I shift up from the back, reaching around to place a knife blade at his throat.
“Put your hands on the wheel,” I say.
He does so, but he clearly recognizes my voice, because he turns his head, just a little, to try to catch a glimpse of me.
“Not you again,” he complains. “I’ve had enough of you stalking me.”
Sunil clearly believes there’s no other way I’d have found him here, and I don’t want to drop Riya in a pile of shit and get her fired. So I keep quiet, but that infuriates him even more.
“Tomorrow morning, I will put a restraining order on you so fast your head will spin,” he threatens.
“Go ahead. Arrest me now,” I suggest. “Take me down to the station. I’ll be happy to explain what I’ve seen here tonight.”
Sunil makes a grunting noise that sounds almost like a laugh.
“I’m attending to police business,” Sunil says.
“Please,” I say with a disbelieving snort. “Pulling out wads of cash and paying people off to burn bodies? Not much due process there.”
“Can you put that knife down?” He sighs. “As irritating as you are, even you strike me as intelligent enough not to slice the throat of a police detective.”
I move the knife back but keep it out and ready. Gingerly, Sunil shifts in his seat, turning so we can see each other better.
“May I?” he asks, pointing to a pack of cigarettes sitting on the passenger seat. I stare at him, amazed. What, like we’re buddies now, hanging out over a smoke?
“No. I hate the smell,” I say. “And you’ll die an early and painful death.”
Sunil sniffs unhappily. “That’s what my mother told me when I joined the police,” he says with some measure of irony.
“Speaking of early and painful deaths, what happened to those men?” I ask, moving on. “They were the same men you arrested this morning at India Laboratory.”
Sunil nods. “We questioned them. They wouldn’t talk. They were scared.”
“Of what?”
“Reprisals from whoever they work for. That is what I surmised,” he replies. “So, I had them transferred to a prison nearby for more intensive questioning.”
His eyes meet mine, giving me the unmistakable impression that “intensive” is a polite term for some kind of coercion.
“But when they were taken out of the police van,” Sunil continues, “they collapsed, right there on the street. Before the uniforms escorting them could even get them inside. They died on the spot. Within a couple of minutes.”
“They were killed?”
He chews at his bottom lip, scowling. “Yes and no. I mean, they were not shot or stabbed. But they both died of some internal disease at exactly the same time.”
“That doesn’t strike you as unlikely?” I ask.
“It strikes me as something to be concerned about,” he returns.
“What disease?” I push.
“Nothing the prison medical examiner could identify. But he felt it might be contagious, so I was asked to dispose of the bodies.”
“At night? For cash?” I ask.
“We cannot afford a panic in this city,” he says evenly, “and even less can we afford an actual outbreak of some unidentified virus. The Centers for Disease Control in the US opened an office here. But it has a handful of people to cover an area populated by hundreds of millions. There are no meaningful resources for this kind of thing. So, in the real world, this is how it gets dealt with. Orders of the police commissioner himself.”
Part of me doesn’t want to believe him, but part of me knows he might be telling the truth. In a world where law enforcement is always overstretched, and oversight is lax, shortcuts happen. Sunil reaches for his cigarettes, and lights one, without asking me this time. He drags on it like it’s the taste of relief. With his first exhale of putrid smoke, a real shudder passes through his thin shoulders.
“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask.
“Because I’m not covering anything up. Except,” he adds, “for the cover-up I just explained to you.” He has the grace to look embarrassed about the irony, at least.
“Where’s Riya?” I ask.
“I suspended her. After your joint antics today.” He seems unconcerned about her. “Why?”
“No reason. I need her home address,” I say.
“I’m not going to hand out the address of a police officer. I don’t trust you,” he says.
“I’m devastated,” I reply, deadpan. “But back to Riya. I’m really concerned. She’s not answering her cell phone.”
I cough from the acrid cigarette smoke that’s filling the car. Like a real gentleman, Sunil winds down his window and flicks his half-finished cigarette outside. Then he picks up his phone and scrolls down. “Here,” he offers. “This is her home number. That’s all I can give you.”
I get out of the car and he starts the engine and reverses back. But before he drives away, he stops to say one more thing.
“If you speak to her, tell her I asked about her,” he says. “She’s a good cop. And she’ll be even better if you leave her alone to do her work.”
I call the number that Sunil gave me before Hala and I even make it back to the car. It’s an immense relief to hear Riya’s voice when she picks up.
“Jessie! Are you okay?” is the first thing she says.
“Fine,” I reply.
“Are you sure? I’ve been terrified something happened to you since I sent you that address.”
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” I ask.
“It’s smashed. And your number is in it.”
“Smashed? How?”
She hesitates. “Listen, can you come over to my place? Something is happening but I can’t figure out what.”
Before we hang up, Riya gives me her home address. Hala refuses to let me go there alone in case Riya is in trouble or being coerced into something.
“Well, it’s better she
