All she heard as she lost consciousness was the sound of cops shouting. All she saw was Guha grinning.
Chapter 110
THE MAN CHECKED into the motel off the Delhi–Jaipur highway at around five in the evening. He paid cash in advance for one night and headed to his room without any luggage. The reception clerk did not bother about him. He was used to seeing all manner of strange people. Any type of business was welcome.
The man locked his room door, stood on the bed, and reached up to unscrew the fire alarm. He pulled out the batteries and screwed back the lid. He then sat on the bed for the next hour, chain smoking. In his head were images of his son in a hospital bed. Then images of his son’s funeral pyre.
If someone had cared, my son would still be alive.
He stubbed out the last cigarette and stood up once more on the bed. He pulled off the belt from his trousers and looped it into the ceiling fan. He tugged at it to check the strength of the fan. Satisfied that it could take his weight, he placed his head into the noose that he had fashioned. He then bent his legs, allowing his entire body weight to shift to the belt.
MGT’s body was discovered around six hours later after the police identified his car in the parking lot of the motel.
EPILOGUE
Chapter 111
IT WAS THREE months later, and everything about the case against Ajoy Guha had been expedited. The trial was fast-tracked, his plea had been guilty, and he had made no appeal against the sentence of death, asking only that it be carried out as soon as possible.
Shortly before the execution, Jack flew into Delhi. The day before, he summoned Santosh, Nisha, and Neel to the Oberoi. There they assembled in reception and were greeted by Jack.
“Santosh, you got your cane back,” he said.
“Retrieved from Ibrahim’s van.”
“I’m pleased to see it,” he said. “Neel, I trust things are going well with Ash? And how’s the new car?”
Neel’s smile said it all, and Jack turned to Nisha. “The last time I saw you, your arm was in a sling. Good to see you’re better. How’s Maya?”
Nisha had been smiling at the mention of Neel and the car she’d crashed, but at the thought of Maya her eyes clouded and she spent a moment or so composing herself. “I’m spending a lot more time with her,” she replied. “Turns out we have a bit of catching up to do, and I have a lot of being-a-proper-mother to do. We go on holiday to Shimla in a couple of days, but she’s still having nightmares, Jack. Not just about her ordeal.”
Next, the four of them made their way from reception to the conference room. There they were greeted by a surprise. Waiting for them were the Chief Minister, Jaswal, Delhi’s Lieutenant Governor, Chopra, and the Commissioner, Sharma.
The Private team took their seats. They eyed each other warily, unsure of the purpose of the meeting and looking to Jack as he moved to the head of the table, took off his leather jacket, draped it over a chair, and then rested his hands on the back of the chair.
He paused and then addressed the meeting. “Okay, I’ll make this brief. I don’t suppose there are many in this room who can claim to have covered themselves in glory over the Deliverer murder case, and I’m not asking for a post-mortem; I’m not asking for each man to confess his sins. But what I will do is start by saying that I’m just as culpable as anybody else here, and I owe you an apology. To you in particular, Santosh, I’d like to say sorry for ignoring your advice and dragging Private into a politically motivated case when you warned me otherwise.”
Santosh gave a short, grateful nod that Jack waved away. Meanwhile Jaswal was about to speak up, but Jack held out a hand, politely silencing him. “Mr. Jaswal, I intend to reimburse you all of the fees you’ve paid, and please accept my apologies for having led you to believe that Private’s allegiances lay with you in your turf war with Mr. Chopra here. We are an independent detective agency. My mistake was to believe—wrongly, as it turned out—that making high-level contacts in Delhi was the best way to establish my business here. What I should have done was concentrate on Private’s core business, which is …” his head dropped for a moment, “trying to help people. Trying to do a bit of good in this cold world of ours.
“But, like I say, we’ve all made mistakes. Not just me. And what I want to propose now is that we don’t compound those mistakes by making another one. I’m here to ask you, Mr. Chopra, and you, Mr. Jaswal, for leniency for Ajoy Guha.”
Puzzled glances were exchanged. Chopra was about to speak up, but Jack cut him off and continued, “A little girl of my acquaintance is crying because she believes the state is killing the man who saved her life. I think we all know the little girl in question. Maya Gandhe, daughter of our very own Nisha, the girl who won the hearts and minds of Delhi thanks to her starring role in recent events. She’s already held in such affection—she’s become such a symbol of hope for the people—that I’m betting she could change things just by speaking out. Not that she knows that.” He paused in order to let the implication sink in. “Yet.”
Chopra and Jaswal looked at one another, both aware they were being played. Jack went on, “Now, we in this room know more than most that there’s nothing intrinsically good about Ajoy Guha. He did some terrible, wicked things. And yet …” Jack shrugged, spreading his hands. “He seems to have inspired people. Certainly he has Maya. And let’s face it, he certainly wants to die, probably because he knows that dead he becomes a martyr, a much more potent symbol than if he lives, gets old, and dies in some prison somewhere. I ask you: are we in the business of giving a man like Guha what he wants? Is that a wise course of action, do you think?”
Jack swallowed and went for broke. Addressing Jaswal and Chopra he said, “What do you say, gentlemen? The execution is tomorrow. How about we find a way to cancel it?”
Chapter 112
PREPARATIONS FOR THE hanging began at 3:30 a.m. Not long after that, the crowds gathered in the courtyard. By daybreak, as Delhi awoke to a day of reckoning, the chanting had begun.
Guha was permitted a hot shower and a fresh set of clothes. The medical officer gave him a quick physical to certify that he was in sound health to face the calibrated drop to death.
There was a clicking of boots on the concrete floor as the head warder and four deputies arrived at the cell. The warders stationed themselves front, back, left, and right of the prisoner. On an order from the head warder they began walking toward the gallows, where Guha was handed over to the executioner. The Chief Judicial Magistrate read the verdict that had sentenced him to death.
The executioner was a police constable who had conducted eight previous hangings. He tied Guha’s hands behind his back and bound his legs. He positioned him at the center of the platform’s trapdoor, and then fastened the noose around his neck, adjusting it to ensure the knot was slightly to one side. He began reciting a short prayer to mitigate the guilt of killing another human being.
And now the hour was upon them. In the courtyard, and in the streets, it was as though the whole city held its breath. After all, Guha’s case had been the most high-profile one ever seen in the country’s legal system. Across the country people had held demonstrations demanding leniency for Guha. On social media, the hashtag #SaveAjoyGuha had been trending continuously, and to the followers of #TeamGuha he was a hero.
“Ajoy Guha Amar Rahe!” they chanted: “May Ajoy Guha forever remain immortal.”
The man himself was determined to die. He wanted to die so that the Deliverer might live. That was his gift to the people.
The hangman tightened his grip on the lever that would release the trapdoor under Guha’s feet.
Then along the corridor came a prison guard, huffing and puffing, carrying a letter. The Chief Judicial Magistrate indicated to halt the proceedings.
“I have a letter here signed by the President,” said the guard breathlessly. “The execution is to be delayed indefinitely.”
But Ajoy Guha wanted to die, and his eyes went to the lever, knowing he c
ould knock it with his feet, finish the job himself—and that he needed to act now.
For the first time he heard the chants from outside. “Ajoy Guha Amar Rahe!” they were chanting, and he realized they were calling for him, not the Deliverer, they were calling for Ajoy Guha. Abused, bullied, neglected, sidelined. Ajoy Guha. The people wanted him at last.
He smiled.
And moments later, as the news spread, the cheering began.
The only thing more dangerous than a murderer without a conscience is a killer who thinks he has justice on his side …
Read on for an extract
LEAVING THE GLUTEN-FREE aisle at Whole Foods, Tom McGrath was thinking that the long, lithe woman in the teal-colored leggings and matching warm-up jacket in front of him had the posture of a ballerina.
In her early thirties, with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail, she was lovely to look at, exotic even. She seemed to sense his interest and glanced back at him.
In a light Eastern European accent, she said, “You walk like old fart, Tom.”
“I feel like one, Edita,” said McGrath, who was in his midforties and built like a wide receiver gone slightly to seed. “I’m stiff and sore where I’ve never even thought of being stiff and sore.”
“Too many years with the weights and no stretching,” Edita said, putting two bottles of kombucha tea in the cart McGrath was pushing.
“I always stretch. Just not like that. Ever. And not at five in the morning. I felt like my head was swelling up like a tick’s in some of those poses.”
Edita stopped in front of the organic produce, started grabbing the makings of a salad, said, “What is this? Tick?”
“You know, the little bug that gives you Lyme disease?”
She snorted. “There was nothing about first yoga class you liked?”
“I gotta admit, I loved being at the back of the room doing the cobra when all you fine yoga ladies were up front doing downward dog,” McGrath said.
Edita slapped him good-naturedly on the arm and said, “You did not.”
“I got out of rhythm and found I kind of liked being out of sync.”
She shook her head. “What is it with the men? After everything, still a mystery to me.”
McGrath sobered. “On that note, any luck finding what I asked you about the other day?”
Edita stiffened. “I told you this is not so easy, Tom.”
“Just do it, and be done with them.”
She didn’t look at him. “School? My car? My apartment?”
“I said I’d help you.”
Torn, Edita said, “They don’t give a shit, Tom. They—”
“Don’t worry. You’ve got the warrior McGrath on your side.”
“You are hopeless,” she said, softening and touching his cheek.
“Just when it comes to you,” he said.
Edita hesitated and then blew him a kiss before leading them to the checkout line. McGrath helped her unload the cart.
“Why do you look like the lonely puppy?” Edita asked him as the checker began ringing them through.
“I’m just used to a grocery cart with a little vice in it. Beer, at a minimum.”
She gestured to a bottle on the conveyor belt. “This is better for you.”
McGrath leaned forward and took it before the checker could.
“Cliffton Dry?”
“Think champagne made with organic apples, no grapes.”
“If you say so,” McGrath said skeptically.
As he loaded the food in cloth bags, Edita paid with cash from a little fanny pack around her waist. McGrath wondered what his childhood buddies would say about his hanging out with a woman who bought Cliffton Dry instead of a six-pack of Bud. They’d bust him mercilessly. But if apple bubbly was Edita’s thing, he’d give it a try.
He knew their relationship was a strange one, but he’d decided recently that Edita was, for the most part, good for him. She made him happy. And she made him feel young and think young, which was also a good thing.
They grabbed the shopping bags. He followed her out into a warm drizzle that made the sidewalk glisten. Traffic was already building in the southbound lane of Wisconsin Avenue even at that early-morning hour, but it was still light going north.
They turned to head south, Edita a step or two ahead of him.
A second later, McGrath caught red fire flashing in his peripheral vision, heard the boom-boom-boom of rapid pistol fire, and felt bullets hit him, one of them in his chest. It drove him to the ground.
Edita started to scream but caught the next two bullets and fell beside McGrath, the organic groceries tumbling across the bloody sidewalk.
For McGrath, everything became far away and slow motion. He fought for breath. It felt like he’d been bashed in the ribs with sledgehammers. He went on autopilot, fumbled for his cell phone in his gym-shorts pocket.
He punched in 911, watched dumbly as the unbroken bottle of Cliffton Dry rolled away from him down the sidewalk.
A dispatcher said, “District 911, how may I help you?”
“Officer down,” McGrath croaked. “Thirty-two hundred block ofWisconsin Avenue. I repeat, officer…”
He felt himself swoon and start to fade. He let go of the phone and struggled to look at Edita. She wasn’t moving, and her face looked blank and empty.
McGrath whispered to her before dying.
“Sorry, Ed,” he said. “For all of it.”
LIGHT RAIN HAD begun to fall when John Sampson and I climbed out of our unmarked car on Rock Creek Parkway south of Mass. Avenue. It was only six thirty a.m. and the humidity was already approaching steam-room levels.
The left lane was closed off for a medical examiner’s van and two DC Metro patrol cars and officers. Morning traffic was going to be horrendous.
The younger of the two officers looked surprised to see us. “Homicide? This guy kissed a tree going ninety.”
“Reports of gunfire before the crash,” I said.
Sampson asked, “We have an ID on the victim?”
“Car’s registered to Aaron Peters. Bethesda.”
“Thanks, Officer,” I said, and we headed to the car.
The Maserati was upside down with the passenger side wrapped around the base of a large Japanese maple tree. The sports car was heavily charred and all the windows were blown out.
The ME, a plump, brassy, extremely competent redhead named Nancy Ann Barton, knelt by the driver’s side of the Maserati and peered in with a Maglite.
“What do you think, Nancy?” I asked.
Barton looked up and saw me, then stood and said, “Hi to you too, Alex.”
“Hi, Nancy,” I said. “Anything?”
“No ‘Good morning’? No ‘Top of the day to you’?”
I cracked a smile, said, “Top of the morning, Doc.”
“That’s better,” Barton said and laughed. “Sorry, Alex, I’m on an old-school kick. Trying to bring congeniality back to humankind, or at least the humankind around me.”
“How’s that working for you, Nancy?” Sampson asked.
“Pretty well, actually,” she said.
“This an accident?” I asked.
“Maybe,” she said, and she squatted down again.
I knelt next to Barton, and she shone the light into the Maserati, showing me the driver. He was upside down, hanging from a harness, wearing a charred Bell helmet with a partially melted visor, a neck brace, and a Nomex fire suit, the kind Grand Prix drivers used, right down to the gloves and booties.
“The suit worked,” Barton said. “No burn-through that I can see. And the air bag gave him a lot of protection. So did the internal roll bar.”
“Aaron Peters,” Sampson said, looking at his smartphone. “Former Senate staffer, big-time oil lobbyist. No wonder he could afford a Maserati.”
Standing up to dig out my own flashlight, I said, “Enemies?”
“I would think by definition a big-time oil lobby
ist would have enemies.”
“Probably so,” I said, squatting back down. I flipped my light on and probed around the interior. My beam came to rest on a black metal box mounted on the dashboard.
“What is it?” the ME asked.
“If I’m right, that’s a camera inside that box, probably a GoPro. I think he may have been filming his run.”
“Would something like that survive a fire?” Sampson asked.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” I said, then I trained the beam on the driver’s blackened helmet. I noticed depressions in the upper part of it that didn’t look right.
“You’ve photographed it?” I asked.
Barton nodded. I reached up and released the buckle of the chinstrap. Gently but firmly, I tugged on the helmet, revealing Aaron Peters. His Nomex balaclava looked untouched by the fire, but it was blood-soaked from two through-and-through bullet wounds to Peters’s head.
“Not an accident,” I said.
“Impossible,” Barton agreed.
My phone rang. I was going to ignore it but then saw it was chief of police Bryan Michaels.
“Chief,” I said.
“Where are you?”
“Rock Creek,” I said. “Murder of an oil lobbyist in his car.”
“Drop it and get to Georgetown. One of our own is down, part of a double drive-by, and I want our best on the scene.”
I stood, motioned Sampson back toward the car, and broke into a trot, saying, “Who is it, Chief ?”
He told me. My stomach turned over hard.
SAMPSON PUT THE bubble up on the roof and hit the siren, and we sped toward Georgetown. I noticed the light rain had finally stopped as I was punching in the number for Detective Bree Stone, my wife. Bree was testifying in court that day and I hoped she’d—