“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 fiancée 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. Urbi and Mr. Shama, and said, “Mr. Patil, I plan to help Detective Raven find out who did this to you.”
“Detective Raven told me the robber last Tuesday night is just above my head on the fourth floor, recovering from the wound in his shoulder. He said there were complications following surgery but the man is doing better. Have you talked to him, Agent Savich?”
“I’m going up to talk to him now. You rest, sir. I will speak to you tomorrow.”
“I remember that Mr. Raditch was there with Michael and Crissy on Tuesday evening, the night of the attempted robbery. I called him when I was able, and he said they were fine. Are they still all right? Do you know?”
“I spoke to Mr. Raditch two nights ago. There have been a couple of scary dreams for the kids, and one really bad one for him, he said. He and his wife are being very careful with them. My wife set them up with a child psychiatrist.”
“That is good. I will tell you, Agent Savich, I was so scared for the children when that man walked in and pointed that gun at me. Now, you will tell me, Agent Savich, why is there a guard at my door?”
“What did Detective Raven tell you, sir?”
“Nothing at all, merely that since this was the second robbery so very soon after the first, there might be some connection between the two robberies, and that concerned him. Like my wife, Detective Raven does not appear to like coincidences, either.”
Mr. Patil looked very alert now, and there was such intelligence in his dark eyes that Savich pushed ahead. “Mr. Patil, think back to that Tuesday night. Do you believe the man with the stocking over his face was really there only to rob you?”
“You are thinking perhaps that he meant to kill me? And since he failed, another came to kill me two days ago?”
Savich said, “That is why the guard is outside your door.”
“But who would want to kill me? I am an old man. I have no enemies that I am aware of. It is my wife who should be in danger, for she flays alive anyone who criticizes me or her children or her grandchildren. She is brutal. I am quite terrified of her.” Mr. Patil shook his head, and Savich saw a small smile.
Minutes later, Savich went to the fourth floor to see Thomas Wenkel, a former resident of Ossining, in for ten years for armed robbery, paroled after eight years, and released eight months ago. He was a career felon. Did that include murder?
There was a guard outside his room as well. His name was Officer Ritter. No, Savich was told, no visitors, nothing out of the ordinary. Officer Ritter looked, frankly, bored. Ben had best change out the guard.
Savich paused in the doorway. Thomas Wenkel was watching TV, his eyes glued to the small set high on the opposite wall. It was a soap opera.
“Mr. Wenkel.”
Thomas Wenkel brought his narrow, watery eyes to Savich. “You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
When Savich stuck his creds under Wenkel’s nose, he ignored them. Savich saw his long, thick fingers drum against the bedsheet. Then he turned to face Savich. “You’re the guy who shot me.”
“Yes. I could have killed you, but I didn’t.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for that, you bastard. Go away.”
“Did you know Mr. Patil was shot this past Wednesday night, during another supposed robbery?”
“Stupid old fool. Did he bite the big one this time?”
“You know he didn’t, since Detective Raven doubtless came to speak to you about it.”
Wenkel shrugged, convulsively swallowed at a hit of pain in his shoulder, and concentrated on the soap opera.
“Were you going to kill Mr. Patil?”
“You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
“Tell me, Mr. Wenkel, when you hooked up with Elsa Heinz.”
“I don’t know no Elsa Heinz.” He shouted at the TV. “Hey, Erica, don’t cheat on your husband with that yahoo! Don’t you got no brain?”
Savich’s eyes flicked to the soap opera, then back to Mr. Wenkel. “Elsa Heinz was forty-three years old, in and out of prison for years, just like you, Mr. Wenkel. Why did she come running in to save your bacon? Were you more than criminals together? Were you lovers, Mr. Wenkel?”
Wenkel started humming. There was a commercial on TV.
“She’s dead. I had to kill her.”
Wenkel never looked away from the television. He only shrugged, but Savich would swear he saw Wenkel’s mouth tighten.
“Who hired the two of you to kill Mr. Patil?”
“You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
The D.A. had offered Wenkel a deal to roll, but he’d said he didn’t rat nobody out, ever.