“Mr. Jacobs, you have a visitor.”

Janice stood behind me. I swiveled in my chair to see who it was, and swore under my breath.

“Inspector Lokhande,” I said.

He aimed his squint at me as he rocked from heel to toe. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Shall we talk in the conference room?” I asked. “It’s private.”

He grabbed a chair from the desk next to mine and sat down. “I have no need for privacy.”

He smiled. Not a friendly smile. Vikky materialized to offer the cop tea.

“I’m happy to make a statement,” I said. “Would you like me to type it out and sign it?”

Vikky handed him the tea, and Lokhande waved a hand at me. “I don’t care about your statement.”

“What about Ramu? What’s going to happen to him?”

“Your servant is fine. A capable fellow, in fact. He’s been very useful at the station.”

“You mean he’s working for you now?”

“Not for me. For the station. He’s a good cook. Reliable messenger boy, too. Did you know he’s also a fine barber? Cut my hair yesterday and trimmed my mustache. You don’t know what you had, Jacobs-ji.” His eyes twinkled at me as he said that last bit.

So, my servant had been arrested for scaling the side of the building and trying to break into the penthouse apartment, and all he got for his trouble was a new job waiting on the police?

“We’ll keep him a little longer,” continued Lokhande. “This tea is very good, by the way.”

Great. Next he’d arrest Vikky and have him serving tea at the station.

“Excuse me, Inspector,” I said. “But if you don’t care about my statement, why are you here?”

The smile vanished, replaced by his scowl and squint. He really needed to see an ophthalmologist.

“It’s about your friend Bikas,” he said.

I choked on my reply. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is that so? Didn’t you meet him?”

“I … um, yes, I did,” I said. How the hell did he know that?

“Tell me about this Bikas fellow. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I only spoke to him that one time.”

He drained the last of his cup and repeated how good it was. “Do you think your man might give me a repeat of my tea?” he asked.

I signaled to Vikky, who returned and did the needful.

“Just the one time?” asked the cop, returning to the subject of Bikas.

“Yes.”

“Where was that?”

“Dharavi. He arranged a meeting there.”

“Then you can describe him to me.”

“No, I can’t. He was wearing a motorcycle helmet. Then a mask when I interviewed him.”

Lokhande squinted at me. “A motorcycle helmet? Nobody wears motorcycle helmets.”

“This guy did. To cover his face.”