Before I can answer, Sunil’s voice barks up the stairs. I follow Riya down, and we are both treated to her boss’s annoyed stare following us as we descend. He sniffs and turns to give orders to two uniformed officers behind him.
“Seal this place off with tape. No one goes up there till we know what we are dealing with.”
“There’s another guy up there,” Riya says.
Sunil sighs and gives further instructions in Hindi to the officers, then turns a stern glare onto me next.
“How did you get mixed up in all this?” he wants to know.
“Following my own lead,” I say.
“Why?”
“Why?” I shoot back, unfazed. “Because that’s what Kit hired me to do.”
“What lead? Where from?” he demands. I don’t even glance at Riya. The last thing I want is for him to suspect her of helping me in any way.
“You might want to get everything in this lab down to the station for processing as evidence,” I reply. I’m just trying to dodge his question, but the look on Sunil’s face reminds me that there’s possibly nothing more antagonistic than telling a senior police detective how to do his job.
“What lead did you follow?” he repeats, slowly. As if I’m too daft to understand him.
“I’m sure you’ll find your answers,” I say, sweeping my arm to indicate the lab. “If you have any more questions, arrest me,” I continue. “Otherwise I’m done here.”
Behind Sunil, Riya gives me a pained look at my aggressive tone. But I really want to get out of there and find out what I’m carrying around buried in my jacket. And I’m gambling that Sunil didn’t get where he is by wasting time teaching lessons to mouthy young women. Still, he does look as if he’d like to handcuff me and throw me in a cell. But instead, he turns to Riya, and takes his irritation out on her.
“I told you to come to me with anything you find,” he berates her.
“I know, sir.”
“But you know better, it seems. One whole year as a detective, and you are the Sherlock Holmes of this force. . . .”
“I felt so sure . . . ,” she begins.
“You felt?” he yaps. “Don’t feel. We are not in the psychic business. We are not some Bollywood film where the heroine feels the answer. This story does not end by you running into danger and being a hero.”
Ouch. I try to give Riya an encouraging look, but her eyes are downcast.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she mutters.
“Did it occur to you,” Sunil continues, “that I might be piecing together this part of the puzzle already?”
She looks up at him, surprised. “No, sir.”
He grunts, like she just proved his point. “You know, detective work is slow and painstaking. This hotheadedness is not an asset.”
“I understand, sir,” she replies.
Sidling slowly toward the door, I decide this is a good time to get out of here. Sunil notices my shuffling and turns and fixes me with a pointed stare that I return with a quick smile. But he doesn’t stop me from exiting. I turn to take a last look at Riya to send her a silent message of support, but she doesn’t meet my eyes.
Outside, I walk quickly past the cops in the parking lot and run across the street. Getting back on my motorbike feels like freedom. But I’m still very aware that I’m carrying around a little package of god-knows-what in my pocket. I drive as carefully as I can through the traffic tumult of central Mumbai, calling in to speak to Thomas along the way.
“Tell me,” he answers.
“I’ve got something I took from the lab.”
“Where is this ‘something’?” he inquires.
“In my pocket.”
“Good grief,” he says. “Is it sealed?”
“Yes. I need to find somewhere to take it for testing,” I tell him.
“Just sent you an address,” he says. “Want directions piped into your comms unit?”
Well, that was quick.
“Yes, great,” I reply. “But, Thomas? It can’t be some random lab—who knows what’s in this thing?”
“Random?” repeats Thomas, sounding mortally offended. “This is one of the city’s most sophisticated university research labs,” he continues. “Peggy knows the owner and I’ve just asked if they will both meet you there.”
“How did you manage all that so fast?” I wonder, relieved.
“It’s called the art of anticipation,” Thomas explains patiently. “I knew you were scheduled to explore a lab this morning. That meant an outside chance you’d find something that needed testing.”
“Thanks,” I say, impressed. “You’re the best.”
“I’m sure Amber would disagree,” he says. “Anyway, good luck. And let me know how it goes.”
If the lab I just left was eerie and downright dangerous, the one I pull into feels like a happy contrast—calm, safe, bright, efficient. I pull up to the front door and am immediately greeted by a shy young woman in jeans and a lab coat, who looks like she’s been posted there for the express purpose of meeting me. She does not engage in any small talk but immediately directs me to a back entrance. There, right inside the doors, I find Peggy herself, accompanied by an imposing man around Peggy’s age.
“This is Ajay,” says Peggy, introducing me. “He owns this lab and has been a dear friend to me since the days when I was leading trade delegations to India.”
Ajay chuckles. “More years ago than I care to remember,” he says. I hold out my hand to be polite, but he does not shake it.
“Apologies, ma’am,” he says. “I do not mean to be rude, but we do not know what you are carrying, or to what contaminants you may have been exposed. We must take all necessary precautions.”
Peggy shoots me a worried glance as we follow him inside. Around us a small team of people in protective aprons, masks, and gloves gathers, and they walk with us down a series of corridors.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“We have labs that are level three biosafety areas,” he tells me. “Until we know what gift
