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Embassy Murder Incident
Evidence Files
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Chai & Chat
Enjoy Chapter 1 from the first Colonel Khan mystery. Read it here, then grab the formatted versions from BookFunnel to keep reading on your favorite device.
“What you need is a detective,” Sammy Gupta said, a smug grin on his face as he stirred his chai.
“A detective?” Imran Qazi shot back, whipping off a scarf damp with Chicago sleet. His hair was soaked, his mood foul, and his best friend’s cheerfulness was not helping. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Gupta ignored the question, leaning over the counter to yell for the cafe’s proprietor.
“Young man! Two cups of chai! And be quick about it!”
The silver-haired owner of the Chai & Chat Cafe, Yusuf Hamdani, stepped out from the kitchen, the door swinging behind him.
“Mr. Gupta,” he sighed. “You are nearing seventy. And I am sixty-six. Perhaps you can stop calling me ‘young man’?”
“Old habits, Hamdani!” Gupta chuckled. “Like Qazi’s ulcers — they never die.” He leaned back, grinning. Qazi dropped his head into his hands.
“Alright. Start from the beginning,” Gupta pressed. “On the phone you only mumbled something about a favor for your cousin.”
Many decades had passed since Imran Qazi and Sammy Gupta first crossed paths in a Chicago grocery store. Back home, a random border drawn by a departing Englishman would have kept them apart, not to mention their class and pedigree — one being the son of a textile magnate, the other the sole heir to a low ranking civil servant. But in America’s melting pot, those walls dissolved. Forty years on, they bickered like brothers: Qazi the worrier, Gupta the agent of chaos.
Hamdani dropped off their tea. Qazi muttered curses and began. “It was past eleven. I was almost asleep when that damned phone went off again—”
Gupta’s laughter cut him off. He pictured the ridiculous ringtone—bongos and clucking chickens—that Qazi’s daughter had set on her father’s phone. Qazi groaned, burying his face again. “You know she locked it with a password? Last week it blared in the middle of Friday prayers—the whole mosque stared. The Imam even pulled me aside afterward.”
He let Gupta’s laughter run its course, eyes narrowing in a sideways glance, before picking up the thread again.
The caller had been his cousin, Rayaz, calling from Arizona. He explained that his daughter, Rehana, had a marriage proposal from a family in Chicago that they were considering. But he needed help. Living across the country, Rayaz explained, would make vetting the family himself near impossible. Besides which, he explained, he couldn't dream of marrying his daughter to an ‘unknown’, and insisted Qazi ‘check the boy out’.
Gupta threw his hands in the air. “Tell me you put Farida on the phone with him right away?”
Qazi took a moment to respond.
"No," he said eventually. "She was downstairs watching her TV dramas, and I—” he faltered, eyes dropping, “I didn’t want to disturb her.”
Gupta barked a laugh, jabbing a finger in his friend's chest. “Disturb her? Please!” he exclaimed, tearing down Qazi’s flimsy excuse, “You two had a fight, didn’t you? I can see it all over your face!”
Qazi slumped. The truth tumbled out like water from a broken clay pot. A bitter argument had taken place between husband and wife the night before. The subject, his physician-prescribed–and completely bland—diet. Farida had caught her husband red-handed, wrist deep in the chili jar, sneaking spoonfuls of spice amid dollops of salt into the tasteless lentils she had prepared for his dinner. The fight had escalated. He had defied her, choosing to eat the fiery lentils and the resulting ulcer was now a live coal in his gut.
Gupta laughed so hard he slapped the table, drawing a glare from a nearby group of Aunties debating Bollywood star Shah Rukh Khan’s latest scandal. "You were clean bowled, brother. Your cousin knew Farida would shut him down in a second, so he went straight to you."
“It’s not funny,” Qazi said, his pout interrupted by a pained burp.
Gupta already knew what he had to do. He pulled out his phone and tapped out a message, the whoosh of the sent SMS from his phone a background score to Qazi admitting that not deferring to Farida was a mistake.
“Fine. I got outplayed,” Qazi conceded. “Now will you help me?”
"Well then,” said Gupta, “Are you going to ‘investigate’ and ‘check this boy out’?"
"I'm going to have to do something." replied Qazi, having no idea what he was going to do.
Gupta’s phone beeped. He checked the reply to the text he had just sent and grinned.
The nearby table of aunties had an order of samosas arrive, their golden crusts crackling under the tamarind chutney. Qazi eyed them mournfully, Farida’s wrath still burning his tongue.
“Two more cups of chai?” Hamdani asked the pair.
“Yes please,” Gupta said, glee in his eyes, “And some samosas with extra chutney for my buddy here.”
Qazi’s eyes burned holes in Gupta, hot enough to melt steel. A few minutes later their chai arrived, minus samosas. Hamdani knew the pair well.
Gupta picked up his cup and held it up, playfully.
"So what you’re telling me—" he said, breaking the stony silence, cocking his head to the side. “—is that you need a detective.”
"Oh come now, Sammy!" exclaimed Qazi loudly, "Stop being ridiculous!"
"How am I being ridiculous?" asked Gupta.
"I’m not hiring some Chicago gumshoe to stalk this boy! Besides—" Qazi said, quietly mumbling his real concern, “I don’t have money to spend on this type of thing.”
“Two textile factories and you’re still cheaper than a discount bin at a flea market,” Gupta said shaking his head, “I’ll have you know I’m not talking about just some random person here.”
“What then? An ex-cop who chases down cheating husbands? An overpriced flatfoot?”
“Not a flatfoot,” Gupta grinned, “A legend. Colonel Khan.”
Nearby, Yusuf Hamdani froze mid-pour, as if struck. “Khan?” he murmured, throat tight. “He’s not a man—he’s thunder and lightning.” The name alone summoned the memory of the Colonel’s inquisition the previous spring, when he had carefully dismantled Hamdani's lie about the weeks-old stale fryer oil in his kitchen. The cafe owner shuddered, left with the sensation of having stood trial before the entire Culinary Board of Justice once more.
"Who is this ‘Khan’?" Qazi demanded.
“Colonel Khan,” corrected Gupta with a twirl of his fingers, “Retired army intelligence, sharper than your wife’s tikka recipe. And…” he continued, tapping his phone and leaning back in his chair with smug satisfaction, “The legend just happens to owe me a favor… and he should be arriving right…” Gupta looked out the window, “…now.”
Just then, the cafe door chimed, a familiar melody that usually heralded the arrival of another caffeine-craving customer. But this time, the air crackled with a different energy.
A man entered — tall, iron-haired, a salt-and-pepper beard framing an immaculate upturned mustache, as sharply groomed as his attire. He was dressed impeccably, a tailored charcoal suit draping his lean frame, a crisp white shirt, peeking out from beneath a patterned silver waistcoat. A hint of paisley at his neck added a touch of color. He moved like a tiger, with a quiet confidence, his presence filling the space like a whispered command. The cafe seemed to fall silent. The chatter of cups momentarily ceased, as if the world itself was holding a breath. Khan’s polished black Oxfords and ebony cane tapped against the tile like a judge’s gavel. Even the aunties stopped mid-gossip. His eyes, the color of aged whiskey, swept across the room, taking in every detail with a quiet intensity. They settled on a familiar face, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths.
Sammy Gupta grinned. “Speak of the devil…”
Want more? Grab the formatted versions on BookFunnel:
Sample Chapter
Unlock Bonus Content
Exclusive stories, deleted scenes, and behind-the-scenes material from the world of Colonel Khan
All bonus content requires newsletter subscription
Embassy Murder Incident
Evidence Files
Investigation Notes
Chai & Chat
Enjoy Chapter 1 from the first Colonel Khan mystery. Read it here, then grab the formatted versions from BookFunnel to keep reading on your favorite device.
“What you need is a detective,” Sammy Gupta said, a smug grin on his face as he stirred his chai.
“A detective?” Imran Qazi shot back, whipping off a scarf damp with Chicago sleet. His hair was soaked, his mood foul, and his best friend’s cheerfulness was not helping. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Gupta ignored the question, leaning over the counter to yell for the cafe’s proprietor.
“Young man! Two cups of chai! And be quick about it!”
The silver-haired owner of the Chai & Chat Cafe, Yusuf Hamdani, stepped out from the kitchen, the door swinging behind him.
“Mr. Gupta,” he sighed. “You are nearing seventy. And I am sixty-six. Perhaps you can stop calling me ‘young man’?”
“Old habits, Hamdani!” Gupta chuckled. “Like Qazi’s ulcers — they never die.” He leaned back, grinning. Qazi dropped his head into his hands.
“Alright. Start from the beginning,” Gupta pressed. “On the phone you only mumbled something about a favor for your cousin.”
Many decades had passed since Imran Qazi and Sammy Gupta first crossed paths in a Chicago grocery store. Back home, a random border drawn by a departing Englishman would have kept them apart, not to mention their class and pedigree — one being the son of a textile magnate, the other the sole heir to a low ranking civil servant. But in America’s melting pot, those walls dissolved. Forty years on, they bickered like brothers: Qazi the worrier, Gupta the agent of chaos.
Hamdani dropped off their tea. Qazi muttered curses and began. “It was past eleven. I was almost asleep when that damned phone went off again—”
Gupta’s laughter cut him off. He pictured the ridiculous ringtone—bongos and clucking chickens—that Qazi’s daughter had set on her father’s phone. Qazi groaned, burying his face again. “You know she locked it with a password? Last week it blared in the middle of Friday prayers—the whole mosque stared. The Imam even pulled me aside afterward.”
He let Gupta’s laughter run its course, eyes narrowing in a sideways glance, before picking up the thread again.
The caller had been his cousin, Rayaz, calling from Arizona. He explained that his daughter, Rehana, had a marriage proposal from a family in Chicago that they were considering. But he needed help. Living across the country, Rayaz explained, would make vetting the family himself near impossible. Besides which, he explained, he couldn't dream of marrying his daughter to an ‘unknown’, and insisted Qazi ‘check the boy out’.
Gupta threw his hands in the air. “Tell me you put Farida on the phone with him right away?”
Qazi took a moment to respond.
"No," he said eventually. "She was downstairs watching her TV dramas, and I—” he faltered, eyes dropping, “I didn’t want to disturb her.”
Gupta barked a laugh, jabbing a finger in his friend's chest. “Disturb her? Please!” he exclaimed, tearing down Qazi’s flimsy excuse, “You two had a fight, didn’t you? I can see it all over your face!”
Qazi slumped. The truth tumbled out like water from a broken clay pot. A bitter argument had taken place between husband and wife the night before. The subject, his physician-prescribed–and completely bland—diet. Farida had caught her husband red-handed, wrist deep in the chili jar, sneaking spoonfuls of spice amid dollops of salt into the tasteless lentils she had prepared for his dinner. The fight had escalated. He had defied her, choosing to eat the fiery lentils and the resulting ulcer was now a live coal in his gut.
Gupta laughed so hard he slapped the table, drawing a glare from a nearby group of Aunties debating Bollywood star Shah Rukh Khan’s latest scandal. "You were clean bowled, brother. Your cousin knew Farida would shut him down in a second, so he went straight to you."
“It’s not funny,” Qazi said, his pout interrupted by a pained burp.
Gupta already knew what he had to do. He pulled out his phone and tapped out a message, the whoosh of the sent SMS from his phone a background score to Qazi admitting that not deferring to Farida was a mistake.
“Fine. I got outplayed,” Qazi conceded. “Now will you help me?”
"Well then,” said Gupta, “Are you going to ‘investigate’ and ‘check this boy out’?"
"I'm going to have to do something." replied Qazi, having no idea what he was going to do.
Gupta’s phone beeped. He checked the reply to the text he had just sent and grinned.
The nearby table of aunties had an order of samosas arrive, their golden crusts crackling under the tamarind chutney. Qazi eyed them mournfully, Farida’s wrath still burning his tongue.
“Two more cups of chai?” Hamdani asked the pair.
“Yes please,” Gupta said, glee in his eyes, “And some samosas with extra chutney for my buddy here.”
Qazi’s eyes burned holes in Gupta, hot enough to melt steel. A few minutes later their chai arrived, minus samosas. Hamdani knew the pair well.
Gupta picked up his cup and held it up, playfully.
"So what you’re telling me—" he said, breaking the stony silence, cocking his head to the side. “—is that you need a detective.”
"Oh come now, Sammy!" exclaimed Qazi loudly, "Stop being ridiculous!"
"How am I being ridiculous?" asked Gupta.
"I’m not hiring some Chicago gumshoe to stalk this boy! Besides—" Qazi said, quietly mumbling his real concern, “I don’t have money to spend on this type of thing.”
“Two textile factories and you’re still cheaper than a discount bin at a flea market,” Gupta said shaking his head, “I’ll have you know I’m not talking about just some random person here.”
“What then? An ex-cop who chases down cheating husbands? An overpriced flatfoot?”
“Not a flatfoot,” Gupta grinned, “A legend. Colonel Khan.”
Nearby, Yusuf Hamdani froze mid-pour, as if struck. “Khan?” he murmured, throat tight. “He’s not a man—he’s thunder and lightning.” The name alone summoned the memory of the Colonel’s inquisition the previous spring, when he had carefully dismantled Hamdani's lie about the weeks-old stale fryer oil in his kitchen. The cafe owner shuddered, left with the sensation of having stood trial before the entire Culinary Board of Justice once more.
"Who is this ‘Khan’?" Qazi demanded.
“Colonel Khan,” corrected Gupta with a twirl of his fingers, “Retired army intelligence, sharper than your wife’s tikka recipe. And…” he continued, tapping his phone and leaning back in his chair with smug satisfaction, “The legend just happens to owe me a favor… and he should be arriving right…” Gupta looked out the window, “…now.”
Just then, the cafe door chimed, a familiar melody that usually heralded the arrival of another caffeine-craving customer. But this time, the air crackled with a different energy.
A man entered — tall, iron-haired, a salt-and-pepper beard framing an immaculate upturned mustache, as sharply groomed as his attire. He was dressed impeccably, a tailored charcoal suit draping his lean frame, a crisp white shirt, peeking out from beneath a patterned silver waistcoat. A hint of paisley at his neck added a touch of color. He moved like a tiger, with a quiet confidence, his presence filling the space like a whispered command. The cafe seemed to fall silent. The chatter of cups momentarily ceased, as if the world itself was holding a breath. Khan’s polished black Oxfords and ebony cane tapped against the tile like a judge’s gavel. Even the aunties stopped mid-gossip. His eyes, the color of aged whiskey, swept across the room, taking in every detail with a quiet intensity. They settled on a familiar face, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths.
Sammy Gupta grinned. “Speak of the devil…”