darker significance, but Chopra had no direct evidence that Lokhani and Cyrus had colluded to embezzle funds meant for the Vashi slum redevelopment project.

  It was only instinct that told him something was awry; it would take further effort to unravel the truth.

  And the first stepping stone on the road to that truth was Karma Holdings, the thread that connected Cyrus Zorabian and Geeta Lokhani. He paused for a moment. Karma Holdings might be the agency behind multiple as yet unexplained deaths. If that were true then he would be stepping into their crosshairs. What exactly was he trying to achieve by walking through the front door like this?

  The answer hovered before him.

  He needed confirmation. He needed to know that something was rotten here. In order to flush out whoever was behind this, he had no choice but to reveal his own hand.

  It was worth the risk.

  At the reception counter, he flashed his identity card, introduced himself as ‘Inspector’ Chopra, and asked to see the person in charge. The ID card listed Chopra as a ‘Special Advisor to the Mumbai Police’ and was signed by the commissioner – a deal he had struck following his work on an earlier case. Though he was no longer on the force, it was a tactic he often employed, subtly bending the truth to his advantage.

  The young girl behind the counter reacted with alarm, then swiftly vanished behind the scenes. Ten minutes later Chopra was led into a large office, where he was greeted by a man introducing himself as the company’s managing director, a John Reddy.

  Reddy was a tall, dark and handsome man, with a head of thick Bollywood hair, Brylcreemed into a suitably fashionable mop. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and a snazzy waistcoat-and-tie ensemble that clung pleasantly to the contours of his beefy frame. When he grinned, a mouthful of perfect teeth blazed Chopra with a pearly white light, as if he had stepped inside the gates of heaven. He reminded the former policeman of a gameshow host, or a salesman at a luxury car showroom.

  Reddy’s handshake was firm, his palms moist. A gust of cologne stung Chopra’s throat; he gasped his way into a chair.

  Reddy eased himself into his own executive chair, joined his palms together in a pose of pastoral contemplation, and gazed expectantly across the expanse of his marble-topped desk. ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’

  Chopra took out a photograph of Arushi Kadam that he had obtained from the missing person report her mother had filed, and set it down on the desk. Reddy’s eyes fell to the photo. His hulking frame stiffened; a muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Do you know this woman?’

  Reddy licked his lips. Chopra could almost hear the gears grinding inside the man’s head.

  ‘Yes. Of course. Her name is Arushi. She used to work here.’

  ‘Used to?’

  ‘Well, she left a few months ago.’

  ‘Why did she leave?’

  Again, Reddy seemed to consider his response. Chopra sensed he was trying to gauge just how much his visitor knew; which implied he was also trying to judge just how much truth he could get away with. ‘I don’t know. She simply vanished.’

  ‘Vanished?’

  ‘Yes. Just didn’t come in to work one day.’

  ‘Did you contact her parents?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘To find out why your employee had stopped coming to work, perhaps?’ Chopra allowed a trace of sarcasm to enter his tone.

  Reddy shrugged. ‘Frankly speaking, Arushi was not the best of workers. And it is not my habit to chase those who do not wish to be here. There are plenty of talented youngsters in need of work in Mumbai. After three days, I simply told the HR office to look for a replacement. I am sure they must have spoken with Arushi’s mother.’

  ‘What did she do here?’

  ‘She was an administrator. Filing. Paperwork. Records. That sort of thing.’

  Chopra took out another photograph, this time of Arushi’s burned and blackened corpse.

  ‘Arushi did not vanish. She was murdered. Shot in the head, and then burned.’

  Reddy’s elbows slipped from the desk. He stared, slack-jawed, at the gruesome photograph. ‘That – that is terrible,’ he finally managed.

  Chopra continued to examine his face. Was the man’s reaction genuine?

  ‘Can you think of anyone who wished her harm?’

  Reddy was still transfixed by the picture.

  ‘Mr Reddy?’ Chopra prompted.

  ‘No. No,’ mumbled the man. ‘Why would anyone want to do this to Arushi?’

  Chopra held his gaze. ‘She was very attractive. Could she have been the object of infatuation? Someone in your company?’

  ‘No. She had a boyfriend.’ Reddy bit his tongue. The words had slipped out, and he seemed to instantly regret them. Chopra realised that the man was sweating, in spite of the impressively powerful air-conditioner thundering away at the back of the office.

  ‘A boyfriend?’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ It was too late to backtrack. ‘He also worked for us. In fact, they met here.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Vijay Narlikar.’

  ‘I would like to speak with him.’

  ‘I am afraid that is not possible. You see, he vanished at the same time as Arushi. We thought they had run away together.’

  ‘Why would they run away?’

  ‘I believe Arushi’s mother disapproved of the match.’

  ‘She told you this?’

  Reddy winced. ‘No. I mean, it was just office gossip. You know how it is.’

  ‘No,’ said Chopra. ‘I do not know how it is. I have always discouraged gossip.’ He continued to stare Reddy down, certain the man was being less than truthful. ‘Do you have an address for Vijay? I would like to speak with his family.’

  ‘Vijay was an orphan,’ said Reddy hurriedly. ‘A real loner. He only came to Mumbai recently. He really didn’t know anyone.’ His shirt had begun to stick to his back. He pulled at it, then stood up, and examined his watch ostentatiously. ‘I have another meeting . . .’

  Chopra remained rooted to his seat. ‘What exactly does Karma Holdings do?’

  ‘We are a property company. We buy and sell property.’ Reddy’s voice steadied as he found himself on firmer ground.

  ‘Do you also work on property development?’

  ‘On occasion. Yes.’

  Chopra took out the architectural plans for the Vashi development that he had obtained from Cyrus Zorabian’s bank locker and set them on the desk. He tapped the organisation names inked in the title legend. ‘Karma Holdings.’

  Reddy sank back into his seat like a deflated tyre. ‘We are involved in many developments. What of it?’

  ‘This is New Haven, a major BMC-led initiative. It is being championed by a woman named Geeta Lokhani. Do you know her?’

  Reddy hesitated. Once again Chopra got the feeling he was gauging just how much he could safely reveal. ‘Yes. Of course. We work extensively with the BMC’s Planning Committee. She is the head – though I believe she recently resigned. So, naturally, we are acquainted. But what has this to do with Arushi?’

  ‘I will get to that. In the meantime, perhaps you can tell me about anoth
er development that Karma Holdings appears to be involved with, a site in Marol that was once owned by a man named Hasan Gafoor. The building on the site – a textile factory – collapsed in a fire, and the land was subsequently possessed by the BMC who sold it on at auction. To Karma Holdings. It is now being developed into apartments.’

  A fresh lather of sweat gushed from Reddy’s pores. ‘These are private commercial matters,’ he stuttered.

  ‘It is all in the public record.’ Chopra leaned forward. ‘The interesting thing is, Geeta Lokhani was heavily involved in that transaction too. Some might say she was instrumental in ensuring Karma Holdings acquired the plot.’

  ‘As I said, she was the head of the BMC’s Planning Committee. We liaised with her office regularly.’

  ‘The owner – Gafoor – believes he was strongarmed out of the site.’

  Reddy pushed his spectacles up his nose. ‘We cannot be held accountable for what some crazy old fool believes.’

  ‘What about Cyrus Zorabian?’

  Reddy’s chin sank into his neck. ‘Who?’ he squeaked. He was clearly unused to being interrogated in this way.

  ‘Cyrus Zorabian,’ repeated Chopra. ‘He was a Parsee industrialist, murdered some three months ago. He was heavily involved in raising finance for the Vashi slum redevelopment project you are involved with. He also appeared to have had a keen interest in the deaths of Arushi Kadam and Vijay Narlikar.’

  Reddy shook his head, slowly. ‘The name does not ring a bell. No. I don’t think I have ever met the man.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Chopra, ‘because when I showed a picture of Cyrus to the lobby receptionists they clearly remember him coming here to visit Karma Holdings on numerous occasions, right up to the time of his death. He was a larger-than-life character – an easy man to remember. His name is in the visitors’ ledger. Right alongside yours.’

  Reddy winced again.

  An uncomfortable silence passed as Chopra allowed the man to squirm in his seat.

  Finally, he spoke. ‘Oh, yes. Cyrus Zorabian. Completely slipped my mind. I deal with so many people, it’s sometimes hard to keep track of them all. Yes. He came here a few times. To find out more about the Vashi project. So that he could better promote it to his wealthy friends.’

  ‘Did he meet Arushi Kadam while he was here? Or Vijay Narlikar?’

  ‘No. Why would he?’ But Reddy’s flushed cheeks told Chopra a different story.

  Chopra set down another photograph on the desk, this time of Vijay’s blackened corpse. ‘Arushi was found with another body. Based on what you have told me I suspect that it was Vijay Narlikar. They were murdered together. Shortly afterwards Cyrus Zorabian was also murdered. I have no doubt that their paths crossed in this office. What passed between them that led to the deaths of Arushi and Vijay?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘What if I told you that Cyrus had kept a newspaper article about the two burned bodies discovered in Marol? This was well before we identified them as Arushi and Vijay. How would he have known that it was them? What did he know about their deaths?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Reddy. ‘You seem to have arrived at a convoluted conspiracy theory involving Cyrus, Arushi and our company. But you could not be more wrong. We are a legitimate firm. We do not involve ourselves in the private lives of our employees, our clients, or those who work with us.’ He rapped his desk with his knuckles as if drawing a line under the matter. ‘And now, I think you should leave.’

  ‘You realise that this is now a police matter?’ said Chopra. ‘You can expect the authorities to crawl through your records. If there is something to find, we will find it.’

  Reddy said nothing; merely gave a nervous grimace. Chopra saw that sweat had seeped from under his arms to create dark patches around his ribs.

  Chopra got to his feet. ‘This is just the beginning, Mr Reddy.’

  He turned and left the office.

  As the door closed behind him, he did not see Reddy slip a phone from his pocket and begin to dial with trembling fingers.

  Chopra’s next port of call was the workshop of Darius Zorabian.

  Darius’s wife had arranged for Chopra to meet her husband for a second time; he had returned from his business trip to Pune and had, reluctantly, agreed to talk to the private detective at his place of business.

  When Chopra arrived, he found the victim’s son in a foul mood.

  Darius was ensconced in a tin shed that served as his office, loudly berating his foreman, a wilting man in a raggedy, torn uniform, who kept wiping his forehead with a dirty rag as if this might somehow deflect the storm of invective coming his way. Chopra knocked briskly on the corrugated metal door – which hung halfway off its hinges – and entered. Darius gave the foreman a final venomous glare, then ordered him back to work.

  The man fled, flashing Chopra a look of grateful relief.

  Darius stood, a looming presence in the claustrophobically small and hot room. There was no air-conditioner here, Chopra saw, not even a table fan. ‘I have a busy day, Chopra. What is it you wish to talk about? Lucy was very vague. She said you had come to the flat with some follow-up questions.’

  ‘How did your trip to Pune go?’

  Darius’s perpetual expression of boiling constipation seemed to deepen. ‘It went badly. Those blinkered idiots turned down the order.’

  ‘That is unfortunate.’

  Darius shrugged. ‘I will find other buyers. I do not give up easily.’

  ‘I do not doubt it.’ Chopra straightened. ‘I took the opportunity to speak to your wife when I visited your home. She told me that on the night that your father died you were not there, at least not for the whole time, as you had originally stated. Your alibi no longer holds.’

  Darius blinked. The air seemed to go out of him. ‘Impossible,’ he wheezed. ‘Lucy would never have said that.’

  ‘She is an honest woman. She is worried. Life in India has not worked out the way she had hoped.’

  These words struck Darius with the force of a physical blow. His knees buckled, and he fell back into his tatty seat. For a moment there was silence, broken only by the sounds of industry drifting in from the shop floor. Darius’s gaze was distant.

  ‘We’ve spoken about it, of course,’ he said. ‘But I never realised just how deeply she felt. Or perhaps I never wished to realise. I have disappointed her. She is the only woman I have ever truly loved.’

  ‘And Boman Jeejibhoy’s daughter? Did you love her?’

  Darius looked up sharply. ‘You know about Dinaz?’

  Chopra nodded. ‘I spoke with Boman.’

  ‘That man is insane. Yes, there was a time when I thought I might love Dinaz. But we were children then. Once I went to America, I saw just how big the world was. And Lucy was so different. Dinaz is a lovely girl, but she has no ambition, no fire. She is content to follow her father’s instructions, to tread the same weary path as our much venerated Parsee ancestors. I cannot live like that. I will not live like that. And so I made my choice. I chose Lucy.’

  ‘Boman claims your decision has destroyed his daughter’s life.’

  ‘And for that I am truly sorry. I would not hurt Dinaz for all the world. But some things cannot be helped. What cannot be cured must be endured.’

  ‘Your father was furious. You caused a rift between him and one of his oldest friends. Your decision also cost him a great deal of standing within the community – after all, he was Cyrus Zorabian, guardian of Parsee traditional values. And here was his own son flouting one of the most cherished customs. His response was to disinherit you. Your anger towards him must have been overwhelming.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Where did you go when you left your apartment on the night that he died?’

  Slowly, Darius got back to his feet. ‘You are not a policeman. You are a private investigator hired by my sister. You are lucky I do not throw you through the wall.’

  ‘You can try,’ sai
d Chopra. He held the younger man’s burning gaze until Darius looked away. ‘Did you phone your father that evening, after you left your home, asking him to meet you in Doongerwadi?’

  ‘Whatever I did that evening is none of your business.’ Darius bunched his shoulders. ‘Most of us experience Oedipal rages at some point or another. It does not mean we act on them. Now, I must ask you to leave. I will answer no more questions.’

  What lies beneath the shell

  The meeting with Darius Zorabian once again put Chopra into a quandary, reminding him that in spite of the wider conspiracy theories now working their way into his investigation, there was still the distinct possibility that Cyrus had simply been killed in a moment of rage. Perhaps no longer by a random killer, but by someone known to him. The man clearly had no problem in inspiring hatred. And Darius’s refusal to clarify exactly where he had been during that critical period on the night his father had died was telling.

  Chopra’s destination was the Western Region office of the Ministry of Corporate Affairs, located on Marine Drive, in the southern half of the city. Here he hoped to be able to dig into the background of Karma Holdings. John Reddy’s suspicious manner had ignited his curiosity; he was certain there was more to Cyrus Zorabian’s visits to the company’s office than the managing director had told him. He knew that, in due course, he would have to apprise Inspector Malini Sheriwal of his suspicions – the deaths of Arushi Kadam and Vijay Narlikar were, after all, active police investigations. It was imperative that he learn as much as he could before that eventuality, for there was no guarantee how accommodating Sheriwal would be once she had the scent of blood in her nostrils.

  The woman seemed to blow hot and cold.

  The thought caused him to smile thinly.

  Reddy may have found the interview with him to be challenging, but thirty minutes with Sheriwal might convince the man not only to tell the truth, but possibly also confess to the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi back in 1948, years before Reddy had even been born.