want?'
'A drink.' She was gorgeous. Even more attractive than how she had looked at the press conference only a few hours ago. Young — she didn't look older than 23 or 24, demure, petite, five feet three or four, straight brown shoulder length hair, espresso eyes. A casual ocean blue polo shirt and figure hugging blue jeans. She was someone God — or whoever — had crafted. A work of art, born or made in heaven. 'I promise I won't talk shop. And the drink's on me too.'
'Why?'
'Why not?'
It was an undemanding request from one of the prettiest girls he had met since his college days. He looked at her again to assess. Thin waist. Admirable chest. Not big, but right for her frame. High cheekbones. Flattering jaw. Shapely lips. And a just-right butt. Plus, she had promised she wouldn't talk shop. Why was he being an arse? Who was he kidding?
'Okay. One drink. Where?'
'Toto’s at Bandra?'
'You got a car?' He looked at her. She shook her head. No.
'Get in then.' He unlocked his.
‘So you went out with a media girl?’ Vikram Patil was surprised when Jatin divulged about his meeting with Anita the previous evening.
‘That’s one way to look at it, I suppose. I didn’t go out for a drink with the NEWS of the DAY correspondent. I spent an evening with Anita Raizada. And anyway, it was only a few drinks.’
Vikram gave a lopsided smile. He could twig the difference. There wasn’t anything detrimental as such, but the top bananas up the Mumbai Police tree might have another view.
Rita did not have an adverse view of the rendezvous either. Nevertheless, she advised Jatin to be cautious. ‘Be careful of your words, these journalists have a tendency to misinterpret and misquote. Do not, at any rate, disclose any intelligence, or investigation that is not in the public domain.’
‘No worries, ma’am. I am not sure I shall be meeting her again.’
‘You make me laugh. I know you might not be looking forward to see her again, but, believe me, she would.’
‘I shall decline…’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s good to know what the media thinks. Anyway, I leave it to you. Just make sure you warn her before every meeting that it is off the record and anything you might say is your own view, and not the department’s.’
‘Trust me on this, ma’am.’
The girl, as Rita remembered, had enormous chips on both shoulders. The arrogance of youth. Rita could judge it would become a nuisance in little time; close friendship between a police officer and a reporter — that too for a loud-mouthed rag — would soon be a conflict of interests. Media bodies had always courted with the police for information, for tidings, for various favours. Anita would dig for sensationalising stories and Jatin would have an awkward time concealing true facts that could potentially seed hair-raising news articles. This could be some hard to resist pillow talk, she mused. Nevertheless, there was little difference in being a friend or a foe of a snake; sooner or later it would bite you, Rita heard her brain whisper.
‘ As a matter of fact, she wanted to see you to apologise,’ Jatin said in a soft tone, as if he was the one apologising.
‘What for?’
‘For her awkward questions last evening.’
‘I am OK. The fourth estate has the right to question anyone.’
The transcripts of the previous day’s investigations were at the desk in the room. Rita picked them and left for her office.
As requested by crime squad, the uniforms had covered the neighbourhood. 54 full-time uniformed officers had been on the job round the clock.
“Did you see anything strange last night?”
“Did you notice any suspicious man or woman hanging around the apartment block?”
“Did you see Mr Lele in the last 24 hours? If yes, when?”
“Any sound/scream? Gunshot?”
No one knew anything about the heinous killing or the killer.
It turned up nothing except frivolous information. Lele loved chicken-tikka as a pizza topping. Enjoyed
'A drink.' She was gorgeous. Even more attractive than how she had looked at the press conference only a few hours ago. Young — she didn't look older than 23 or 24, demure, petite, five feet three or four, straight brown shoulder length hair, espresso eyes. A casual ocean blue polo shirt and figure hugging blue jeans. She was someone God — or whoever — had crafted. A work of art, born or made in heaven. 'I promise I won't talk shop. And the drink's on me too.'
'Why?'
'Why not?'
It was an undemanding request from one of the prettiest girls he had met since his college days. He looked at her again to assess. Thin waist. Admirable chest. Not big, but right for her frame. High cheekbones. Flattering jaw. Shapely lips. And a just-right butt. Plus, she had promised she wouldn't talk shop. Why was he being an arse? Who was he kidding?
'Okay. One drink. Where?'
'Toto’s at Bandra?'
'You got a car?' He looked at her. She shook her head. No.
'Get in then.' He unlocked his.
‘So you went out with a media girl?’ Vikram Patil was surprised when Jatin divulged about his meeting with Anita the previous evening.
‘That’s one way to look at it, I suppose. I didn’t go out for a drink with the NEWS of the DAY correspondent. I spent an evening with Anita Raizada. And anyway, it was only a few drinks.’
Vikram gave a lopsided smile. He could twig the difference. There wasn’t anything detrimental as such, but the top bananas up the Mumbai Police tree might have another view.
Rita did not have an adverse view of the rendezvous either. Nevertheless, she advised Jatin to be cautious. ‘Be careful of your words, these journalists have a tendency to misinterpret and misquote. Do not, at any rate, disclose any intelligence, or investigation that is not in the public domain.’
‘No worries, ma’am. I am not sure I shall be meeting her again.’
‘You make me laugh. I know you might not be looking forward to see her again, but, believe me, she would.’
‘I shall decline…’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s good to know what the media thinks. Anyway, I leave it to you. Just make sure you warn her before every meeting that it is off the record and anything you might say is your own view, and not the department’s.’
‘Trust me on this, ma’am.’
The girl, as Rita remembered, had enormous chips on both shoulders. The arrogance of youth. Rita could judge it would become a nuisance in little time; close friendship between a police officer and a reporter — that too for a loud-mouthed rag — would soon be a conflict of interests. Media bodies had always courted with the police for information, for tidings, for various favours. Anita would dig for sensationalising stories and Jatin would have an awkward time concealing true facts that could potentially seed hair-raising news articles. This could be some hard to resist pillow talk, she mused. Nevertheless, there was little difference in being a friend or a foe of a snake; sooner or later it would bite you, Rita heard her brain whisper.
‘ As a matter of fact, she wanted to see you to apologise,’ Jatin said in a soft tone, as if he was the one apologising.
‘What for?’
‘For her awkward questions last evening.’
‘I am OK. The fourth estate has the right to question anyone.’
The transcripts of the previous day’s investigations were at the desk in the room. Rita picked them and left for her office.
As requested by crime squad, the uniforms had covered the neighbourhood. 54 full-time uniformed officers had been on the job round the clock.
“Did you see anything strange last night?”
“Did you notice any suspicious man or woman hanging around the apartment block?”
“Did you see Mr Lele in the last 24 hours? If yes, when?”
“Any sound/scream? Gunshot?”
No one knew anything about the heinous killing or the killer.
It turned up nothing except frivolous information. Lele loved chicken-tikka as a pizza topping. Enjoyed
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