Split Second - Catherine Coulter [142]
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?”
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