Meanwhile, Peggy is filling me in on what’s happening in London.
“Amber is still looking for a financial link between Imran and Family First,” she explains. “And Thomas is analyzing the photos he got from Caitlin last night—the pictures of the crates of clothes and weapons from the warehouse.”
“That’s great,” I say, only half listening.
“What’s on your mind?” Peggy asks, attuned, as always, to the moods of everyone around her.
“I’ve been summoned to the police station by Riya, the detective on the case.”
“Did she say why?”
“No.”
“Well,” says Kit, “I’m not surprised she wants to see you. After you got to Hassan ahead of her, she probably wants to tell you off.”
“Or perhaps she just has information to share,” Peggy suggests, always looking for a possible upside.
As I leave, Kit pulls me back for a hug. I go over and hug Peggy too, just so nobody feels left out. For the first time, though, I feel the stress in their embraces. It occurs to me how much they must suffer when they watch us fighting through danger. If I think about it too much, though, it’ll make me soft. I turn away briskly and leave them without looking back.
On my way to see Riya, I’m told by Li and the Athena team to give the detective the details of the warehouse we broke into last night. I’m assuming the men who arrived cleared it out, but the police might still be able to track the weapons. Also, the clothing items we discovered have added a strange piece to the puzzle that I need to discuss with Riya.
Running up the front steps of the police station that she’s based in, I pause just inside the front door. The building’s exterior is painted in pale pink and blue, the colors slowly fading under accumulated layers of dirt and pollution. Inside, a ceiling fan chugs in lazy circles, doing very little to supplement the portable air-conditioning unit that’s blasting lukewarm air into a corner. People are in and out of the place like it’s Heathrow Airport, and there’s already a queue waiting for attention from the lethargic cop at the front desk.
Rather than stand in line, I text Riya a message. She replies back with her usual effusiveness (Wait there) and within five minutes, arrives in the vestibule to meet me. Alongside her is a man in his late forties, not much taller than she is. He is slightly built, so slight that it looks like a blast from the air conditioner might send him tumbling away, but his handshake is exceptionally firm.
“Sunil Patel, detective,” he says. He wears black-framed glasses and watches me without blinking.
“Sunil is my boss,” Riya explains. “He’s extremely experienced.”
“I think that means ‘extremely old,’” Sunil says.
At least he has a sense of humor. I smile and look at them both politely.
“Are you on this case as well, Sunil?” I ask.
He nods.
“Great, then I can speak to both of you.” I look around for a place where we can sit quietly together, but neither of them moves. In fact, Sunil clears his throat officiously.
“Excuse me, Jessie-ma’am—it’s Jessie, right? We are all big fans of Kit Love—her charity work and, in my case, her music too. I want you to go back to Kit-ma’am and let her know that we are leaving no stone unturned in our quest to find these bombers.”
“And to find out who is behind the bombers?” I suggest.
He looks pained at my pushiness but maintains a calm tone.
“Obviously,” he says, shaking his head gently in the Indian way of saying yes. “There is a bigger picture here, and we will fill in the blanks posthaste.”
Posthaste. One of the many things I love about India so far is that everyone uses such precise English. And phrases that went out of fashion in London in the 1960s, and sometimes the 1860s, are still big here. Like, Indians will say “thrice” instead of “three times.” Nevertheless, as delicious as Sunil’s little speeches are, they are full of platitudes, and I’m not buying much of anything that comes out of his mouth. I glance at Riya. Even she has the grace to realize how dismissive he must sound.
“Well, I may have a bit more information for you,” I say, eager to fill them in on last night’s proceedings. Or at least a sanitized version of them, one that leaves out the part where we broke into private property and defused a bomb. But Sunil raises his hands, as if warding me away.
“We have too many cooks in this kitchen, spoiling the broth,” he says. “When you interfere, you could be putting our own investigations at risk. I hope you understand that.”
“Of course. But two heads are better than one,” I try, since he seems to be into meaningless mottos. But he just regards me, unmoved. Thankfully, Riya steps in.
“Why don’t you and I go across the street and have a coffee?” she offers.
She turns to Sunil and speaks in Hindi. Though I don’t understand the words, the tone seems to suggest that she is offering to get me off their backs for both of them. He nods, gives me a fake smile along with
