But there was no way Inspector Vinod could be sure that Dick Carr had departed to an afterworld where the angels sang, the harps played even outside elevators and subprime mortgages never depreciated in value. He had to make sure that Dick Carr was dead - and not just clinically dead, but really, really dead. Brain dead.

Just a few weeks ago, Inspector Vinod was involved in a shootout with the dreaded Karim Lala, notorious gangster and right hand man of the Intenrational Terrorist, Dawood Ibrahim. Outnumbered heavily by a ratio of at least a hundred to one, Lala had been unable to convert his vastly superior ammunition to any discerible advantage. The AK 47 had bowed before the collective might of a hundred revolvers.

Inspector Vinod sipped deeply on the whiskey. He grimaced with satisfaction at its bitter taste. He seated his iPod on the Bose dock that had come along with the apartment. Inspector Vinod scrolled through a playlist and selected Herbie Hancock.

The cold breeze that came in through the window gave him a slight shiver. He sipped on the whiskey and found that delivered a slight but right amount of warmth. His found that his senses were pleasantly stimulated. The moment was right for jazz.

Even as the protestor was swallowed up by a tent, Inspector Vinod began to walk away from the Park. First Evelyn and now this protestor. Inspector Vinod wasn’t entirely sure that he was ready to live in a world charged with such heightened political opinions.

Yes, there was always a place for Che and his fighting spirit.

But Inspector Vinod had noticed what the protestor had done as soon as the Detective Crisafi had grabbed him. He had curled his arms protectively around his iPad. Inspector Vinod couldn’t help think that Che would have done something different.

Inspector Vinod resolved never to discuss this issue with Evelyn again. He had broken up an arranged marriage with the daughter of a close family friend in Bombay, and had taken the next flight to New York just so that he could be with Evelyn.

Relationships were hard enough between two people. Why get the rest of the world involved and complicate matters even further? Inspector Vinod could not afford to play the role of an idealistic young man any more. He was at that age when a man needed to focus on a few select friends, immediate family members and bloody murder.

On the fifth day of the protests, there was a sword. It was actually a rod of heavy steel, but he couldn’t help think of a sword as he saw the sun glint on its surface. He marveled at the graceful arc it made through the air. It cut through the autumn chill and the cacophony of the drum beats and came at a blinding velocity towards him.

As it hit him on the head, he visualized the changes that would take place within his body over the next few minutes. Within the rigid confines of his skull, a growing swelling would compress his brain like a fat man pressing against an airbag of a small, eco-friendly sedan. The coroner would conjecture that subdural hematoma was the probable cause of death – a diagnosis that would be confirmed by the dilated pupil in his right eye. And all along, the drumming would continue, as he continued his march into the carriage of Yama, the God of Death.

But the drumming subsided. He heard the soft whirring of the air conditioner. His mind latched on to the beeping of the EKG that delivered assurances of life at a regular frequency. As his turbulent thoughts settled one by one, he was able to recollect what had happened in the aftermath of that fateful murder on Wall Street….

In the Fall of 2011, the infamous banker Dick Carr is found dead in his Wall Street apartment. Is his untimely death a suicide, the ultimate admission of repentance and guilt? Or is it an act of cold blooded murder committed by one of the angry Occupy Wall Street protesters?

The truth shall prevail. For Inspector Vinod with his keen eye for blood, forensics, but most importantly, a stupendous knowledge of world history, is hot on the murderer's trail.