Catherine Coulter: Split Second

Lucy thumbed through the Tetra Time folder. It seemed her grandmother had culled a huge number of publications and books, from the conventional to the wild fringe, and thrown them all into these files. It was a surprise. Her grandmother had never spoken to her about an interest in such strange things. It didn’t seem like her, not her self-contained, serene grandmother. Were you a secret Trekkie, Grandmother?

Get a move on, time’s a-wasting. She couldn’t find anything that gave a clue about why her grandmother had murdered her husband.

Lucy pulled open the last big drawer. On top was a thick folder, untabbed, filled with articles about ancient types of magic that supposedly affected the passage of time itself. Magic ? Time? Where had her grandmother found these things? She leafed through folders about people bending spoons, about speaking to a loved one on the other side, interviews with people who’d seen the famous white light before returning from the brink. She quickly looked through more folders about extraterrestrials, alien abductions, experiences with ghosts, hair-raising tales of all kinds. She wondered if her grandmother was losing it at the end. She thought of her father and wondered if he’d seen the white light before he’d died. Lucy shook herself. She remembered the old movie Ghost with Patrick Swayze and felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. She remembered now that her grandmother had spoken to her once about psychic sorts of things. She had asked Lucy if she ever felt the slightest hint of anything unusual. “Like what?” Lucy had asked. And her grandmother had said, “Maybe seeing unusual sorts of things about the future?” Did she ever know what people were thinking before they said it? Lucy had thought it nothing more than a game, and after she’d said no, there’d been no more unusual conversations with her grandmother, so she’d forgotten about it.

She finished looking through the last drawer, then searched behind each of them and under the desktop. Finally she sat back in the big desk chair. She’d found exactly nothing useful, only proof of her grandmother’s obsession with nearly every insane theory under the sun, and she still had absolutely no clue what had happened between her grandmother and her grandfather.

No matter. This was a very big house, with lots of hiding places, and that was enough to give her a headache, and hope. She was decided on doing this, and doing it alone. She couldn’t imagine telling any of her friends about this, or anyone else. She shuddered at the thought. If she found nothing, perhaps she could put it to rest. She yawned and looked at her watch, couldn’t believe it was two a.m. Time to pack it in.

Tomorrow she’d start going through the books. She looked up at all of them and knew she’d need a break from this room. On Saturday, she’d start elsewhere.

Washington Memorial Hospital

Friday morning

Savich left Sherlock with Coop, poring over possible matches to the sketch of Bundy’s daughter that MAX had found in the San Francisco public records. He called Washington Memorial Hospital as he stepped from the elevator into the Hoover garage, and learned Mr. Patil’s condition was no longer listed as critical. The nurse he talked to called it a minor miracle, given his age and the severity of the wound, and called him a tough old buzzard, something Savich was hoping to be called himself when he got to be Mr. Patil’s age.

When Savich walked into the ICU on the third floor, he checked in with Nurse Alison Frye.

She said, “Here I am thirty years younger and twenty pounds heavier than Mr. Patil, and I have serious doubts I would have survived that bullet. I look at him breathing on his own, and I tell you, Agent Savich, I’m amazed. If he continues as he is now, he’ll beat this.” She laughed. “I wish we had more tough old buzzards like him.”

She continued as she signed an order, “It’s unusual to have a guard sitting right outside his door. No one understands why. I mean, wasn’t it a robbery?”

Savich smiled at her. “Covering all the bases, Nurse Frye,” he said, and knew she would think about that hint and probably give the once-over to every visitor who came to see Mr. Patil. That couldn’t hurt.

Savich walked toward the small room with its glass window that gave directly onto the bed, and nodded to Officer Horne, who was young and had two shaving nicks on his chin. He was seated in front of that door, watching every step Savich took. Savich showed Horne his creds. “Any problems at all?”

Officer Andy Horne said, “Nothing suspicious, sir. I’ll tell you, everyone wonders why I’m here, guarding this old geezer.”

“Who’s been here?”

Officer Horne pulled out his black book and carefully read, “His wife; all four of his children—two sons, two daughters—all four spouses; an old friend, Mr. Amal Urbi who looks older than Mr. Patil, uses a cane, belts his pants up to his neck; and his nephew, a Mr. Krishna Shama, a local businessman who dresses real sharp and looks successful; Detective Raven; and Ms. Martinez from the D.A.’s office.”

“Very thorough. Thank you, Officer Horne. Keep a sharp eye out. I don’t want anything else to happen to Mr. Patil.”

“You really think he was shot on purpose, Agent Savich?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But why would anyone want to shoot an old man?”

Savich only shook his head, then looked through the glass window to see Mr. Patil lying perfectly still in the narrow bed, IVs attached to each wrist. He was so slight, there was hardly a lump to see. He looked old and frail and insubstantial, but he was tough and he was alive, and Savich wanted very much for him to stay that way. He’d read the financial report Ben Raven had e-mailed to him, and then done a thorough check of his own. Mr. Patil had a fat portfolio, well diversified, and an excellent bank balance. He’d bought the Shop ’n Go fifteen years ago and had expanded to own four more stores spread throughout Washington, D.C., operated by members of his extended family. But the Georgetown store was his baby, and he insisted on managing it himself.

Savich remembered how Mr. Patil had welcomed him when he’d moved into his grandmother’s beautiful house, telling him with a good deal of excitement that he’d known his grandmother, what a marvelous lady, and believed her paintings were admirable. Admirable sounded a bit like saying her paintings were interesting, and Savich could see his grandmother grinning at that. Savich walked in quietly and stood beside the bed.

Savich started to say Mr. Patil’s name when he opened his eyes and looked up at him. There was only an instant of blankness before he smiled. “Hello, Agent Savich. It pleases me very much to see you.”

Mr. Patil spoke English with the beautiful faintly singsong accent of his native country. Besides English and Hindi, he also spoke French and Spanish. He’d come to the United States when he was twenty-four, too old to relearn English with an American accent, he’d told Savich. He spoke very formally, and his English was perfect.

Savich lightly touched his fingertips to Mr. Patil’s forearm. “I’m very glad to see you, too, Mr. Patil. How are you feeling?”

“I am feeling quite pleasant, only I am tired, always tired. Sleep hovers over me, is always dragging at me.”

“Then perhaps it would be best if I came back tomorrow.”

Mr. Patil said, “Oh, no, it is very nice to see someone other than family. They all wring their hands and look at me like I’m already in my coffin. Detective Raven was here earlier, but I fell asleep in the middle of one of his questions. My arm is sore, but it doesn’t bother me too much. I have heard the nurses call me a tough old buzzard. I like the sound of that.”