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“So how did you swing that, eh?” said Nisha to herself, getting out of her car.
But she already knew the answer. In Mumbai any rule could be broken—as long as you had the right friends. A quick Google search had shown her what Devika Gulati looked like. And with those looks and that figure, she probably had no difficulty making friends.
Catty, Nisha, she thought. Catty. (But true.)
Not just one of Mumbai’s most exclusive areas, Walkeshwar was also surprisingly quiet. The governor lived here. So did several Mumbai billionaires. Even so, what little street noise there was disappeared as Nisha stepped into the serene inner sanctum of Yoga Sutra.
In the reception area, a large statue of Buddha had been adorned with flowers and Japanese incense, while faint strains of eastern meditative chants created a soothing vibe. Through tastefully frosted glass, Nisha could see the main studio, where women on yoga mats were making the traditional bridge pose. Urging them on, even more curvaceous in the flesh than she had been on Google Images, was Devika Gulati.
Nisha’s gaze traveled further. She’d been right about those amazing views.
“Devika’s class finishes in ten minutes,” smiled the receptionist. “I’ll inform her you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
She took a seat opposite a wood-paneled wall and studied autographed photographs of Devika with an assortment of celebrities—actors, musicians, authors, politicians, businessmen, and bureaucrats. Among the photographs were images of Lara Omprakash and Priyanka Talati. Reaching forward, Nisha picked up a Mumbai society magazine from a coffee table and began to flick through it, stopping when she came across a familiar face.
She almost didn’t recognize him without the expression of irritation on his face, and then it clicked. It was Aakash, “just Aakash,” brandishing a comb and a pair of scissors as though they were deadly weapons. According to the magazine he was Mumbai’s “Hot Shot Hair Guru,” with an “ever-expanding celebrity client list.”
So they’d fallen for it too, she thought, smiling. And then something occurred to her. Unless … what if he’d been lying to her and Santosh? What if he really did have a celebrity client list? And then she was dragged from her thoughts as the door to the main studio opened and yoga students began to leave.
Devika Gulati appeared. Seeing off the last of her pupils with a smile and clasped hands, she turned her attention to Nisha, and though her poise remained, the smile faded, and she became businesslike as she moved across reception to greet her guest. The two shook hands and Devika gave Nisha a deliberately appraising up-and-down look that ended with an almost imperceptible tilt of the nose, as though she … approved of Nisha.
“Sorry I kept you waiting,” Devika said politely, leading the way to a private office. She seemed to waft rather than move, Nisha noticed.
Devika settled into a patterned sofa that bore handwoven Hindu motifs on the cushions. She waved a hand at a slightly less comfortable-looking chair opposite and Nisha took it, suppressing a smile, knowing they were playing games here.
“So, how may I help you?” asked Devika. One arm was across the back of the sofa, and her legs were crossed at the knee. She was so … arranged.
“Mrs. Justice Anjana Lal,” began Nisha. “Were you with her on Sunday morning?”
“No. I visited her on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” replied Devika. “She performed her yoga routine independently on the remaining days of the week.”
“Could you please tell me where you were on Sunday morning?”
“That’s easy. I returned on Sunday evening from Bangalore where I had gone to conduct a health and wellness seminar for a spa,” replied Devika. “My secretary will be happy to share my travel itinerary and ticket copies with you.”
“Did you know Priyanka Talati and Lara Omprakash?” asked Nisha, taking notes on her smartphone.
“Lara was a regular. I had known her for many years,” replied Devika. “Priyanka was a newbie. I had been assigned by her music company to help her shape up for a music video that she was getting ready to shoot. It’s terrible what happened to both ladies,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“Where were you during the night that Priyanka Talati was killed?” asked Nisha. “Monday, between eleven p.m. and midnight?”
Devika stood, crossed to a desk and punched a number on the intercom. “Fiona, please check my diary and tell me what my schedule was on Monday evening,” she requested.
Within a few minutes the receptionist walked in with Devika’s diary. “You were attending the launch of the new spa at Hiranandani Gardens,” she said, leaving the diary with Devika and withdrawing.
“Ah, yes,” said Devika. “It was a dinner hosted by the owner of the Gordon Crest Hotel to celebrate the opening of their new spa. I am a consultant for the project so my presence was required.”
“Until what time were you there?”
“I left a little after midnight.”
“Did you go straight home?”
“No, I was with a friend and we stopped for a drink at the J. W. Marriott Hotel before he left me at my house.”
“May I know the name of your friend?” asked Nisha.
