Killer Moves Page 3

  We both are worn down by tragedies.

  An unexpected surge of loneliness crept up on him.

  His sister’s death twenty-one years ago had torn his family apart. None of them had recovered from it. Kabir had been packed off to a boarding school and he saw his parents only a few times after that. His dad was the first to stop visiting him and then so did his mother. They didn’t even show up at his graduation ceremony. It affirmed what Kabir always knew in his heart. The wrong child had died that wild night.

  After college, Kabir had dropped the ‘Prince’ tag and removed all traces of his royal lineage from his identity. He had studied, worked, traveled, and then opened his ad agency.

  Kabir’s work was considered legendary, groundbreaking, and he had won multiple awards but he never graced award ceremonies for one was expected to give speeches there.

  Whom will I thank?

  Chapter 6

  “That Kabir killed his wife? Lavina Salve? Shit!” Aisha’s voice kept rising just like her hand did—from her mouth to her forehead. “Then why isn’t he in jail?” she hollered in her cell at her assistant, Rustom Unawala.

  “Because there was no proof. Remember the police, Boss?” Rustom quipped.

  “This is the guy whom Kia is working with? What else did you find out about this murderer Kabir?” Aisha scratched her brow. Panic was twisting her heart into a rope.

  My baby is with a killer! Is that why I got those chills? Shit!

  “Are you seriously going to Goa?” Rustom digressed. “What about the shoot?”

  Aisha shook her head. “Don’t worry! I have all the scenes written for the next two weeks. A few dialogs here and there and that’s it. What are we shooting this week, reincarnation or re-marriage?”

  “Both!”

  “No worries, it is easy, Rusty. Also, I’m not abandoning Veena and you. I will be available 24/7 by phone and text. I have already spoken to Sarita and told her it’s a family emergency. She understands.” Sarita Tanwar was the director of the sitcom Aisha was the lead story and dialog writer of. Veena Gupta and Rustom made up Aisha’s writing team. “I have been doing this for the last seven years. So, don’t panic. This is your time to shine. Show that you are a ‘can-do’ kind of a guy.”

  Rustom grunted.

  “And keep digging for whatever you can find on this creep Kabir Rana.”

  “He is successful. Has won many awards.”

  “Probably bought all of them. And again, murder trumps all that!” Aisha’s nostrils flared. “Where is he from?”

  “Hold on.”

  Aisha waited. She could hear Rustom clicking keys on the keyboard.

  “Everything goes back ten to twelve years. Nothing about this guy before that.”

  Aisha sat back against the seat of the taxi. “What does he look like?”

  “Hmm.” Some more keys were clicked “Surprisingly few pictures of a guy who takes pictures for a living. Some grainy pictures of this Kabir are all I can find on the net. He is tall for sure. Shit!”

  “What?”

  “You are not going to like this.”

  “Just tell me!” Aisha narrowed her eyes, expecting the worst news and Rustom did not disappoint her.

  “This dude is pretty wild.” Rustom sounded impressed. “He dates models. And he likes them young.”

  Crap! “Keep digging, Rusty, please. Anything you find on this creep—big or small—call me, okay?” Aisha hated the pleading tone in her voice.

  “Of course, Boss.”

  “TTYL.” Aisha hung up, her black eyes as gloomy as the overcast sky passing above the cab.

  Her phone rang, and Aisha recognized the caller. She groaned.

  Of course, he would know!

  It was her late grandmother Pramila Chowdhury’s neighbor and boyfriend, Suvabrata Ghosh. Suvabrata was the most-disliked person on Aisha’s side of the family. His intimate friendship with Pramila—a woman nearly two decades older than him—had caused much strife between Pramila’s family and Suvabrata. Aisha was the only one in her family who was in touch with him.

  Aisha answered the call but kept her tone firm. “Hey, Suva! This is really not a good time.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m calling.” Suvabrata said, his voice unusually deep and dry.

  Aisha stayed quiet.

  “I dreamed about you last night, Aisha. Don’t go to Goa. You are walking into something very sinister.”

  Who uses words like ‘sinister’? Aisha thought, not bothering to ask how Suvabrata, residing in Calcutta a thousand miles away from her, knew of her plans even before they were formulated.

  For Aisha knew precisely how. Her grandmother Pramila, she and Suva were kindred spirits. If it was any other time and Aisha wasn’t this worried, she might have rolled her eyes at the word ‘spirits.’

  “Kia is there.” Aisha offered in a stilted voice.

  “You have never experienced such darkness.” Suvabrata said, his voice low.

  Aisha bit down on her rising panic. “Let me repeat. Kiara is there. I don’t want to be rude to you—”

  “Why not? Everyone else in your family is.”

  Aisha kept her silence.

  “I had to call you. La would not forgive me if I didn’t.” Suvabrata used Aisha’s grandmother’s nickname. “She only asked one thing from me—to watch over you and Kiara. Moreover, she doesn’t let me forget that.”

  “Nani died six years ago.” Aisha’s voice was curt.

  “Aisha, you can’t run from what you are.”

  “If I am running at all, it’s from what I’m not. She accepted my wish to stay away from this mumbo jumbo. So should you.” Her lips thinned into a line.

  Suvabrata exhaled. “You use so much energy in curbing, controlling your powers. Your abilities are unique. Not many people can—”

  “Look, I’m busy right now.” Aisha cut him off.

  “I can help you, Aisha. I can help you control them. You can decide who can reach—”

  “Bye!” Aisha ended the call abruptly and switched off her phone. Her hands were trembling. She stared out of the window, her usually smooth forehead marred by deep lines.

  Darkness in the world of telepaths, psychics, and clairvoyants means only one thing—death.

  Aisha wiped her clammy hands on her skirt. “Dammit, Kia, why don’t you listen?”

  Chapter 7

  Kabir watched the road, his mind somewhere else.

  The conversation with Shreya had him thinking. On a whim, he called up his PA of few years, Vikas Mishra, who was traveling in the staff car behind.

  Vikas answered on one ring. “Yes, Kabir?”

  “Vikas, inform all the drivers that we will be stopping at the next dhaba4.”

  Vikas answered in the affirmative and Kabir hung up. He understood the surprise in his portly assistant’s voice. However, Vikas did what made him get along best with Kabir—blindly follow Kabir’s instructions.

  A few kilometers later, Kabir spotted several parked trucks near a single-story structure. Nothing screamed dhaba as did green and blue walls adorned with scrawling red letters and a cluster of small shops and ratty music stores. Slowing down, Kabir gave the indicator and pulled his black SUV to the side. His entourage parked appropriately around.

  A cloud of dust arose around them. Kabir waited a few seconds and then walked to the staff car.

  Vikas was already out, stretching his back and flexing his arms. Kabir wanted to tell him someday that a man who had a belly like Vikas should not wear a tight T-shirt and even tighter jeans. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute break. Can you order some tea and some food for everyone?”

  “The models will not eat or drink from here.” Vikas grinned, his chubby face wreathed in a smile.

  “Kabir?” The high-pitched voice belonged to Ameena Afreen, his shoot coordinator. Touching sixty, Ameena’s hair was dramatically cut with silver and blue side locks—long and sleek on one side and a dark undercut on the other. Today she wore a loose orange ku
rta that nearly reached her ankles and broad white pants. Tons of silver jewelry graced her ear, neck, and wrists. Ameena aka Amee hobnobbed with the who’s who of the fashion industry and was the tough ringmaster that kept the models in line. “Why the stop?”

  “I got hungry. The models can get off and stretch a bit. Do you think they might want a bite?”

  Ameena raised a perfectly penciled eyebrow at him. “None of them will even step a foot in these tacky surroundings.” She cast a disdainful look around.

  Kabir waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll ask them.” I’ll ask Kiara.

  His strides were long and quick. Kabir knew that his tall frame in black jeans and black shirt and his austere face cut an authoritative figure. He was in the business of looks and unconscious mind manipulation. He believed in first impressions and rarely gave second chances.

  He reached the van the models were traveling in. The door was already open.

  Kabir stepped inside.

  “Hi, Kabir!” Striking people between the ages of nineteen to twenty-four chorused.

  Kabir did a quick headcount. “Someone’s missing?” He retorted even though he knew very well who it was—the one he was looking for.

  “Oh, Kiara stepped out. Can you believe she actually stepped out here?” A girl with short hair, pouty lips, and smoky eyes simpered. She bent forward, causing the round collar of her blouse to reveal more than Kabir wanted to see. She was the nineteen-year-old.

  Sit properly! Kabir bit the avuncular retort back and stepped right out of the van.

  He immediately spotted the tall girl in a simple T-shirt, form-fitting jeans, and flat Greek sandals. Kiara. He went and stood next to her as she paid a young boy who handed her a glass of tea.

  “Dhaba chai?” Kabir let her know of her presence.

  Kiara glanced at him, turning her swan-like neck. Her face dominated by a pair of coffee colored and doe-shaped eyes was striking. Except there was nothing doe-like in her glance; it was arrogant.

  She is not in awe of me. Good!

  “Do you want one?”

  “Sure.” Kabir reached in his back pocket.

  “I got this one. Next time you can pay.” Kiara’s voice was naturally husky.

  Kabir noticed Kiara glance at her cell.

  “Next time?”

  “What, I’m not shooting for the calendar next year?” Kiara gave him a cheeky look as she sipped her tea.

  “We’ll see!” Kabir took the tea from the boy. They stood next to each other in silence, sipping the hot, sweet beverage.

  “How long are we stopping for?” Kiara asked.

  “How long do you want to stop for?”

  “Long enough to eat a grease-dripping onion omelet and bread!”

  Finally, a model who eats. “You like dhaba food?”

  “My family—my grandfather—loves to travel by car. Boo and I always wait for those trips.”

  “Boo?” Kabir was already bored.

  “Bua. My aunt.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Died in a road accident when I was a baby.”

  And you still like to travel by road? Kabir couldn’t help his questioning glance.

  “I know what you are thinking. However, my granddad refuses to let any of us be scared by anything. He is a retired Supreme Court Judge.”

  Kabir finished his tea and nodded at Vikas who walked past them. “That is the third time you have glanced at your cell in the past minute? Possessive boyfriend?”

  “Worse. Possessive aunt. Boo.”

  “Single old women can be a tad cranky!” Kabir did not understand Kiara’s chuckle following his words.

  “How did you know she is single and old?”

  Kabir shrugged. “You just mentioned her and your grandfather making road trips, which implies no husband or kids. She probably raised you so she’s old. If she is old and single, she is cranky!”

  “Who is old and cranky?” It was Amee accompanied by a few models.

  “She too is old and single.” Kiara murmured in her tea.

  Kabir ignored that. “We’ll eat something and then leave.”

  The models voiced their vehement displeasure.

  “Those who don’t want to are welcome to go back to the van.” He pointed at Kiara. “You come with me!”

  “You don’t know my name?”

  Kabir paused mid-stride. Kiara nearly came up to his height and her gaze was bold. Kabir heard the sudden silence around him.

  Amee jumped in. “Listen you—”

  “Kiara is right. My apologies! Kiara, would you do the honor of joining me for some grease-dripping eggs and bread?”

  “My pleasure!” Kiara sashayed past him.

  Kabir followed her. “You know you just put yourself on Amee’s hit list? She hates a model who talks back.”

  “Can’t help it. I was raised strong.”

  “Single old ladies are more ferocious than wolves?” Kabir took the charpoy across from Kia.

  Kiara laughed. “You should meet the single old lady someday.”

  “I’d rather not. I don’t think she and I will gel well.” Kabir shot back, waving a waiter down.

  4 Roadside Eatery. A Popular stop for all those travelling on highways. Known for greasy but delicious food.

  Chapter 8

  Several Hours Later

  Donna Paula, Panaji, Goa

  “It should be here somewhere.” Aisha used the light from her cell phone to study the ragged hand-drawn map on a torn piece of paper. The evening light was fading quick.

  “You are no Picasso for sure!” she grumbled, thinking of the dubious concierge who had drawn the map to Kriti Villa—the bungalow where Kabir was housing all the models.

  He is probably choosing his prey right now while I’m stumbling around like an inebriated baboon.

  Aisha planned to furtively check out the place Kiara was staying in and the people she was staying with and then, of course, to casually bump into her.

  Kia must be shown that when it comes to her safety, she can’t outrun me. Her Boo’s got her back, whether she likes it or not.

  Aisha halted to take stock of where she was. The rectangular bungalows, some with actual turrets, were huge and lit with soft lights and were eerily quiet. The street in front of the home was secluded and illuminated by dim sconces.

  Straight out of an old black and white movie.

  The air smelled thickly of salt and water. The Arabian Ocean lay behind the grands mansions.

  Aisha scratched the back of her head. “2978A, where are you?”

  Sudden headlights and a rumbling sound from behind caused Aisha to jump to the side of the road. A black truck lumbered past her. Aisha was able to catch the words ‘catering.’ It stopped at the bungalow at the end of the road.

  Catering! That must be it. Food for everyone at the villa.

  Aisha ran up to the driveway where the truck had parked. She glanced at the illuminated black house number plate. 2978A.

  Aisha took tentative steps into the driveway. The bungalow was all modern architecture—whitewashed exterior with several cantilevered floor and corner windows.

  The smell of rajnigandha5 and roses mingled with the salty smell of the ocean, ripening an evening that still held the warmth of a sun that had set some time ago. The garden that ran alongside the driveway was lush with landscape lights under hedges and marble statues.

  Sounds of moving feet pushed Aisha out of her stupor. She turned to see a few men in black shirts and trousers pull out large trays of food and carry them inside the wooden doors of the bungalow into a bright foyer. Thinking quick, Aisha took out some tissues stuffed in her pockets. Using them, she grabbed a clipboard with some invoices that lay on the floor of the truck.

  Her hands were not the steadiest as Aisha stepped inside and went past the foyer. A chandelier of small uneven lights hanging from thin silver-colored pipes spanned nearly half of the ceiling. Masculine furniture—mostly browns and grays with patches of red—creat
ed a striking contrast.

  “What is this place?” All Aisha saw were people in uniforms. She took the hallway on her right and went past a few rooms that were beautifully adorned yet empty. Where is everyone? Aisha came back to the carved staircase near the foyer.

  “Who are you?” A male voice startled her.

  Aisha turned and saw a young man in a tight T-shirt and jeans.

  Muffin top! The thought made her realize that she had missed her lunch and it was close to dinner time.

  “You don’t speak English?” The man asked, hitching his jeans up on the side.

  “I’m with the catering. I heard that models . . .”

  Shit! Why did I say models?

  Aisha was sure the man would grab her by the neck and throw her out.

  The man’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. “Models, eh? Everyone wants to see the models. But if I show you the models, what will you show me?”

  Aisha was too jaded by her years of work in the media. She had fielded several indecent proposals with the same ease that she put down flies with rolled-up newspaper. “What would you like to see?” she fought a yawn.

  The sound of soft footfalls made them turn. Aisha saw a tall man dressed in all black come down the stairs. He was lean, and his face was grim. Aisha could only stare. His presence caused a sea of change in the demeanor of the young pervert next to her.

  “Do you need something, Kabir?”

  Kabir, the killer?

  Aisha took a few steps away, her eyes enormous. This is him?

  Aisha was expecting a man in his fifties with a flabby gut, balding scalp, beady eyes, and bad body odor. In Aisha’s imaginary Dummy Killer 101, killers had terrible body odor. However, Kabir was nothing like she had imagined.

  Kabir Rana was tall—easily topped six feet. His body was lean with broad shoulders and slim hips. He walked with casual grace, and when he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, he crowned Aisha by nearly a foot. His hair was dark and gleamed under the light with flecks of gray at the sides. His forehead was wide, his nose straight. He had chiseled cheekbones and a thin but bow-shaped mouth.