Split Second
Page 19
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.
CHAPTER 13
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.
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.
CHAPTER 13
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.
