Murder in Mumbai by K. D. Calamur Page B

Obviously, her death has been a great shock to all of us.”
    â€œBut you were her number two and you now have her job, right?”
    Hazra continued smiling, but the look was no longer friendly.
    â€œI do, yes. Anything else, inspector?”
    â€œI’ve heard that you were passed over for the job that eventually went to her.”
    â€œNot a secret, inspector. Check the business press. But would I kill someone for a job? No. You have to realize, inspector, that these foreigners come and go, but in the end we’re the ones who choose to stay behind in the country. If not today, I would have gotten the job tomorrow or some other time.”
    â€œSo you were biding your time?”
    â€œI suppose you could say that.”
    â€œDid she have any enemies?”
    Hazra paused.
    â€œInspector, in this line of work, especially at her level and mine, we don’t really have friends. Sure, we get along with people, but no one gets close. But did she have enemies? It’s hard to say.”
    He was hiding something.
    â€œYes?” Gaikwad prompted.
    â€œNo, that’s it. No enemies I can think of.”
    â€œAre you sure, sir? This could be of crucial importance.”
    Once again, he could see Hazra hesitate, and then just for an instant he thought he saw Hazra’s expression soften before it hardened quickly once again into inscrutability.
    â€œNo, inspector. Nothing else.”
    â€œThanks for your help, Mr. Hazra. If you think of anything else, let us know.”
    â€œOf course, inspector. It’s a tragedy. We may have work rivalries, but no one expects something like this to happen.”
    Gaikwad knew he was right, but all he had done so far was ask questions about this case. He really needed some answers.

Chapter 8
    Jay’s desk was cluttered with papers and books, a long-cold glass of tea sat next to a stained, idle wooden coaster, a dog-eared novel lay quietly beside a set of keys and a cell phone that almost ceaselessly vibrated. The area around Jay’s laptop was the only one that was relatively uncluttered. Outside, reporters and editors tapped away furiously on their keyboards, their eyes never wavering from the screen; phones rang incessantly. Although smoking had been banned in the newsroom a decade or so ago, the smell of tobacco rested heavily in the air.
    Jay was reviewing the notes from his interview with Khurana. Manisha had been pleased with the effort and planned to give it prime placement. Although Khurana didn’t share any new bits of information, the fact that he confirmed what was until now only conjecture about his past and his business deals was important. Jay’s piece was newsy. He had pre-empted Manisha’s order and added bits of personal information—though personally he found them irrelevant. But he could hear her voice: “That’s what our readers want to know. What he drives—not what his strategies are.” And she was right. India’s aspirational middle class loved to know personal details of the powerful in the hopes they too could replicate it in some small way. Self-help books dominated the bestseller lists long after they had fallen out of favor in the West.
    Jay had sat with a designer in the paper’s multimedia department to work on a slideshow of Khurana’s life and home. Called a web extra, it was meant to drive the newspaper’s readers to its ad-heavy website.
    â€œSo, do you have anything good? The photos, I mean.”
    Janet showed him the prints. Although she had long changed to the digital format, she was old school about one thing: printing out photographs that she could examine for details. Some things, she felt, were best seen when they were in your hands.
    â€œThese are very good,” Jay said. “What about the ones in his father’s room?”
    â€œThose didn’t come out so well.”
    â€œCan you go and take them again? Just call his assistant. I have his