Partners in Crime, page 2
“Love you.”
“I love you, too.” Mira answered the other line, changing her tone so she sounded less like a single Pringle and more like a certified professional who could be trusted with financial data. “This is Amira Patel. Can I help you?”
There was a pause on the other end, and then a young woman spoke. “I’m looking for Mira Chaudhary?”
Mira stiffened, forgetting all about the footnote she’d just been dumped by and her dismal love life.
Mira Chaudhary.
There was a name she hadn’t heard in a while. It was a name that filled her with dread and anxiety and memories she didn’t want. “Can I ask who’s calling?”
“My name’s Aparna, I’m calling from Ambedkar Law.”
“And what is this regarding?” Her tone wasn’t well modulated now, it was sharp. She often dealt with law firms through her work, but none of them knew the name she’d left behind when she’d fled her family and Nevada at eighteen.
The woman paused, and her tone grew more somber. “This is regarding Rhea Chaudhary’s estate. Is this Mira Chaudhary?”
Mira placed the phone on her lap and pressed her hands to her warm cheeks. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I apologize for taking so long to reach you, but there was some mix-up, and it took me time to track you down. We’re so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she replied automatically. “How did you find me?”
Aparna’s voice turned wry. “I have excellent investigative skills.”
She must. Mira hadn’t gone hard underground when she’d left home, but she’d been fairly determined to get away from her dad.
Aparna continued to speak. “We’d like to speak with you about your aunt’s estate. I can set up a video conference with her attorney at your convenience.”
A video conference where she stared at some man recite her aunt’s last wishes through a screen in her echoing apartment?
She squinted at her dashboard. She had a full tank and the rest of this sunny Friday off. “I’m in Los Angeles. Where are you? I can come to your office today, if her attorney has some free time.” It might prick her feelings of grief, but dealing with her aunt’s estate would be productive, at least.
And it might make her feel like she was doing something for the woman, assuaging some of her guilt. That might be nice.
“Certainly. We’ll fit you in if you can come before four. We’re in Artesia.” The woman rattled off an address, which Mira input into her phone—Artesia was far by Los Angeles standards, but Mira was no stranger to distance. “Thank you. I’ll see you in about an hour.”
Before leaving the parking garage, she flipped her mirror down and checked her reflection. Her hair was neatly twisted up and there wasn’t a strand out of place. No wrinkles dared to mar her clothes. Her lipstick was still within the lines of her lips, though she’d eaten two courses of internationally acclaimed food.
She closed her eyes for a second. In her mind, she visualized each of her emotions. Sadness, regret, loneliness, fear. They were bundles of throbbing pain wrapped in spikes. Careful of the spikes, she took each one and placed it in a jar, then stuck those jars on a high shelf, securing them in place. When she opened her eyes again, her brain was calm, ready to function. Hopefully, those feelings could stay up there long enough for her to settle her aunt’s affairs properly.
Or forever. Forever would be extremely convenient as well.
Chapter Two
I’d like to buy you a house as a wedding present.”
His attention finally caught on this otherwise mundane phone call, Naveen Desai rubbed the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his grandfather’s chair. Never mind that the old man hadn’t sat here in months now. It would always be his grandfather’s chair, just as this remained his grandfather’s scarred desk, and the sign on the door still said Ravi Ambedkar and Associates.
He fixed his phone where it was propped up on a set of legal books, so he could better see his mother’s face. “A house, eh?”
His mother made an agreeable noise. She was backlit by the massive window in her high-rise office, which offered an impressive view of San Francisco. Her hair was loose, the streaks of gray at her temple framing her elegant face. “Yes.”
“Not a condo,” he clarified. “No shared walls, no HOA.”
“A whole house.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where will the house be? We’re talking here in Artesia or Hollywood Hills or Malibu . . . ? Location makes a big difference in SoCal.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Can it have a pool?”
“Of course.”
“Four bedrooms might be nice.”
“You need some room to grow.”
“And are you going to throw in the bride, or do I have to find her myself?”
She pursed her lips. They were painted the same nude shade she’d worn since he was a kid. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”
“A little.” He slid over a stack of files. There was always a stack of files. His grandfather was a jack-of-all-trades kind of attorney, so on any given day, Naveen had to wrangle a kid’s immigration status, mediate squabbling couples over prenups written on napkins, or dispense precious jewelry to sobbing heirs. It was, at least, way less boring than his former Big Law job at Miller-Lane. And despite the volume way less likely to lead to him becoming a functioning alcoholic.
His mother folded her arms over her chest. Her blunt, perfectly manicured nails tapped on her arm. “Naveen. I have about had it with you.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m kind of busy right now. Are hypothetical wedding presents the only reason you called?” He flipped open a folder.
“You’re busy doing what? Driving yourself to exhaustion in exchange for being paid in biryani?”
He made a concentrated effort not to look at the minifridge in the corner. His grandfather had always had one in here. Naveen had only realized when he’d taken over the practice last year that the fridge was a necessity when you had a number of clients who brought food as payment. “You’re the one who’s always telling me to eat less takeout. I never have to worry about a home-cooked dinner.”
“If you had a wife, you could have home-cooked meals at home.”
Smooth, that was his mom. “That’s rather sexist, Mom. Don’t you want me to have a nice career girl? How’s she going to come home from her nine-to-five and cook for us?”
“I’m not saying she would cook. You didn’t ever see me cooking for your father, did you? No, but I managed the chef.”
His smile was reluctant. While his father was alive, his mom had played the role of dutiful housewife, sitting at home with her Art History degree gathering dust. After his dad had died six years ago, his paternal uncles had quickly realized Shweta had a keen business mind and she’d stepped neatly into her late husband’s shoes at the family hotel conglomerate. “I don’t need a chef, and I don’t need a wife. Don’t worry about me.”
His mother gave a loud, gusty sigh. “What did you do last weekend, Naveen?”
“I worked. I had three hearings this week.”
“And what are you doing this weekend?”
“I’m working.”
“And next weekend?”
“I see your point. But I’m fine. I find time for hobbies in between the work.” I just don’t want to tell you about those hobbies, because then you’ll really get worried about me. “We’re at a busy time right now at the office.”
“Oh, I know all about that.” Her chin jutted forward. “Your grandfather used to be this busy. The office always came first.”
Naveen tried to think of his next words carefully, aware that his mom’s relationship with his grandfather was a landmine of unsaid words and resentment. Ravi had been a distant father, and he’d never quite come around on the man his daughter had married. Naveen’s grandma had kept the peace between everyone, but after she and his dad died, Ravi and Shweta had gotten entrenched in their bitterness. “I’m not him, and it’s not like I have a ton of responsibilities I’m neglecting.”
“You’re neglecting your future!”
He’d walked right into that. “Relax, Mom.”
“How am I supposed to relax? You’re hiding in that dismal office, you spend most of your spare time taking care of your grandfather, and you have no marriage prospects on the horizon. What am I supposed to tell my friends when they ask me about you?”
Naveen picked up the will he was supposed to be reading. “Who cares what they think?”
She shook her head, her hair swinging. “You don’t care because you don’t live here, Naveen. I do.”
He paused. His mother lived in a weird bubble, a Bay Area suburb that was populated by rich and powerful South Asian families, including his own aunts and uncles. Naveen’s mom was powerful, but the gossips could be vicious. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said quietly. “I understand. You can tell them I’m making my own way in the world as a solo practitioner instead of killing myself to make someone else rich at that big law firm, and that I’m a good grandson who lovingly cares for your father—”
The door to his office was flung open without a knock. “I resent being referred to like I’m some invalid,” his grandfather announced, in his big, booming voice.
“I didn’t say that,” Naveen said calmly.
His mother rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t see her dad. “Not now, Baba.” His mother’s tone was impatient with her dad, but that was nothing new.
“Yes, now, if you’re talking about me.” Ajoba’s wheelchair whirred as he entered the cramped office. The elder man’s hair had been carefully combed, and his suit was sharp, though big on his skinny frame. His shoulders were stooped, but Ravi Ambedkar’s eyes were nearly as sharp as they had been when he’d hung his shingle out to practice law in this town, almost sixty years prior.
Naveen had always had a connection with his gruff grandfather. It had been Ravi who had coached him into law school, Ravi who had consoled him over his failed engagement, Ravi who had showed up at his doorstep nineteen months ago and bluntly told him that his drinking was out of control, and Ravi who had arranged for his rehab.
So it wasn’t a big deal for Naveen to move here to take over his grandfather’s office after his Parkinson’s diagnosis. The man had saved his life. Naveen could at least try to save the man’s legacy.
“Not everything is about you,” Shweta said, with exasperation. “I’m concerned for my youngest son, and the fact that he’s single and will be alone forever in the middle of nowhere.”
Ouch. “This isn’t the middle of nowhere. I’m in Los Angeles County, Mom.” Reluctantly, Naveen turned the phone so his mother and grandfather could see each other.
Ravi crossed his arms over his chest. “You ready for a bride now, Naveen? I can find you ten girls. Ten girls for every day of the week. You can interview them here.”
His grandfather wasn’t exaggerating. This office had been one of the first buildings on Pioneer Boulevard, a self-proclaimed Little India, and his grandpa had scratched everyone’s back in this community. If any South Asians nearby had marriageable daughters, they’d send them immediately once they found out that Naveen was on the market.
They wouldn’t be coming for him, though. They’d barely care who he was, as a person. He’d be Ravi Ambedkar’s grandson, as he was Shweta Desai’s son up north.
Or Kiran’s little brother.
Nope. At the very least, most people knew not to say his brother’s name around him anymore.
“He’s not hiring a secretary, he’s looking for a wife,” his mother snapped. “It’s quality, not quantity. Son, send me your current headshot and I’ll spread the word. You’re tall, you will have no problem.”
That assurance was more for her than him. His slightly wild past and previous far too scandalous failed engagement did hamstring him a little in the upper-crust fishbowl his mom swam in. “I’m good, thank you for both your offers.”
“Hema is eager to assist in any way she can,” his mother said.
Naveen sat back, eager to put physical distance between that idea and him. “Um, no. I definitely do not want Hema Auntie’s help.”
“She has a hundred percent success rate!”
His grandfather guffawed. “That friend of yours has failed twice with Naveen already.”
“An eventual hundred percent success rate,” his mother corrected herself.
“She never matched Naveen, so it’s at least ninety-nine percent.”
“She matched Payal.” His mother blinked, like she knew she’d uttered a name she wasn’t supposed to.
Funny how Payal’s name didn’t hurt like it used to, though. That was good. Naveen opened his mouth, but no one cared what he had to say.
“How many women is she going to bring to reject Naveen on this round?”
Naveen rolled his eyes up, to stare at the ceiling. He’d developed a thick skin early with his grandfather.
His mom had not. She gasped. “Don’t be rude to my son.”
“I’m not being rude, I’m being honest. The boy has two failed engagements under his belt already, and he’s barely in his midthirties. He needs to get it right this time or people are going to start to wonder if it’s him.”
“Technically it’s one failed engagement,” he murmured, though no one was listening to him. He’d allowed his mother’s friend and neighbor exactly two chances during a moment of weakness a few years ago, and only because he’d grown up listening to Hema Auntie’s glowing success stories. His first match had bolted for reasons he still didn’t understand. The second had jilted him.
Neither had made him believe in Hema’s hype.
“There are plenty of girls who will overlook Naveen’s past once we explain the circumstances.”
His grandfather opened his mouth, but Naveen cut him off, certain he was about to say something incendiary. “Actually, good news! I have a date tonight.”
As expected, that shut both his elders up. His grandfather blotted his forehead with his ever-present embroidered handkerchief. His hand was shakier than usual, which caused Naveen some concern. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Naveen snapped. “I am quite capable of meeting women on my own.”
“Well.” Shweta paused. “Tell us about her.”
“Not much to tell.”
His mom’s dark eyes narrowed, and she fiddled with the cuff of her blazer. “How old is she?”
“She’s about my age.”
“Job?”
“A lawyer as well.”
“Local?” his grandfather asked hopefully. “I might know her family.”
“Nope.”
His mother steepled her hands under her chin. “How did you meet?”
Naveen shrugged. “An app.”
“These dating app schmaps are not serious,” his grandfather mused. “You’re not taking her to one of your escape room things, are you?”
Naveen’s ears grew red. He’d mentioned to his grandfather one time that he enjoyed escape rooms, and then had to spend an hour explaining what an escape room was. The man couldn’t resist using every opportunity to tease him about it. “No.”
“What on earth is an escape room?”
“Shweta, listen.” Ravi sat forward in his chair. “The boy asks to be locked up in a room.”
Shweta’s eyebrows flew up, right to her hairline. “Oh no. Jana’s son got into something like that.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s perverse.”
He rubbed his temples. “It’s not something weird, Mom.”
“My friends were right, I should have made sure you had a strong man around after your father died to raise you well.”
“Dad died when I was twenty-eight,” he said, at the same time as Ravi exclaimed, “He had me!”
“If it’s an addiction, we can discuss it, Naveen. You don’t need to struggle like you did last time.”
Naveen knew that he was incredibly lucky to have family who prioritized and cared about his mental health. He had many a friend whose immigrant parents and grandparents didn’t check in with them as often.
Still, they were so clumsy about it. “It’s not an addiction, and it’s not anything to worry about. It’s a game. You use clues to figure out puzzles and eventually how to get out of a locked room. Usually it’s themed. Like a scavenger hunt. I went after rehab with a guy I became friends with there, Alan, and we’ve gone a couple times.”
More than a couple times, but they didn’t need to know that. There would only be more teasing and worrying.
His mother pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh. Okay. A game.”
“He pays good money for this.”
Shweta dismissed her father. “He won’t have time for such silly hobbies once he’s a husband and father. Back to this date.”
Right. Your fictional date. “Why are you grilling me like you think I’m lying about her?”
“Because I can tell when you’re lying, and I think you are.”
Fair, because he was.
Before he could speak, his grandfather jumped to his rescue. “Leave the boy alone, Shweta. Let him have his date.”
His mother subsided. “Very well. I will still buy you a house if you get married without my help, you know.”
Ajoba rolled his eyes and wheeled his way to the fridge. “You’re bribing the boy, now, Shweta? Is that how they do it in your husband’s family?”
Naveen tensed. “Ajoba. That’s my family, too.” He might have issues with individual members of his family nowadays, but he still loved his late father.
His grandfather had the grace to look shamefaced. “Of course, of course. You know what I meant.”
Most parents would love their kids to marry wealthy, but Ravi came from more humble beginnings and he’d been suspicious of the Desais from the minute Shweta had eloped with his dad. Not even his daughter’s happiness with the man had changed his mind.
And they had been happy. They’d been so nauseatingly in love—well, nauseating for their sons—that it may have given Naveen unrealistic expectations of how marriage worked. Which was probably one of the many reasons he was still single.
