“I never said that!”
“You mean you never meant to admit it.”
Graham was by now breathing very heavily into the receiver.
“Hakeem, we have reasons for not going public on this.”
“There are usually two reasons, Sergeant Graham,” said Jinnah affably. “One is that you know who it is and you don’t want to make him run. The other is you don’t have a clue and in that case, you need my help.”
There was a longish pause, punctuated by little snorts from Graham. Jinnah looked at the clock. It was pushing deadline.
“Anything else?” he asked. “I’m a busy man, Sarge.”
“Jinnah, if you print this, I will launch a complaint with the B.C. Press Council. I will denounce you at the morning press conference. I will —”
“Do all the things you usually do or threaten to do when you are angry,” Jinnah cut him off. “Then when you cool down, you’ll see that I’m right and we’ll work together as usual.”
“Not this time.”
“Listen, Sarge, you know you can’t rule the possibility out.”
“You know damn well that we can’t rule out space aliens, a naked matador from Bolivia or your own self without checking it out thoroughly, so don’t give me that bullshit!” cried Graham. “If this guy walks —”
“So you’re telling me printing this will jeopardize the investigation?” said Jinnah, cutting to the bottom line.
There was an even longer pause. Jinnah sat, feet up on the desk, fingertips together, flexing his hands slightly.
“It wouldn’t be helpful —” Graham admitted.
“In other words, no, not really,” Jinnah interrupted him. “Great, fine. Thanks for the confirmation then, Sarge.”
Jinnah hung up. Five seconds later, the phone rang and Jinnah didn’t need the call display to tell him who it was. He ignored it and wrote his stories. He filed and went for a cigarette, looking over the lights of the city from the balcony’s third-floor vantage point. Somewhere out there was Sam Schuster’s killer. Likely not a professional and soon to be apprehended. Certainly, Graham had let it be known they were close to picking someone up. At least they knew who he was. And Hakeem Jinnah, not that bastard Grant, would have the line story, complete with photographs, on the front page of the paper tomorrow. Everyone would be chasing his stuff. It made Jinnah feel good.
When he went back down to the newsroom to check in with Perma-Frost, the good feeling vanished. Frost had Jinnah’s prose up on his screen.
“Hakeem,” he said. “This guy Chan saw: how can you call him a suspect?”
“What do you mean, Frost?” asked Jinnah, slightly nervous inside but betraying nothing in his outward manner.
“There’s nothing to connect him to the murder. He could have been a bum looking for bottles.”
“Come on, for God’s sake!” cried Jinnah. “You have Chan’s quote about seeing the face of a killer.”
“Only he didn’t see his face. What makes him a suspect?”
Jinnah closed his eyes and tilted his head heavenwards. Why was he always having to explain these things?
“Police suspect he may have something to do with it,” he replied. “That makes him a suspect.”
Perma-Frost rolled his own blue eyes and hit the send button. He had long ago learned that, if Blacklock didn’t specifically ask for a lawyer to read Jinnah’s copy, it was best to leave well enough alone and not ask too many questions.
“Don’t leave the country, okay Hakeem?” he said, dismissing the reporter.
“I don’t know, Peter,” beamed Jinnah. “I may catch the Orient Love Express out of town. All aboard!”
Jinnah made his way down to the company parkade and unlocked his van. It was his pride and joy — a huge customized Ford. Jinnah was afraid of flying and drove everywhere he could. He had told Sanderson (and Crystal the receptionist) that it had a heated waterbed in the back, but that was a lie. It did have a fridge and sink and a few other accoutrements, but the custom option Jinnah was most proud of was the satellite up-link and navigation system. Using this expensive computer hardware, he could punch in his co-ordinates and find out where he was anywhere in North America — in Los Angeles, sometimes down to the alleyway. Not that Jinnah needed any help finding his way around Vancouver or to his own house, for that matter. He had built-in radar for that. Jinnah simply liked to impress people and he got a kick out of following the lights on the map and listening to the computer voice messages that reminded him “you should be in the left-hand lane” or “according to your pre-set course, you should turn right in two blocks.” Jinnah hummed to himself as he wheeled the satellite-guided Love Machine through the light, early evening traffic. Soon he would be home in the bosom of his own family. It had been a challenging day, but in the end, he had triumphed. The rest of it could be spent relaxing with his wife Manjit and his son, Hussein. Jinnah almost relaxed.
Until he saw the car parked in the driveway of his modest East Vancouver home. It was an old, battered, gold-coloured Buick, not the sort of car that one would expect the president of a multi-national corporation to be driving. Nevertheless, it was all his cousin-in-law Sanjit could afford. Jinnah grew tense and cursed himself for not having made time to call him from the office. If he had been at the Jinnah residence for any time, he had already filled his wife’s head with all sorts of nonsense about what could go wrong here and how this will go wrong there. Sanjit was actually Manjit’s cousin, not Jinnah’s, and like Manjit, Sanjit was a Sikh. Like Hakeem, he was a born worrier. But Jinnah at least was an optimist. It was with a sinking feeling of leisure lost that Jinnah opened the door to his house.
“Hello,” he called without enthusiasm.
Manjit met him in the hall. Her jet-black hair was piled high on her head and she wore a blue, sequined scarf around her shoulders, setting off the creamy white of her sari. Jinnah smiled, a sense of relief and security flooding over him. He looked into his wife’s eyes and, not for the first time, wondered how she put up with him.
“Sanjit is here,” she said sweetly. “I have invited him for dinner.”
All sense of well-being and equanimity vanished from within Jinnah’s breast. He now wondered why he had put up with his wife’s kind-heartedness for so long. It was fine when it was focused on him, but Manjit had this tendency to be nice to everyone. It was a flaw in her character that Jinnah had been unable to alter.
“What?” he cried. “How long has he been here?”
“About two hours,” said Manjit, her smooth clear face untroubled. “He wants to discuss business with you.”
“Son of a bitch,” muttered Jinnah, putting on his slippers.
“I made some naan to go with the chicken,” said Manjit, taking his coat and hanging it up neatly. “Don’t worry — the curry’s not too spicy.”
“I won’t enjoy it anyway,” grunted Jinnah. “Sanjit has a way of spoiling meals.”
“No worse than a husband who is often two hours late for dinner himself,” said Manjit brightly. “Hussein and I have already eaten, so we won’t disturb you.”
“How very thoughtful, darling,” muttered Jinnah.
In the dining room at the head of the long table sat Sanjit, who was as unlike Jinnah physically as you could get. Sanjit rose heavily to his feet, hefting his bulk up with an effort.
“Hakeem, I have been waiting,” he puffed, beads of sweat surmounting a broad and fleshy brow. “It is awfully kind of you to have me over for dinner.”
Jinnah