Mister Jinnah Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
Читать онлайн книгу.
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 shook the massive paw Sanjit offered.
“You have Manjit to thank, not me. Now what’s so important?”
Sanjit sat down with a little groan and surveyed the table eagerly.
“I spy some homemade naan,” he observed. “Manjit makes the finest naan.”
“There’s chicken curry too, but you won’t find it hot enough,” said Jinnah, collapsing into his own chair. “Is food more important than business?’
Sanjit looked at Jinnah much the same way Hakeem himself looked at Sanderson when explaining what he considered an obvious point. His double chin wobbled.
“There is no profit in business discussed on an empty stomach,” said Sanjit, stroking his thin, black beard. “In breaking bread, we ensure success.”
Jinnah rolled his eyes and passed Sanjit the naan. His cousin-in-law resembled a bear and had the appetite of one. He helped himself to a little basmati rice. The state of his stomach would not allow him to consider the other culinary delights that his wife had prepared. Sanjit was not so handicapped and to ensure their discussion was fruitful, piled on the food. Jinnah rose and went over to the liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Black Dog Indian scotch and poured himself a healthy two fingers. Sanjit looked up from his meal and scowled.
“You shouldn’t pollute yourself like that Hakeem,” he scolded. “Remember what your Prophet has said.”
Jinnah bristled. Sanjit was a much more devout Sikh than Jinnah was an observant Ismali. He took prohibitions against drinking very seriously. But this was Jinnah’s house and Sanjit would have to observe Jinnah’s rules, not Mohammed’s or Guru Nanak’s. He sat down and sipped his drink.
“I am perfectly aware that the Prophet says wine is the blood of Shaitan,” he said. “Fortunately, the Quran is silent on the question of scotch. Can I pour you one, cousin?”
Sanjit’s face turned darker still and he attacked his chicken and mango chutney with devout fervor. Jinnah nursed his drink and watched. There could be no doubt Sanjit was more nervous than usual, but there was no hope of getting to the root cause of his anxiety until he was ready to talk. The rest of the meal progressed in silence. Sated at last, Sanjit wiped his mouth and hands off with his serviette.
“An excellent repast,” he enthused. “Cooking of the highest quality.”
“Yes,” said Jinnah sourly. “It looked good from here.”
Sanjit pushed his plate away and put his elbows on the table. Here it comes, thought Jinnah.
“Hakeem, I am worried about our cash flow,” he said.
“Jesus Christ!” swore Jinnah. “The company hasn’t even been listed on the CDNX yet, Sanjit! The only cash flow we have is out.”
“I know, I know, Hakeem. But there have been so many expenses.”
Sanjit’s hands were on his napkin, wringing it slowly into tighter and tighter knots, mirroring the process that was swiftly accelerating in Jinnah’s intestines.
“Sanjit, listen — we have enough cash reserves, hmm? The money I gave you from the sale of my other house? Your savings?