calender_icon.png 9 July, 2025 | 8:19 PM

The Shadow of the Palms

28-05-2025 12:00:00 AM

The sultry Goan night pressed against Inspector Vikram D’Souza like a damp cloth. The air was thick with the scent of salt and frangipani, and the distant thrum of waves crashing on Calangute Beach mingled with the pulse of late-night revelry. Vikram, a wiry man in his late thirties with sharp eyes and a permanent five o’clock shadow, leaned against the railing of a seaside shack, nursing a glass of feni. His informant, a jittery local fisherman named João, was late. That was never a good sign.

Vikram’s phone buzzed. A text from his sergeant, Meena: Body found. Anjuna Beach. Female, mid-20s. Looks bad. He downed the feni, its cashew burn grounding him, and headed for his jeep. João would have to wait.

The crime scene was a chaotic tableau under the moonlight. Anjuna’s rocky shore, usually a haven for trance parties and backpackers, was now cordoned off by flickering police tape. The body lay sprawled near a cluster of boulders, her sequined dress glinting like a cruel joke against the sand. Vikram crouched beside her, his flashlight revealing a cascade of dark hair and a face frozen in terror. A deep gash marred her throat, and her wrists bore rope burns. No ID, no purse—just a single silver bangle etched with a lotus flower.

“Tourist?” Meena asked, her voice steady despite the grim scene.

“Maybe,” Vikram muttered, scanning the surroundings. The tide was creeping in, threatening to erase evidence. “Get the forensics team here. And check for CCTV from nearby shacks.”

By dawn, the victim was identified: Priya Malhotra, 26, a Delhi-based travel influencer with a million followers on social media. Her last post, a sunset selfie from a beach party, was timestamped at 10 p.m. the previous night. Vikram’s gut churned. Priya’s polished online persona didn’t match the brutality of her death. This wasn’t random.

Back at the Panjim police station, Vikram and Meena sifted through leads. Priya had checked into a boutique guesthouse in Vagator three days earlier. Her social media was a curated dreamscape of Goan sunsets, cocktails, and yoga poses, but her direct messages told a darker story. One user, “ShadowPalms69,” had sent her cryptic warnings: Stop digging, or you’ll regret it. The last message, sent hours before her death, read: You were warned.

“Whoever this ShadowPalms is, they’re local,” Vikram said, rubbing his temples. “The account mentions places only a Goan would know—hidden coves, old Portuguese ruins.”

Meena nodded, already running a trace on the account. “No real name yet, but the IP’s linked to a cybercafe in Mapusa.”

Vikram’s next stop was the guesthouse, a pastel-colored villa nestled among coconut groves. The owner, a nervous woman named Clara, confirmed Priya had been asking questions about local land deals. “She was curious about the new resort project near Anjuna,” Clara said, twisting her dupatta. “Said she was working on a story, not just vacationing.”

A story. Vikram’s instincts flared. Goa’s coastline was a battleground for real estate tycoons, with shady deals often tied to political heavyweights. Priya’s questions might have stirred a hornet’s nest.

At the Mapusa cybercafe, a teenage clerk with a lip piercing recognized Priya’s photo. “Yeah, she came in two days ago, asking about some guy named Ravi Lobo. Said he was bad news. I told her to stay away—Lobo’s got connections, you know? Runs with the big dogs.”

Ravi Lobo. The name rang a bell. A small-time fixer turned real estate broker, Lobo was rumored to be a frontman for a powerful syndicate grabbing beachfront land. Vikram’s pulse quickened. If Priya had been digging into Lobo’s deals, she’d have made enemies fast.

Tracking Lobo wasn’t hard. He was holed up at a flashy club in Baga, surrounded by bodyguards and bottle service. Vikram, dressed in a faded kurta to blend in, watched from the bar as Lobo laughed too loudly, his gold chains glinting under neon lights. Confronting him here was risky, but Vikram needed answers.

He approached, flashing his badge. “Ravi Lobo? We need to talk about Priya Malhotra.”

Lobo’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes turned cold. “Never heard of her, Inspector. I’m just a businessman enjoying the night.”

“Business like land grabs? Or silencing nosy influencers?” Vikram pressed, leaning in.

Lobo’s bodyguards tensed, but he waved them off. “Careful, Inspector. Accusations like that can ruin a man’s reputation. Or yours.”

Back at the station, Meena had a breakthrough. ShadowPalms69’s account was linked to a burner phone, but a deleted post recovered from the server mentioned a meeting at Anjuna’s flea market the night Priya died. CCTV footage from a nearby shack showed Priya arguing with a man in a hooded jacket—too blurry to ID, but the lotus bangle on his wrist matched the one on Priya’s body.

Vikram’s mind raced. The bangle wasn’t hers—it was a calling card. He cross-checked Lobo’s known associates and found a match: Sanjay Pereira, a lowlife with a rap sheet for extortion. Pereira was spotted at the flea market that night, and his social media had a photo of him wearing a lotus bangle.

Vikram and Meena raided Pereira’s shack in Siolim at dawn. He tried to bolt, but Meena tackled him into a pile of fishing nets. Under interrogation, Pereira cracked like cheap glass. “It wasn’t my idea!” he sobbed. “Lobo paid me to scare her off. She was gonna expose his land scam—some politician’s involved. I didn’t mean to kill her, I swear! She fought back, and it… it got out of hand.”

Lobo was arrested that night, but Vikram knew the real puppet master—the politician—was still out there. Evidence was thin, and Goa’s elite had a way of slipping through the net. As he stood on Calangute Beach, watching the sun rise, João finally appeared, looking shaken.

“You’re late,” Vikram said.

João handed him a crumpled note. “Found this in my boat. Someone knows you’re digging, Inspector. Be careful.” The note read: The palms cast long shadows. Stop, or you’re next. Vikram crumpled it in his fist, his jaw set. This wasn’t over.