Murder in Mumbai by K. D. Calamur Page A

grunted in acknowledgment.
    * * *
    Vikram Hazra, the acting CEO of Mohini Resources, lived in an old art deco–style, five-story building on Marine Drive. Much of the city’s new wealth had gone to the suburbs, to gleaming skyscrapers with swimming pools and marble foyers. But to those who lived in Bombay, Marine Drive represented the city’s old wealth—a sort of status that was near impossible to attain even in an age when everything else was for sale.
    Gaikwad would have preferred to meet Hazra at a more neutral venue, like work, but he had insisted that the interview would be conducted at his home.
    â€œDo I need a lawyer present, inspector?” Hazra had asked.
    â€œThat’s up to you, sir,” Gaikwad said. “We’re just asking questions about Mrs. Liz Baar-Tone.”
    The door was opened by a servant who led him in. Gaikwad’s eyes immediately went to the balcony from where the Arabian Sea stretched to infinity. Gaikwad walked around the room, admiring the curios. Photographs of Hazra and presumably his family—shiny, happy, and smiling—at the Eiffel Tower, outside the White House, in Sydney adorned the mantel. Gaikwad looked at Hazra in the pictures. He looked tall, though that was usually tough to gauge from a photograph, broad, and needed to lose a few pounds. His hair was graying; he had a salt-and-pepper mustache. He dominated the photographs.
    â€œI’m sorry to keep you waiting, inspector.”
    Gaikwad turned around and saw the man in the photographs walk toward him.
    â€œI’m Hazra.” His hand was outstretched. Gaikwad took it, and noticed his firm handshake, unusual in a culture where shaking hands isn’t common. The man in front of him had lost the weight that he carried in the pictures. He was dressed in business casual: khaki pants and a blue shirt.
    â€œWill you have anything to eat or drink?” Hazra asked.
    â€œNo thank you. I’d like to get straight to business.”
    â€œWhat can I do for you?”
    â€œAs you know, we’re in the midst of a murder investigation.”
    Gaikwad looked for a tell, but Hazra didn’t betray any emotion.
    â€œYes, tragic,” Hazra said. “Liz Barton was a valued colleague.”
    â€œWe’d like to ask you a few questions about her death.”
    â€œAnything I can do to help.”
    â€œWhat was your relationship with her?”
    â€œShe was my boss.”
    â€œAnd you were comfortable with that relationship?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWe might live in a modern India, sir, but many men still dislike the idea of a woman on top.”
    â€œInspector, this is a corporate environment. Not a police station. People get ahead here because of their skills, not because of their gender.”
    â€œI understand,” Gaikwad said. “But tell me, sir, what was she like?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWas she popular? Liked? Did she have friends, enemies? Was she close to anyone? A colleague, perhaps? Her relationship with her husband—that kind of thing.”
    â€œMy dealings with her were professional, inspector. So, it’s hard for me to say. But the few times we did socialize—office parties, that kind of thing—she was very sociable. You know how these foreigners are. They’re very comfortable in most settings. At work, she was the boss. She wanted everyone to call her Liz, but you know our culture. Most of the staff called her madam. But they seemed to respect her.”
    â€œWhat about you? Did you respect her?”
    â€œShe was my boss.”
    Gaikwad noticed he hadn’t answered the question.
    â€œWhat was your own relationship with her?”
    â€œCordial. Professional.”
    â€œSo you didn’t socialize after work?”
    Hazra smiled. “No, inspector. We did not.”
    â€œDo you know of anyone who could gain by having her out of the way?”
    â€œAgain, no.