Hell of a bargain! FOUR

There's something about bubbles that can calm a girl's nerves. Warm water, the delicious fragrance of bearberries and a few hours of soaking in the tub and I was finally starting to relax after my 'first account witness' day of the terrible event. Talk about shop till you drop or till someone else drops, literally!

As the water trickled across my arms, my thoughts drifted towards Dev Mehra. He had not reacted when I told him I was a reporter. In fact, he seemed to have dismissed the remark and had simply stretched out his hand and assisted me in getting off the dusty floor of the Causeway. "If you would please accompany me to the station Miss," he said and I was amazed. I could swear his eyes changed colour from a cold, stony and intimidating black to warm onyx even as he spoke to me. Something about his boyish looks made me feel that he was still a child inside and yet strangely his persona radiated authority. This lean man-boy called the shots and NO was not an option. 

I had meekly followed him to the SUV and once again, he surprised me when he held the door for me. He was quiet on the ride to the station and he pulled open the door for me, once again displaying chivalry when we stopped in the parking lot.  

I noted how law enforcement officers made way for him as he walked in through the gates of the headquarters. They all seemed to know he was the intimidating guy whose path one didn't cross. "So it's not just me then," I thought with relief. 

"Sit', he said, rather curtly and suddenly changed his tone to a kind, "Would you like some water Miss?" It seemed like he was confused between whether he was frightening me or trying to get me to stay calm and talk. 

Call it my imagination, but the irritating noise of the ceiling fan revolving above my head and the stack over stack of files and papers at a smaller desk next to Dev Mehra's somehow managed to help me focus on the reality of what had happened. Maybe the air in government offices exposes us reporters to an unknown form of energy that brings us back to business. In a swift movement, I grabbed my trusted dictaphone out of my bag and in a rather crisp business voice said, "I'd like to ask you a few questions about the murder that occurred at a stall outside Colaba Causeway. If it's okay with you I'd like to use my dictaphone and also, I'd like your quote on whether this was premeditated murder and if you have any clue on whether it was a mafia hit." I had taken a deep breath and had looked straight into those eyes which were once again turning into cold frost. 

"Put that away, Miss.", he said rather sternly.

"Sir, with all due respect, our readers have the right to -" I started to protest.

"Miss Gupta," he had interrupted me mid sentence, "I will be asking the questions. Not you. I don't care about the rights of your circulation or fan following, I have a murder to solve; and you and your friend, who has very kindly obliged to cooperate with our M.E are our prime witnesses. So I suggest that you take a leaf out of Miss Iyer's book and answer my questions which means you will not be interrogating me. It'll be the other way around. Clear?"

My mouth turned into a comical 'O'. "Wow, this guy means business", I thought. Quietly, I returned the dictaphone to my bag turned to face him. 

"Now, Miss Gupta, I'd like you to tell me what you witnessed.", he said. 

I narrated the entire incident to him - how I had been out shopping with Amrita and we had just settled the payment over a bag when a car had pulled up and a man had shot the boy at a close range. He had then requested that I sit with their sketch artist and describe the shooter. I kindly obliged and had spent an hour with the artist while Dev Mehra had drifted in and out of the interrogation room where I had been asked  to sit. At the end of the day, he had given me his visiting card and had the junior officer from the crime scene drive me home. "Call if you recollect anything," he said. I wondered if I could call him just to hear how he sounded on the phone. 

Pushing that thought aside, I had climbed the 72 wretched steps of stairs to reach my one bedroom studio apartment, thrown all the junk I had purchased that afternoon on the couch and had shed off all my clothes to sink into my tub and into blissful oblivion for a couple of gloriously silent and soothing hours.

I closed my eyes as the last of the bubbles started to disappear in the tub. Every inch of my skin was now fragrant and I was slowly recollecting every memory from the afternoon. 

"We could've been hit, Amu and me," I thought, "Thank goodness we are safe." 

"Safe"

"Keep it safe," the boy had said. 

I blinked and sat up. I had forgotten to narrate this part to Dev Mehra. What had the boy meant when he said keep it safe? What was supposed to be safe? The bag? 

I got out of the tub and ran to my living room, dripping soap water all over my precious carpet. I pulled a towel from my open closet and wrapped it around myself. In my hurry to bathe, I hadn't turned on the lights. 

As the lights flickered on, I hunted for that ugly sling bag in the debris of Amu's shopping spree. Finally I unearthed the sling bag and checked for its contents. 

From the corner of my living room, a voice suddenly spoke turning my insides into ice, "That's right. Now turn around and hand me the bag and maybe I'll let you live."