Split Second (16 page)

CHAPTER 35

Lucy finally opened the door, wondering whether Dillon would really have broken it down. He looked at the banked excitement in her eyes, watched her as she said in a voice as bright as a new penny, “Sorry, Dillon, I was washing up,” and knew she was closed down tight. For the moment.

So he handed her the bag stuffed with Chinese takeout that included her favorite moo shu pork, and followed her to the bright kitchen to chow down on his own vegetarian delight. As they sipped the lovely hot tea that Sun Li, his and Sherlock’s favorite waiter, had insisted he take with him, he told her about Sherlock and Coop’s breakthrough in New York at the First Precinct, and showed her a printout of the sketch of Bruce Comafield that Sherlock had e-mailed to him.

Lucy bounced up and down, hooted. “Sherlock is unbelievable! Oh, yeah, it’s him. This is incredible, Dillon. Can you believe he’s wearing those same aviator glasses? Why don’t we go get him right now? Let’s grab him and haul him in.”

“Sorry, but we already thought of that. According to Lansford, no one has seen his aide since the evening we visited him at the Willard. No word as to his whereabouts yet.”

“We spooked him. I guess we should revisit all the witnesses in the other cities, see if anyone else saw this guy with her.”

Savich nodded and took another bite of the vegetarian fried rice.

Bruce Comafield. They were nearly to home plate. Lucy looked over at Dillon, marveled at him. And at Sherlock. Would she have been good enough to get that information and sketch out of the witness, Thomas Hurley? She didn’t know, but she’d missed out on an incredible find. She became suddenly aware of the ring pressing itself like a living thing against her skin, her incredible ring that had cost her grandfather his life. It was more than she could begin to understand, or begin to deal with at that moment. No, she had to focus here. She wanted more than anything to find Comafield, and she wanted Savich to trust her again with that assignment, rather than worry about her. She wanted to show him she was ready to throw herself back into the hunt for Kirsten Bolger. It hit her between the eyes that her boss was too perceptive, that any lie she told him, he’d recognize easily as a lie. Maybe he could help her.

“Lucy, you want some of this rice?”

She snapped back, fully aware he’d seen her distraction and known it for what it was.

She spooned up some rice and took a big bite, not caring if it was getting cold, because she hadn’t eaten since that morning and she was starving. As she chewed, she felt the weight of her sins pushing down on her head. She swallowed the last bite, fanned her hands in front of her. “So much has happened. I didn’t mean to worry you or alarm you. It was very nice of you to care enough about me to come over, and then you brought me dinner and told me about Bruce Comafield.”

A black eyebrow went up. He said in that deep, calm voice of his, “It’d be nice if you’d talk to me, Lucy, if you’d tell me the truth about how you’re feeling, and what you’re thinking.”

She looked guilty, she knew it to her heels, but she couldn’t help it. She could keep her mouth shut, and so she did. She shook her head.

He searched her face, then nodded as if to say,
So be it.
“Coop will catch you up on everything. He and Sherlock will be back from New York later tonight. I’m thinking things will move smartly forward now that we know about Bruce Comafield. If he was her supply line from the real world, he can’t be that any longer. Now he’ll be with her full-time.” He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “I’m concerned about you, Lucy. Coop told me you visited a safe-deposit box today, picked up something that belonged to your grandfather?”

She nodded. “Yes, and it upset me, Dillon.” She drew in a deep breath. “The box contained an old ring, but nothing more than that.” She kept her head down so he couldn’t see the lie in her eyes, and pulled the ring out of her shirt and showed it to him.

He held out his hand. He could tell she didn’t want to, but she unfastened the gold chain, let the ring slide into her palm. She waited only a moment, then gave it to him. She watched him examine it. “Was there any explanation of this ring in the box?”

Lie, lie, no choice.
“No, but I thought it could be the ring I remembered my grandmother screaming about, the ring she stabbed her husband to death over, when he took it from her.” Her words hung between them. He said, “And he left it in a safe-deposit box, specifically for you?”

“Yes.”

He waited a beat, then, when she didn’t say anything, he said, “What did you do this afternoon?”

He was giving her that steady sort of questioning look now, one that made her want to fling herself at his feet and confess every sin she could remember committing since the age of three. “I slept some. I didn’t feel too well, and then I had bad dreams, about my grandfather.”

Savich sat back, pushed away the remains of his dinner. He looked again at the ring on his palm. “This ring must have meant something significant to both of them. Isn’t that ironic? She killed him, put him in that steamer trunk, covered him with a white towel, never imagining that he’d put this ring in a safe-deposit box for you. And that’s a question, isn’t it, Lucy? You weren’t yet six years old when he went missing, yet what he’d done was save the ring for you. How did you discover it was there, waiting for you?”

“Our old family lawyer called me, told me my grandfather’s instructions were to give it to me after the death of my father.”

She knew this raised a lot more questions in his mind, but to her relief, he said, “The ring looks very old, doesn’t it? Is that a triangle of dull rubies set on top of it?”

“It is very old, and yes, it’s ugly, too, Dillon, not worth much, I don’t think. The stones aren’t rubies; I’m thinking carnelians. I have no clue why Grandfather bothered to save the ring for me.”

Yeah, right. You’re really a bad liar, Lucy. But what are you lying about?
Savich wanted to shake her, but trust was a funny thing.

He said, “These symbols, I don’t recognize them. Do you?”

“No. I’ve never seen them before.”

“They could designate some society, or sect, or cult of some kind. And that inscription, ‘SEFYLL.’”

Lucy froze. He was holding the ring when he said the word, but he had no reaction. He would have known, he would have been shocked, as she had been, if everything had happened again for him, starting eight seconds ago, or would all he feel be a shimmer in the light? Or was that what her grandfather meant by her having a
gift
? Could no one else experience what she had?

She had to ask, had to. “Do you know the word, Dillon?”

“Easy enough to find out.” He pulled out his cell phone.

A couple minutes later, they were reading that the word was Welsh.

He said, “It means to stand, to be or become stationary, to stop moving. Why inscribe that on a ring?”

She said absolutely nothing.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a couple of photos of it with my cell. MAX and I can do some research later, maybe make some phone calls.”

Great, just great.

After he’d snapped his photos, he looked at her pale face. “You need to turn in now. Too much has happened in too short a time.” He saw that she was holding out her hand, and so he gave her the ring, watched her thread it back onto the gold chain and put it inside her shirt again.

“Yes, I’m awfully tired, but I’d like to come back to work tomorrow, help set up the manhunt for Bruce Comafield with Coop. I don’t want to get too far behind on Kirsten Bolger’s case.”

Savich gave her a long look, wondered what she hadn’t told him, wondered what specifically she’d lied to him about, then nodded. “All right, I’ll see you in the morning.” He said good night, then returned to an empty house, which he hated. Sean and Astro were doing a sleepover with Marty at the Perrys’ house. He realized he missed Astro barking his head off as soon as he walked up the flagstone steps to his front door.

CHAPTER 36

Hoover Building
Wednesday morning

Lucy slipped into Gloria’s passenger seat, waited for Coop to seatbelt himself in. “So, we’re off to the Willard. I hope we can find out more about Bruce Comafield. Can you believe Dillon pulled ID photos of everyone in that meeting with Lansford and passed them around? Sometimes you want to punch him when he pulls tricks like that. And there was payoff—Sherlock recognized Comafield right away.”

“We already know everything about him, from the mole behind his right knee to the C he got in poly sci—pretty funny for an aide to a wannabe lawmaker, or should I say
former
aide.”

“Former wannabe lawmaker, too.”

Coop looked over at her. “Do you mind if after we visit the Willard, we drive by my mom’s so she can see what a hot tootsie I picked up in Gloria? Ah, you’d be the first hot tootsie I ever brought around, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, I believe you.
Tootsie?
”

“All right, hot chick. That better?”

“Yeah, tons better. Now fill me in, Coop.”

When they reached the Willard hotel, they learned Mr. Lansford had checked out a couple hours before, on his way to Dulles, to fly back to San Francisco to close down his campaign and officially withdraw from the congressional race. They tried to call him but were sent directly to voice mail.

Coop and Lucy spoke to the bellman, the waitstaff, the desk people, the housekeeper, all of whom had said they hadn’t seen Bruce Comafield since early Monday. They found a confiding young woman in the gift shop who’d sold Comafield some shaving cream on Monday morning. He told her he’d been fired. It was weird, she said to them; he wasn’t down about being fired, he seemed excited about something.

When Coop called Mr. Lansford’s executive assistant in San Francisco, he confirmed that Mr. Comafield wasn’t with Mr. Lansford; indeed, he’d been let go, since there was nothing more for him to do.

It appeared Bruce Comafield had fled right to Kirsten, to New York City. And he’d been excited about it. There was still no word on the APB out on him.

As Lucy and Coop rode the elevator back up to the CAU on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building, she found herself grinning at him. “Would you really have driven us to your mom’s house if we hadn’t been pressed for time?” She paused a beat. “Tootsie?”

“I’m now thinking chickie.”

“That’s sick. I like it.”

“Tell you what, we’ll go see my mom as soon as we can break free today. How about around seven o’clock this evening? I can try out both tootsie and chickie on her, see which she prefers.”

He’d swear he saw disappointment in her eyes, but then it was gone, replaced by—what? Resignation? “I’m sorry, Coop, but I can’t.”

“That’s okay. I can stick with you, see what you’re up to, help out. I’m a pretty useful guy to have around, Lucy.”

She lightly laid her hand on his arm. “Believe me, Coop, you don’t want to be around me.”

They weren’t six feet from the CAU when Coop’s cell rang. “McKnight here.”

She watched his face as he listened. She saw ferocious delight. He’d scarcely rung off when she said, “What?”

“Savich got a call from a waitress in Baltimore at the Texas Range Bar and Grill. She swears she saw Ted Bundy’s daughter in the bar last night.”

“Hot diggity. I was hoping this would happen. Every worker in every bar in the U.S. must know Kirsten’s face by now.” Lucy highfived Coop. “We’re all heading to Baltimore, right?”

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.