Ponytail turned from a self-absorbed, driven yuppie into something resembling a human. The look on his face was very close to concern.
“Hey, sorry,” he said. “Hope it’s not serious.”
“That’s for his father to decide,” said Jinnah, and breezed past him and into the house.
The place was crawling with workers trying to put the finishing touches on the interior without enough time or materials. The foreman, a short, broad Sikh wearing a hairnet under his chin that barely contained his wild beard, hardly looked up when Jinnah asked where Sadhu Gill was. He jabbed an impatient thumb over his shoulder and cursed foully as he tried to get his air nailer unjammed. Sadhu was on his knees when Jinnah found him, fiddling with a corner join in the living room, a chisel in hand. He was a handsome Sikh man in his thirties, his black work turban gilded by sawdust. As he looked up, bright, white teeth shone out, framed by his dark beard.
Jinnah greeted him in Punjabi. “Sadhu Gill? My name is Hakeem Jinnah. It’s about Andy.”
Sadhu’s smile disappeared and he looked suddenly older, like a beaten prizefighter struggling up from his knees in the tenth round. His dusted himself off wearily.
“Are you from social services or the police?” Sadhu replied in Punjabi.
Jinnah had thought carefully about how to open this encounter. He assumed Sadhu would be more willing to speak to someone presenting himself as a friend rather than an authority figure. But he had to be careful — not too familiar, not too friendly, or the man would grow suspicious. All Jinnah needed was a few questions answered to make the connection. He wasn’t about to blow it by being over-anxious.
“Neither,” he replied smoothly. “I’m a friend of Ram Puri’s. He thought I should talk to you a bit about the boy. Since my own son wants to emulate his behaviour.”
Sadhu looked at Jinnah, face haggard. “Now what has he been up to?” he said, dark clouds swirling about his face.
“I assure you, your son is blameless in this,” said Jinnah, trying to keep the man calm. “It’s just that my boy Saleem wants to go to a rave tonight. He said Andy goes to them and has told him they are harmless.”
“Harmless?” Sadhu cried. “There is no such thing as a harmless rave, Mr. Jinnah.”
“There are drugs, hmm?”
“It is not about drugs. It’s about the people he has met there. Immoral people. Staying up all night. Dropping out of school. After a few of these raves, he no longer goes to temple.”
Jinnah saw an opening and decided to risk it. “Immoral people, you say?” he said offhandedly. “Tell me, was one of them named Thad Golway, by any chance?”
Jinnah searched Sadhu’s face for any sign of suspicion. But the man was too worked up about his son.
“No. I do not talk to him about their names. They are not Sikhs, mostly. Some are Indian, some Asian, a few whites. They do not miss a rave. Not one.”
Jinnah cursed inwardly. It didn’t rule a connection out, but it did mean more digging. He tried another tack.
“Forgive me, Mr. Gill, but it sounds like you and your son have not been on speaking terms lately. Sometimes it helps if another adult, someone with a different perspective could talk to the boy, hmm? I would be happy to do this for you — for us both.”
Jinnah held his breath. For a moment, he thought he had gone too far, for the look of anger in Sadhu’s eyes sent a chill through his being. Then the eyes softened from anger to anguish, and tears started around the rims.
“I thank you for your offer, Mr. Jinnah, but it is not possible,” said Sadhu, his voice thick, barely controlled. “The boy is gone. He left a week ago with a young woman. I don’t know if he’s coming back.”
The words hit Jinnah square in the forehead, like a cricket ball. A dozen different possibilities sprang to mind. Was Andy one of Thad’s missing friends? A young woman? Could that be the one who had found Thad’s corpse?
“A young woman, you say, Mr. Gill — his girlfriend?” he asked quickly.
Sadhu shook his head and wiped his eyes with his dirty sleeve. “No. She’s older than he — almost like a mother, he says,” Sadhu blushed at the words. “Her name I know: Jassy Singh.”
That name rang a faint bell in Jinnah’s extensive memory bank. Jassy Singh … where had he heard of her? It was a common enough name in the community. There might be no connection at all. Jinnah realized with a start that Sadhu was looking at him, trembling, eyes wide in appeal.
“I have lost my son, Mr. Jinnah. Help me get him back. Please.”
Jinnah didn’t know what to say. Of course he wanted to find Sadhu’s son. But it had never occurred to him that he would take his offer of being an intermediary seriously. Holy shit! The man’s delusional. Perhaps I should just give him a recording of my latest argument with Saleem. That ought to cure him. But he found himself shaking Sadhu’s hand and clapping him on the shoulder and before he could stop himself, he uttered the words that would send him down the demon path.
“Of course I will, Sadhu. I will do everything I can.”
* * *
Jinnah kicked himself all the way home from Surrey. How could he be so stupid? What the hell was he — a crime reporter, for God’s sake — doing getting mixed up in family counselling? He couldn’t even relate to his own son, let alone somebody else’s! And he was at a dead end. No Andy Gill to question. No definite link to Thad Golway. Sonofabitch. Jinnah glanced at the clock glowing softly blue on the dashboard. Nearly ten o’clock. It was getting late and he was tired. But a plan was slowly forming in his mind, a plan that, when it leapt out at him fully formed, caused him to sail through a red light at First Avenue.
“No, fuck it. I’m going to bed,” he growled at the plan.
The plan would not take no for an answer and by the time Jinnah threw open the door to the Jinnah-mahal, his obsessive brain was already laying out the precise timing and cover stories that would be needed to execute it. It took him a moment to register how quiet the house was.
“Saleem! Manjit!” he bellowed.
No answer. Jinnah took the stairs up to Saleem’s bedroom two at a time, and immediately regretted it. He paused, wheezing, on the upper landing for a moment. Asthma again. Sonofabitch. He forced himself to wait until his breath returned. He wasn’t going to face Saleem without sufficient lung power. A quick blast of medication from his puffer helped and, feeling restored, he entered Saleem’s room without knocking.
“Hey!” cried Saleem.
Jinnah paused in the doorway. His son was on his computer, hands covering the screen. Jinnah could see just enough of the display to conclude Saleem was on one of his chat groups. Probably complaining about what a tight-ass his Dad was. Well, he hasn’t seen anything yet.
“Your mother’s at work already, is she?” Jinnah said, trying to sound pleasant.
“Yeah. Look, Dad, I don’t need another lecture —”
“You’re not getting one,” said Jinnah softly.
