Catherine Coulter - Split Second

When she ran down, Savich asked her, “Were you born in America, Mrs. Patil?”

“Oh, no, my parents moved here when I was seventeen, and that is why I have a bit of an accent,” and she preened, patting her hair, and then her husband’s veiny old hand.

Mr. Patil looked up at her, besotted.

Savich couldn’t recall Mr. Patil’s first name; then, in the next instant, Jasmine called him Nandi. This charming old man’s name was Nandi. That name sounded so warm, so inviting, and it certainly fit him, Savich thought. They had four children, two sons and two daughters, and eight grandchildren, the eldest twenty, the youngest two years old. Her precious husband had no enemies, Mrs. Patil told Savich, not a single one. It had been two robberies, nothing more, because who would hate a man who owned a Shop’n Go? He made people happy. He sold them hot dogs and beer. He didn’t lie or cheat or steal. Robbers, stupid, greedy robbers. Catch them.

In short, Mr. Patil was a saint, and Savich had better get on the stick. And she could be right. Could be, but something simply didn’t feel right about a little old man like Mr. Patil getting shot in the dark.

Mr. Patil said, “Agent Savich, I find myself wondering also why you have not caught the man who shot me. A violent man who robs convenience stores, would he not be in your files, in your databases?”

“We’re certainly checking that all out, Mr. Patil.”

Jasmine said, “It has to be a robber, Agent Savich, not some evil archenemy who does not exist, out to murder my Nandi, because—well, because why? Yes, a robber, it simply must be.”

Savich left five minutes later, thinking about Jasmine Patil, who’d given him a come-on sweep of her eyes before he’d left the hospital room.

Chevy Chase, Maryland

Sunday afternoon

Lucy was opening the front doors when she heard Mrs. McGruder call out, “Lucy! Wait a moment!”

She turned, a smile on her face, to see Mrs. McGruder, dressed in her favorite dark purple, walking as quickly as her bulk would allow up the steps and onto the front porch, Mr. McGruder behind her, dressed in dark work clothes, heavy old work boots on his feet.

“How nice to see you both,” Lucy said, and shook their hands. “I was very pleased you were at my dad’s funeral.” Her voice broke, and she held still, trying to get a hold on herself.

Mrs. McGruder took her hands, squeezed them. “I know, dear, I know. It’s very difficult for all of us, but especially for you. You and Mr. Joshua were so very close. Isn’t that right, Mr. McGruder?”

That nearly made Lucy smile. A wife calling her husband by his last name, something that was done maybe a hundred years ago. She’d always thought it was curiously charming.

Mr. McGruder scratched his forearm and allowed that it was right.

Lucy said, “I’m very pleased you came by, since I wanted to speak to you both. Thank you for filling the fridge, Mrs. McGruder, but I can do my own shopping now. But perhaps you could come by once a week and straighten up for me, do some general cleaning?”

“Well, naturally, but I can come every single day, if you would like, Lucy.”

But Lucy didn’t want anyone around. She wanted to be alone to search this barn of a house. No, she told Mrs. McGruder, that wasn’t necessary. Before Mrs. McGruder could try to talk her around, Lucy turned to Mr. McGruder, complimented him on the nicely raked front lawn, done, he told her, that morning.

She didn’t want to ask them in; she had too much to accomplish. But neither of the McGruders appeared to want to come in. Mrs. McGruder said, “How we miss Mr. Joshua. It was a lovely service, Lucy. Ah, and how we miss your grandmother. Such a gracious lady, she was, so interested in everything, and always seeing to her charities, always on the go, always reading and studying. A very sharp lady, she was. Isn’t that right, Mr. McGruder?”

Mr. McGruder nodded, walked over to pick up a stray yellow oak leaf on the flagstone sidewalk.

Lucy said, “Do you remember my grandfather, Mrs. McGruder?”

“Well, that is a question for Mr. McGruder. He and Mr. Milton were great friends, weren’t you, Mr. McGruder?”

“That we were,” Mr. McGruder said, straightening, still holding that lone oak leaf in his hand. “A fine man; missed him sorely when he left. One day to the next, he was gone. I never could understand that.” He shook his head. His gray hair didn’t move, and Lucy realized he’d pomaded it down flat to his scalp.

“Did he seem unhappy before he left?”

“Mr. Milton? Oh, goodness, no,” said Mrs. McGruder.

“Aye, he did,” Mr. McGruder said right over her. “Maybe not exactly unhappy, but I remember he was all jumpy and distracted, I guess the word is, but when I asked him, I remember he wouldn’t tell me what bothered him. And then he was gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers, then shook his head sadly. “So much trouble, so much death; it’s enough to make a man wonder how much more time he’s got left.”

That was a cheery observation, Lucy thought, thanking the McGruders again and sending them on their way.

Not five minutes later, Lucy was zipping up her ancient jeans, then pulled a dark blue FBI sweatshirt over her turtleneck sweater and slipped sneakers over her thick socks. Out of habit she clipped her SIG to her jeans. She was hurrying because she didn’t want to be searching the attic after dark—it was that simple. She didn’t know why, but there was something about attics and basements after dark, when everything was quiet, that gave her the willies.

She needed to get a move on. The narrow door at the end of the corridor on the second floor had always been locked when she was a child, the attic out-of-bounds to her, and it still sported a Yale lock. She’d been in the attic only once, to see if she wanted any discarded furniture for her condo—three years ago, right after her grandmother had died. She pulled out her SIG and smacked the butt to the lock, once, twice, and it opened. She climbed the steps into the immense, shadowy attic. It seemed to Lucy that with every step she took, the air got colder and clammier. There was no heat up here, but why should it feel clammy? There’d been no rain for a while. She noticed the bare attic beams weren’t insulated. It had to be roasting hot in the summer up here, and now in the late fall, it was as cold as the outside air.

She flipped the switch, and the long shadows of the huge open area gave way to a burst of light, not from a naked one-hundred-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling but from a bank of fluorescent lights. She immediately felt better, and wasn’t that stupid and childish of her? Stop it, get a grip. It’s a ridiculous attic, and Ted Bundy doesn’t live here.

Lucy looked around and lost every drop of optimism she’d had about how easy looking through the attic might be. She’d forgotten how immense it was, overflowing with old furniture, a zillion taped boxes, and ancient luggage. She wondered if some of the stuff dated back even before her grandparents had bought the house fifty years ago. Well, it didn’t matter. She’d have to dig in.

Yeah, but dig in to find what, exactly?

She didn’t have a clue. Still, Lucy hoped to her sneakered feet that when she found it, she’d know instantly.

Lucky her—all the boxes were beautifully labeled as everything from kitchenwares to master-bedroom linens to books.

She found a box labeled LUCY—TEENAGER and dug into it, unable to help herself. She’d pulled out her sophomore yearbook when her cell rang. “Yes?”

“Lucy, my angel, it’s Uncle Alan. I’m downstairs, sitting on your doorbell, but you don’t answer. Where are you, sweetheart?”