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
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.
Savich started to say Mr. Patil’s name when he opened his eyes and looked up at him. There was only an instant of blankness before he smiled. “Hello, Agent Savich. It pleases me very much to see you.”
Mr. Patil spoke English with the beautiful faintly singsong accent of his native country. Besides English and Hindi, he also spoke French and Spanish. He’d come to the United States when he was twenty-four, too old to relearn English with an American accent, he’d told Savich. He spoke very formally, and his English was perfect.
Savich lightly touched his fingertips to Mr. Patil’s forearm. “I’m very glad to see you, too, Mr. Patil. How are you feeling?”
“I am feeling quite pleasant, only I am tired, always tired. Sleep hovers over me, is always dragging at me.”
“Then perhaps it would be best if I came back tomorrow.”
Mr. Patil said, “Oh, no, it is very nice to see someone other than family. They all wring their hands and look at me like I’m already in my coffin. Detective Raven was here earlier, but I fell asleep in the middle of one of his questions. My arm is sore, but it doesn’t bother me too much. I have heard the nurses call me a tough old buzzard. I like the sound of that.”
Savich said, “I do, too. Your family is very worried about you, Mr. Patil, and your friends, Mr. Urbi and Mr. Shama.”
“Oh, yes, and I love them, but after a while, they do grate on one’s senses. Ah, but to see my very good friend Amal Urbi and his nephew Krishna, that was good. They do not hover. They act like sensible men and sit and speak to me until I fall asleep. They were here this morning.
“But then after they left, my wife came and stayed and stayed. Jasmine always asks questions—the nurses, every doctor who comes within twelve feet of me. She is not happy, she tells me over and over, not happy that I should be robbed two weeks in a row. It makes no sense, she says, and asks more questions. She does not believe in coincidence. The poor young police officer who is sitting outside this room, he does not have a chance against Jasmine. She tells me she hears that he is engaged and very possibly thinking of his fiancee and not really paying all that much attention to my safety. And then she shakes her finger in his face.”
“I plan to speak to your wife myself. She can question me as much as she wishes to. Do you feel up to telling me what happened, Mr. Patil?”
“I would like to, yes, Agent Savich.” He was silent, and Savich could practically see his brain weaving together the facts of what had happened Wednesday night, but it was difficult for him, even though he’d already told his story to Ben Raven. Savich waited. “There was not a great deal of business Wednesday evening, and so I decided to close thirty minutes earlier than I normally do. This was not unusual for me. I went through my same routine—straightening merchandise, making certain the refrigeration units were working properly, checking the locks, the lights, lowering the blinds over the front window, removing the cash from the register, counting it, preparing the deposit slip, and putting it in a deposit bag to take to the bank.”
“Did you know the police found the empty deposit bag beside you?”
“That is what Detective Raven told me. It is odd, because many nights I leave the deposit bag in the safe for my son to deal with in the morning, but I decided to put the deposit bag into the business drop box at the bank myself.”
“Tell me what you did then, sir.”
“After I finished my routine, I let myself out of the back door. I was locking the door and setting the alarm when I heard someone breathing behind me. I was turning when I felt a very hard slap against my back, and it threw me against the door. And then I must have passed out, Agent Savich. I have no memory of anything else.”
“Did you think it was a man you heard breathing behind you?”
Mr. Patil thought about that, slowly shook his head. “I do not know, I am sorry.”
It was a thoughtful, cool recital. Savich asked him a couple more questions, got more information about Mr.
