Split Second
Page 125
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
CHAPTER 78
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.”
CHAPTER 79
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?”
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.”
CHAPTER 79
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?”
