Trucks, vans, cars, and rickshaws, not to mention a tired-looking donkey, fill the space between us and a small café across the road. But Riya doesn’t wait for a gap in the endless flow of vehicles; she just steps out into the chaos and gracefully weaves her way through. I follow closely.
Inside are rows of densely packed tables where a few diners eat breakfast. I follow Riya to the empty counter, where we each take a stool and she orders us both chai—milky tea fragrant with spices.
“I get the feeling your boss would probably prefer me to hang out in my hotel spa and leave you alone,” I say.
“Would you consider it?” she asks, hopeful.
“No.”
She smiles. “Sunil’s not so bad. He’s just formal. But he’s good at his job.”
I’m glad, if slightly surprised, to hear it. Sunil didn’t feel like the most progressive guy I’d ever met. But that might just have been because he was defensive around me.
“So that’s why you wanted to see me,” I say. “So that Sunil could tell me to back off.” I am disappointed, to be honest. I’d hoped she was taking the pledge to share her findings more seriously.
“Not just that,” she says, and her tone holds annoyance now. “I also want to know what information you got from Hassan. Because clearly you got something from him. But he’s not talking to us. What did you do to him?”
“Gosh, nothing!” I say innocently.
“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” she shoots back. “He was quivering like a milk pudding by the time we reached him.”
I try not to smile at her simile, but just the hint of amusement on my face irritates her even more. She slams a hand onto the countertop.
“Do you really want me to arrest you for whatever investigative methods you are using? This is India, not the Wild West. We have a refined justice system, processes that must be followed. You keep this up, Jessie, you are going to be investigating only the inside of a jail cell. How will you like that?”
Her dark eyes flash at me, keeping me pinned down by her gaze. Suddenly I feel nervous. But not about the investigation. Just, awkward about being around her. I look away and pick up my tea.
“Was there any sign that I hurt Hassan?” I ask.
“He couldn’t walk,” she accuses.
“Oh, come on,” I scoff. “He sprained his ankle, running from me.”
I smile at her, like I couldn’t hurt a fly. I’m pretty sure Hassan is too scared that Hala will go after his kids to blame any of his injuries on us. Riya shakes her head, and a strand of hair comes loose from her ponytail, falling over her eye. For a fleeting moment, I have the ridiculous urge to push it back, but Riya herself does that, impatiently retying it.
“So, do you want to know what Hassan told me or not?” I say.
She groans. “My God, Jessie, you would try the patience of a saint. Of course I do. Tell me.”
“This is where he was sent to collect his fake ID and the address of the school.”
I hand her a piece of paper with the warehouse address on it. She takes it and taps the information into her phone for good measure.
“Is that everything you have?” she asks.
I hesitate. “No. But if I tell you more, you can’t ask me questions about how I found out.”
She makes a despairing sound. “Do you realize what you’re asking of me? I am an officer of the law.”
“Yes, I know it’s a lot to ask. I’m sorry, Riya.”
She glances at me, uncertain. “I really hate this.”
While she decides, I lean on the counter and my gaze flits up to the portable TV mounted in the corner. It plays a silent loop of today’s hot stories. There’s a major local election coming up at the end of next week and a reporter is interviewing a politician—a tall, elegant man with delicate features.
“That’s Jingo Jain?” I ask her, nodding at the television.
“Janveer Jain,” she says. “Informally, ‘Jingo.’ He’s running for office. Why?”
But I need her to agree to my terms first. “No other questions?” I push.
She’s dying to know more.
“Fine,” she says, through gritted teeth.
I pull out my phone and show her some of the images that Caitlin took the night before. The weapons stockpile and also the clothing. All the clothes are campaign merchandise—T-shirts and caps promoting only one politician—Jingo Jain. Riya leans in closer, studying the photos.
“These were in the warehouse,” I say. “And there were lots of them. Could Jingo be involved with Family First somehow?”
She frowns. “I’d be surprised. He was one of the most vocal in condemning the attack on Kit’s school. He’s ex-military, ex-police. People see him as someone safe, someone who will protect Mumbai and Maharashtra state from terror.”
I can see Riya chewing over the photos. Part of her wants to tell me off for going there, for being a step ahead and not sharing earlier. But she manages to hold it in. Curiosity seems to be slowly dampening her passion for process.
“I need these pictures,” she says.
I nod and continue talking, telling her about the ADS that was used on me. And warning her that the place may be booby-trapped in case of a visit from unwanted guests. Like the police.
Riya stares at me, amazed. “Where did you learn how to do all this?”
“Investigating? I’m just nosy. I like putting two and two together,” I say, brushing off her interest. I don’t want to start the long litany of lies that my current cover backstory would entail.
“What about you?” I ask quickly. “It can’t have been easy, becoming a police officer. And making it to detective.”
“You mean because of the work, or because of male attitudes?”
“Both.”
“Why do you assume India is worse than anywhere else?”
“I don’t. It could be tough
