Split Second

CHAPTER 37

Fairfax, Virginia

Wednesday afternoon

Savich settled his Porsche snugly against the curb in front of a very nice house in an upper-middle-class section of Fairfax. There were three high-priced cars in the driveway, two Beemers and a Lexus SUV. He knew Mrs. Patil was here; hers was the Beemer 750i Mr. Patil had bragged about to Savich, claiming it drove like a dream and felt like you were sitting on the living-room sofa when you rode in the backseat. Who owned the other two?

He looked around at the well-maintained front yard. Everything looked prosperous, well cared for.

His knock was answered by a small middle-aged Asian man wearing a Burberry coat, a small white bandana tied around his shaved head. He bowed to Savich.

“I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, to see Mrs. Patil. I called.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Mrs. Patil asked me to answer the door on my way out. I have finished her jujitsu lesson. Please follow me, Agent Savich; she is in the living room, enjoying wine with Mr. Urbi and Mr. Shama.”

Savich had believed Mrs. Patil looked fifty when he’d first seen her at the hospital. Now, she looked a laughing forty-five, in her white gi pants and shirt, and her feet bare, her toes painted a pale coral. She looked up to see him, and something passed over her face that made everything male in him come to full alert.

“Mrs. Patil,” he said.

She was on her feet and lightly running across the living room to take his hand and draw him in. “Come, come, Agent Savich, I want you to meet Nandi’s best friend, Mr. Amal Urbi, and his nephew, Mr. Krishna Shama. This is Special Agent Savich of the FBI.”

She stood back and beamed while Mr. Shama and Savich shook hands. Savich knew Krishna Shama was forty-eight, very successful in the car-repair business, having expanded to six shops in the past four years. He had three grown children, a dead wife, and, Ben Raven had told him, lived with a twenty-three-year-old woman who worked for the State Department. He looked sharp, Savich thought, well dressed and lean, a runner, probably, and his dark eyes would do a shark proud. Officer Horne had described him well, too, like an ad for a successful businessman.

Officer Horne was also right about Mr. Amal Urbi, Savich thought. He looked older than Mr. Patil. He wanted to tell him not to rise, but Mr. Urbi got slowly to his feet and held out his hand to grasp Savich’s. Savich noticed his belt was indeed fastened high on his chest. He was a pleasant-looking old gent, a bit desiccated, but his dark eyes were bright with intelligence. There were a total of six gray hairs sticking up at odd angles atop his head. Savich knew he was long retired, that his family’s textile fortune went back several generations. He lived in one of the luxury condos in a complex he owned in Towson Corners. He’d known the Patils for a very long time, his friendship with Mr. Patil going back to childhood.

Both men seemed to care very much about Mr. Patil.

Once they were all seated, Jasmine Patil said, “I was telling our very good friends that Nandi was walking this morning. Can you believe that, Amal—Nandi was actually walking around! I heard several nurses cheering him on.”

Who knew if Amal Urbi believed it or not, but still he nodded, adjusted his belt a bit higher, and looked pleased. Mr. Shama said in a smooth, deep voice, not a trace of an accent, “He is an amazing man, Jasmine. I remember thinking that when I was only six years old.” He began tapping his fingertips on his knee. “My dear, is it possible to have some coffee?”

Mrs. Patil gave him a joyous smile, jumped to her feet, patted his face, grabbed a bright pink cell phone off an end table, punched one button, and said, “Eruska, please bring a carafe of coffee and your delicious rasgulla to the living room.”

She beamed at all of them, fluttered her hands to great effect, Savich thought, watching Mr. Shama eyeing her like he would a particularly well-broiled hamburger. “Rasgulla,” she said to Savich, “are spongy cheese balls dipped in sugar syrup.”

Not five minutes later, Savich accepted a cup of coffee, took a small sip and set it back on its saucer. It was thick, rich, dark as sin, and almost as good as his. He wished he’d asked for tea. He accepted a rasgulla, took a bite, complimented the cook. Too sweet for his taste, but there was an after-zing that was pleasing. “Mrs. Patil, when is Mr. Patil expected to come home?”

“Call me Jasmine, please, Agent Savich. Ah, the doctor tells me perhaps next Tuesday, if he continues to gain strength. But the thing is, I don’t want him here. Mr. Urbi and Mr. Shama have convinced me he might be in danger at home, because why would he be robbed twice? Whoever tried to kill him might try again. He is safer in the hospital with that lovely young man sitting right outside his door, protecting him. You must catch whoever is out to kill my husband, Agent Savich. May I call you Dillon?”

Savich smiled at her. “How did you know my first name, ma’am?”

He saw the ma’am rankled, but her smile didn’t slip.

“I asked Officer Horne—Dillon.”

He nodded, and with apologies, asked where each of them was the night Mr. Patil was shot in the back. Nowhere near the Shop ’n Go, they each said, and offered witnesses.

Savich asked them about the first robbery attempt. Nowhere near, each said, and produced more alibis.

Savich backed off. Mr. Shama was looking at Savich like he’d like to shoot him. As for Mr. Urbi, he was smiling toward Jasmine Patil.

Savich said, “Gentlemen, do you know of any reason why someone would want to murder Mr. Patil?”

None of them knew who could possibly wish to harm a single hair on Nandi Patil’s precious gray head, except, Mr. Urbi insisted, some madman who, for whatever reason, had a grudge against Nandi.

Savich needed to get them alone, but when? There was so much going on with Kirsten—he’d talk to Ben Raven about interviewing each of them. Savich rose, nodded to each of them. “Mr. Urbi, Mr. Shama, a pleasure to meet you gentlemen.”

“I will show you out, Dillon.”

She gave him that look again, a look that said she understood something very private about him, as a man. Yet she appeared to adore her old husband, and he was certainly besotted with her. Savich looked back at the two men, now speaking in low voices. Mr. Urbi looked up at that moment, met his eyes, and something moved in those dark eyes, something like understanding.

At the front door, Jasmine Patil rubbed her hand over his arm and moved closer. “It’s truly a pity for my granddaughter, Cynthia, that you are married, Dillon.”

He nodded. “Actually, ma’am, I don’t consider it a pity at all. My wife is very special. I will speak to you again, Mrs. Patil,” he said, and left her very nice house in Fairfax, not looking back, because he knew she was standing in the open doorway, staring after him. One of these three had better answers for him, he was sure of it.

He called Ben Raven, got his voice mail, and left him a message.

Right now he had to focus on getting Ms. Kelly Spicer, veteran waitress at the Texas Range Bar & Grill in Baltimore, down for a field trip to the Hoover Building for an interview.