Finding a taxi in South Bombay during the monsoons should have been an Olympic sport. Even if you managed to flag down a black-and-yellow, the drivers often balked if the destination wasn’t far enough. And, with foreigners, they didn’t want to turn on the meter. Such was the case that day. I had to agree to the driver’s insistence on a flat fee of five rupees to take me to Cuffe Parade. Highway robbery. Literally. But I gave in.

I folded myself inside the tiny cab and shut the door.

“Jaldi,” I told the driver, and we were off.

Yes, I was avoiding Lokhande. I didn’t feel like facing him just then. So I went home to sit for twenty minutes. I washed out some clothes, hung them to dry, and had a glass of chilled water from the fridge. Figuring the police might well be on their way to find me at my flat, I headed back to the office again. Janice met me at the door.

“Where have you been? A policeman was asking for you.”

“I know. I saw him as I was leaving.”

“Mr. Muller was not happy. But the inspector said you weren’t in any trouble. He wanted to speak to you about something that happened at your building last week.”

I didn’t like the way Lokhande had squinted at me. And the way he’d cuffed Ramu before wrapping a paternal arm around him. I’d have to speak to him eventually, but I didn’t mind putting it off as long as possible. He’d probably headed over to my flat when he didn’t find me at work. I expected to find a note under my door when I got home that evening. What I didn’t expect was Sushmita.

CHAPTER NINE

TUESDAY, JULY 1, 1975, 9:48 P.M.

Dressed in saffron bell-bottom jeans and a black T-shirt, she was squatting on the floor against the wall beside my door. Her hair was free, hanging long, past her collarbone.

“Where’s Willy?” I asked.

She seemed distracted. Maybe high. “In Poona, and I’m bored, Danny. Take me to dinner.”

“Dinner? It’s almost ten and I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

“How dull. I thought you were fun.” She reconsidered. “No, interesting. I thought you were interesting. But you’re as dull as Willy.”

“Come on inside,” I said. “I’ve got some whisky.”

She scoffed. “I know. I sent it to you. But you thanked Willy. And I don’t drink, remember?”

I didn’t quite know what to say. The note had been signed “Willy,” even if I’d recognized a woman’s handwriting. I wanted to apologize but wasn’t sure that was the right strategy.

“Everything okay?” I asked instead.

“Are you going to Ash Pethe’s dinner party tomorrow?”

“I was planning on it. Why?”

She gazed up at me. “Take me?”