“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. What about Jaswal?”
“Ah! One of our own. You know he used to work for this paper? Our Chief Minister was a hack for the Indian Times. Who knows, maybe I’ll be Chief Minister one day. Anyway, he hates Chopra’s guts. Mutual antagonism.”
“Who are Chopra’s friends?” asked Nisha.
“Follow me,” he said, and led the way to the archive room, where he typed “Ram Chopra” into a terminal that gave reel number references. Next he switched on the reader and fed a reel onto the spindle, carefully threading the film under the small rollers. He began advancing the film using manual knobs.
Moments later he had the image he was looking for: Chopra, Honorable Minister for Health and Family Welfare Nikhil Kumar, and another man in a bush shirt.
“Who’s that?” asked Nisha, indicating the third guy.
“Samir Patel, the chairman of Surgiquip, one of the largest Indian health care equipment companies. Most of the new hospitals in India have used Surgiquip’s services and technology—and according to my sources, that’s because Chopra swung a huge deal in favor of Surgiquip. Kumar’s in on it too. Eyebrows were raised. Jaswal was livid, especially with Kumar being part of his cabinet. But the matter remained buried.”
As Nisha left Pratt with a kiss and a promise to meet again soon, her mind raced. So—Delhi’s Lieutenant Governor, Ram Chopra, was the last to occupy a house in which body parts had been discovered. Chopra was at war with Jaswal. And Chopra was dirty—doing shady deals with medical corporations.
Somehow all this was connected, she knew. But how? What Private needed was a break in this case.
They were about to get one.
Chapter 20
NEEL MEHRA ADJUSTED his jacket and muffler in the mirror of the entrance foyer of the Olive Bar and Kitchen. He wanted to look good for Ash. It had been a long time.
He headed into the open courtyard, where outdoor heaters compensated for the cold weather and diners nibbled on thin-crust pizzas and sipped chilled Sancerre. There waiting for him was Ash—Dr. Ashish Lal, the police medical examiner.
Ash was only a few years senior to Neel, but thanks to his gray sideburns and dark circles beneath his eyes he looked a lot older—one of the perks of working for the police department and bosses like Sharma.
The two had met at the Department of Forensic Medicine at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences. Neel had been working on a difficult case that needed a complicated diagnostic test to be performed. The only one capable of handling it had been Ash. The two had become friends, then lovers. Neel was the younger, more desirable of the two men, but Ash had been something of a mentor to him. A strong, lasting relationship had formed.
“Thanks for seeing me at short notice, Ash,” said Neel, taking a seat.
Ash smiled and poured Neel a glass of wine, and for a moment or so the two regarded each other, both stirred by the other’s presence. “I’m happy to help,” smiled Ash, breaking the spell. “But this particular meeting never happened. You know why.” He joined the fingers of his hands together—almost like two spiders performing push-ups against one another.
“My lips are sealed,” said Neel, taking a sip of his wine.
“It’s about the house at Greater Kailash, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And your interest?”
Neel gave a theatrical look left and right. “Can I let you into a secret?”
“Isn’t that the purpose of our meeting?”
“The purpose of our meeting is so that we can trade secrets.”
“Ah, well then, you better tell me yours before I divulge any of mine.”
The waiter arrived, and the conversation paused as pizzas were ordered, and—Ash looked over the table with inquiring eyes—yes, “another bottle of Sancerre, please.”
“So, your secret?” asked Ash.
Neel saw a new light in his friend’s eyes and was gratified to think it was he who had put it there. “Private Delhi is looking into the bodies at Greater Kailash.”
“I see. On whose dollar?”
“Now we really are into the territory of secrets. If I tell you that, do you have details of the investigation to trade?”