27
Kirit
Present day
Present day
Kirit had spent half the day fielding questions from the press about Asif Khan’s escape. How had the press even found out? When Kirit discovered who had leaked the story, he was going to make sure that the person never worked again.
As usual Rahul was taking his duty seriously. So much so that he wouldn’t tell Kirit where he was and Kirit hated that he had to put his trust in Rahul so completely when he no longer had any control over his actions. But it was his only choice right now and so he refused to waste anger on it.
There was too much to be managed. The press was demanding someone’s head on a stake. Given how high profile the Asif Khan capture had been a few months ago, the public would only be soothed by sound bites from their “Hero Cop.” Especially since the villain he had defeated had not only risen from a coma but also had already been responsible for killing three innocent people.
Thanks to the media, gory pictures of the Colaba Killings, as they had already nicknamed the tragedy, had been witnessed by every child in Mumbai. No wonder it had become so hard to make a hit movie these days. Who cared about fictional drama and mayhem when real life in all its deranged glory played perpetually on TV screens.
The car ground to a halt as soon as they turned into the steep lane that led up to his home. The driver turned around and looked at him for instructions. Press vans lined the road and the crush of bodies mobbing his gate made it impossible to get near it. What more did they want? He’d recorded his statement and had it distributed to all the major TV channels.
“Sit on the horn,” he told the driver, and the driver went for it. Even so, the hundred-foot distance took them half an hour.
As soon as Kirit walked into his empty house, his peon took his briefcase from him and his cook handed him a cup of tea. And then all the servants discreetly disappeared. He walked through the house. Not a sound. He had never thought he’d miss the tinkling of the prayer bells. He peeped into Kimi’s room on his way to his office. It was bright now. She had painted the entire room a turquoise blue and had the wall between the sitting room and the bed area removed. It was one big room now with bright yellow and black furniture with a million cushions in every shade of yellow strewn across the couch and bed. “No white and no plastic.” Those had been her instructions to the designer. She had even covered the white marble floor with a black rug with huge turquoise-and-yellow flowers she called “daisies on steroids.”
He smiled for the first time that day. His Kimaya had always known exactly what she wanted.
He took himself to his study, locked himself in, and dialed.
“Fame’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it, Karan Kumar?” Asif Khan said by way of greeting. “When was the last time you were mobbed by the press outside your house?”
“You killed three innocent people, you bastard,” Kirit said into the phone, turning on the three TVs in the room like an idiot-box-addicted child.
Even as he said it he knew how idiotic he was being. Asif was a gangster who killed just to spread terror and to get thrills out of it. The lives of three people meant nothing in his deranged head.
“You are hilarious, Kirit!” Asif said predictably breaking into villainous laughter so stereotypical it couldn’t possibly be real life. “I’m going to miss you so much. I mean, you had an innocent person killed to get your precious daughter a heart and now you’re pretending to have the sobs for some dead people on the road?”
That laughter was sick. Like a really bad film. Like the most horrible nightmare. Kirit didn’t have nightmares. Kirit slept soundly every night. Jennifer Joshi’s death was not on his hands. It was on this bastard’s hands alone. Kirit’s conscience was clear.
“Come now, admit it. You danced, didn’t you? When you found out that dead woman was not your daughter? You can tell me. We’re practically friends now, we understand each other so well. You got a boner, didn’t you, when you realized she was someone else’s dead daughter. Tell me, which temple did you go to and feed beggars?”
He couldn’t let him get to him this way. He was Kirit Patil. The longest-serving chief minister of the richest state in India. Calm, he was always calm and in control. That’s why people elected him. Because this kind of shit that intimidated other politicians didn’t touch him.
On all three TV screens uniformed policemen pulled a girl’s body on a stretcher out of an ambulance. Kirit knew the girl on the stretcher wasn’t Kimi. But he couldn’t stop seeing her face on the girl’s corpse.
“What, no words from the glib minister today? Maybe I need to call Nikita Sinha. Does she know it was you who sent her to America to cheat the good doctor? No, of course she doesn’t. If she did, the police would know too. Oh, wait. Maybe that’s the way to go. I’ll tell Nikita Sinha and Jen Joshi’s husband who did that to them. They’ll report it. And then not only will the public know, your daughter will know too. Because all I want is for her to know. Actually, all I want is for her to be dead. But only after she knows how her daddy cut out someone’s heart for her.”
Kirit refused to react. He turned off the television sets and tossed the remote control across the table. He wasn’t the one who had cut out Jennifer Joshi’s heart. Asif Khan had done that.
“Okay, enough silent games, Kirit. I know you’re listening. I can hear your breathing. It stinks of guilt. Be a man and at least own what you did. Stop whimpering. It’s making me sick. Tell me where your daughter is and maybe I won’t kill her. Mother promise.” His uncouth voice scraped against Kirit’s spine, and he’d had enough.
“First, you’re the one whimpering and making me sick. And second, I’ll find you before you find her. And that’s the real promise. Not one of your empty threats.”
He shouldn’t have let his anger show because the bastard just sounded more amused. “I’m curious—how did you pull off that entire thing with Nikita Sinha without her knowing it was you?”
“Because I use my brain.”
“Right. Your grand brain. But it doesn’t compensate for brawn, does it? When you can’t even control a tiny woman enough to stop her from double crossing you. I’ve heard your wife doesn’t even want you anymore. She doesn’t think your brain isn’t big enough, does she?”
“Don’t you get tired of your own filth, Asif? It’s got to be tiring to be you.”
“Not really. It’s great to be king.”
This time Kirit laughed.
“Laugh at this, chutiya: How’s your day dealing with the presswa-las been?”
Of course. Asif was the one who had leaked the news of his own escape to the press to make life miserable for Kirit. This meant he was desperate and entirely unhinged. Not a great combination.
“You’re on TV right now, by the way. You’re so boring on camera. Are you sure you were a superstar? You look like someone’s old tired grandfather. No wonder the press is calling for that Hero Cop of theirs. Now, he’s one-hundred-percent superstar hot. Where is he anyway?”
Something must have changed in Kirit’s silence because Asif’s tone got all alert. “I was going to wait until I found your princess and use her to bring the cop to me. Since he seems to enjoy rescuing distressed damsels. But maybe I’ll get him out of the way first.”
“Asif, did the coma kill your brain? He’s the pride of the Mumbai Police right now. He’s already emptied half a magazine of bullets into you once. If I were you, I’d run as far away from him as possible.”
“Very protective of him, you are. And you’re usually ready to throw anyone who isn’t of use to you into the fire. Interesting. Why the soft spot? I wonder.”
“The coma did kill your brain cells. Go after him for all I care.”
“Right. For once I think I’ll listen to you. Let’s save your hero some time. I’ll just go after him myself. I never thought I’d say this again, but thanks!”