Catherine Coulter - Split Second

Coop stopped humming. “You’ll tell me all about the ring, won’t you, Lucy?”

She didn’t look at him—the horror of what had happened was too fresh, the utter waste of it all. Miranda’s ruined face was clear in her mind; she could still see blind death in her eyes. She cut it off and looked up at Coop, hugged him to her side. “I want to tell you everything that’s important to me, Coop. Always.”

Georgetown

Sunday night

Sherlock was giving a dishcloth a final pass over the kitchen counters when Jerry Lee Lewis sang out “Great Balls of Fire.” “Oh, dear, I hate it when the phone rings this late.”

“Savich.”

“Ben here, Savich.” He paused for a moment, breathed in deeply. “Mrs. Patil is dead.”

“ What? Jasmine Patil? Not Mr. Patil?”

“That’s right. She was picking up some papers that needed Mr. Patil’s signature in the office of the Georgetown Shop ’n Go. The clerk, Rishi Ram, a Patil cousin many times removed, heard a gunshot and ran back to the office, saw Mrs. Patil’s head on the desk, her blood everywhere, covering all the papers. He said he called nine-one-one right away, then ran to the back door, which is usually locked, saw it was wide open. He said he ran outside, saw a car driving away.”

“What kind of car?”

“He thought it was a Kia, black, didn’t see the license plate or the driver. Then he burst into tears and said it could have been a Cadillac, for all he knew. His mom owned a Kia, and so he’d just said that. Go figure.”

“Is Mr. Patil still in the hospital?”

“No, he went home yesterday. I was told he’s recovering nicely. And now this. First him and now his wife.” Ben drew in a deep breath. “He doesn’t know yet. The cousin many times removed is still with the police. Will you come with me to tell him?”

“Yes, I’ll come.”

“Meet me there, okay?”

“Twenty minutes,” Savich said, and punched off his cell.

Sherlock was squeezing his hand. “Dillon, Mrs. Patil was shot? She’s dead?”

Savich nodded, but he was silent, staring toward the two pumpkins he and Sherlock had carved for Halloween. He saw a couple of pumpkin seeds on the floor, bent over and picked them up. “I’d hoped, even prayed, we were wrong, but I knew in my gut what had happened. But we didn’t follow through fast enough; there was too much going on. That’s why I asked Ben to assign a cop to Mr. Patil. I didn’t see what was coming. I’m an idiot.”

She lightly touched her fingertips to his cheek. “No, you’re not an idiot. Just think about everything that’s been happening—talk about a lot on your plate.”

“Well, yes, but I should have given it more thought.”

“Now you will, and now you’ll act.”

He nodded, smacked his fist against the kitchen table. The salt shaker did a small dance before settling again. “Sometimes I hate this job.”

She hugged him fiercely. “You can’t control what other people choose to do, Dillon. All you can do is set it right. Come home to us soon.”

Savich pulled his Porsche in behind Ben’s pickup at the curb in front of the Patil home.

Ben stepped out of his truck, stuck his head in the open Porsche window, and said without preamble, “This sucks.”

Savich leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I didn’t think this through logically. I’m really sorry about this, Ben.”

“You’re figuring this the same way I am, aren’t you?”

Savich nodded.

Ben smacked his fist on the car window’s ledge. “I’m sorry, too. The thing is, I can’t think of a more likely scenario. I hate this; I hate this to my bones.”

Savich was tired, so weary of death and how it tore apart the fabric of life of all those left behind to pick up the shreds. “Let’s get it done.”

Mr. Nandi Patil was sitting in a lovely red leather La-Z-Boy in the Patil living room, at least a half dozen sons, daughters, cousins, and friends surrounding him. His color was good; he was nodding at something his friend Mr. Amal Urbi was saying. Mr. Urbi, Savich thought, looked more fragile than Mr. Patil, ready to topple over. His pants tonight were belted up near his armpits, his white hair even wispier than the last time he’d seen him. No, not quite two weeks, Savich thought, and simply looked at each of them in turn. He saw Mr. Krishna Shama was sitting beside his desiccated uncle, dressed casually in slacks and shirt, Italian loafers on his narrow feet, looking, to Savich’s eyes, bored.

Mr. Patil looked up, beamed a smile. “Agent Savich, my very good friend, and Detective Raven, come in, come in. Jasmine will be home soon. I asked her to bring me a contract from my office.”

“How are you feeling, Mr. Patil?” Savich asked him as he moved to stand in front of the fireplace.

“I am alive, still, something of a surprise, I must admit. I feel ever so much better than I did last week, Agent Savich. To what do I owe this honor?”

Ben asked, “Where is Officer Warrans?”

“Ah, the dear man is in the kitchen, eating some of Cook’s delicious naan, fresh out of the oven. She is famous for her naan.”

Ben said, “I am very sorry to tell you this, sir, but your wife was shot to death an hour ago at your store in Georgetown.”

His shock was tangible, Savich thought, thick and hard and sour. Then came disbelief, heartbreak, questions, fury—the whole gamut of emotions.

Savich looked at no one except Nandi Patil. He would have sworn, as would Ben, that Mrs. Patil was the one who’d tried to murder her husband, and that he had retaliated.

But it wasn’t so, Savich thought. No, not Mr. Patil, not this man who was suffering, his eyes blurred over with tears.

Suddenly, Mr. Patil clutched his heart and began wheezing for breath. They should have brought a doctor, he thought. Damn his arrogance for believing that since Mr. Patil had killed his wife in retribution, no physician would be necessary.

He was at Mr. Patil’s side in a moment. Then a voice from the doorway said, “Move aside. I am a paramedic. I will see to him.” A young woman, heavyset, her thick black hair in a long ponytail, ran to Mr. Patil and pressed a metal canister of medication to his mouth.

Mr. Patil finally sucked in a deep breath.

“He’s having a bronchospasm. For heaven’s sake, what did you say to him? What brought this on?”

“His wife was murdered tonight,” Ben said matter-of-factly to the young woman.

“Aunt Jasmine? Murdered? What is going on in this freaking family!”

It began again, outrage, disbelief, fury at Mr. Patil’s near-death right here in his own living room at the devastating news brought without warning by the FBI and the WPD.

Savich let it go on for a minute or two, until he was convinced Mr. Patil would be all right. He raised a hand until everyone fell silent.

“Mr. Patil, we are all very sorry about this. Now, I need all of you to listen to us.” Savich nodded to Ben.

Ben said, “I regret to tell you, sir, that we believe your wife was involved in hiring those two people who tried to kill you, posing as robbers. Agent Savich killed one of them and the other is in jail, refusing to say a word. When the first attempt failed, we believe she herself came to the store at closing time and shot you in the back.”

Nandi Patil stared blankly at them, shaking his head back and forth. “No, this cannot be true, it cannot. Jasmine has loved me forever, even more than I loved her, truth be told. She was a vivid light, no, she could not have tried to murder me.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” Savich said. “When she was murdered tonight, both Detective Raven and I believed you were responsible, that you had found out she’d tried to kill you, and it was your vengeance.”