“Listen, Agents, do you think Elizabeth could be in any danger from Kirsten? The thought scares me stupid.”
Savich said, “No, I don’t think so, Mr. Lansford. If I were worried about one of you, I’d say it would be you. Take care in your daily routine, all right? Be aware of the people who come near you—until we catch Kirsten.”
Lansford was staring down at his butter-soft black loafers. Then he looked up at all of them. “Agents, we will all be suffering until you do.”
CHAPTER 22
Washington Memorial Hospital
Sunday afternoon
Mr. Patil had been transferred to a bed on a surgical floor, and his physicians were predicting a full recovery.
Savich was pleased to see Mrs. Patil standing next to her husband’s bed, since he hadn’t met her when he’d gone to the Patil home, and then Kirsten Bolger had come roaring into his life and he’d put off going back. But Ben had interviewed her and said he hadn’t gotten any brilliant leads or insights from her.
She was leaning forward slightly, speaking quietly to Mr. Patil, her hand on his shoulder.
Mr. Patil looked over at him and smiled widely. “Ah, Agent Savich, you have not yet met my wife, Jasmine. She will not leave my room. She complains that I am not healing myself fast enough. When the doctors tell her I won’t live, she tells them they are all worthless mongrels, but now that they tell her I will live, I hear her say to Dr. Pritchett that he is a miracle man, another Mother Teresa.”
Mrs. Patil broke into rapid Hindi, none of which Savich understood. He waited until the woman was finished. Mr. Patil said, “She tells me you are very handsome, Agent Savich, that it is possible you would be worthy of our eldest granddaughter, Cynthia, who is as American as you are.”
Savich smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Patil, but I am already married.”
“That is a great pity,” Mrs. Patil said, and gave him a big smile. “But Cynthia, she is a silly girl. She would worship you, and you would probably scare her to death.” Then she broke again into milea-minute Hindi to her husband. Why? She was as perfectly fluent in English as Mr. Patil. He looked at her while she spoke. She was younger than her husband by a good twenty years, putting her in her fifties, he thought, and she looked maybe in her late forties, the result of a couple of excellent face-lifts, most likely. She was a finelooking woman, a spark in her dark eyes, and her hair was glossy black without a hint of gray, worn in a short swing around her cheeks. It seemed to him she was as Americanized as her granddaughter Cynthia.
When she ran down, Savich asked her, “Were you born in America, Mrs. Patil?”
“Oh, no, my parents moved here when I was seventeen, and that is why I have a bit of an accent,” and she preened, patting her hair, and then her husband’s veiny old hand.
Mr. Patil looked up at her, besotted.
Savich couldn’t recall Mr. Patil’s first name; then, in the next instant, Jasmine called him Nandi. This charming old man’s name was Nandi. That name sounded so warm, so inviting, and it certainly fit him, Savich thought. They had four children, two sons and two daughters, and eight grandchildren, the eldest twenty, the youngest two years old. Her precious husband had no enemies, Mrs. Patil told Savich, not a single one. It had been two robberies, nothing more, because who would hate a man who owned a Shop’n Go? He made people happy. He sold them hot dogs and beer. He didn’t lie or cheat or steal. Robbers, stupid, greedy robbers. Catch them.
In short, Mr. Patil was a saint, and Savich had better get on the stick. And she could be right. Could be, but something simply didn’t feel right about a little old man like Mr. Patil getting shot in the dark.
Mr. Patil said, “Agent Savich, I find myself wondering also why you have not caught the man who shot me. A violent man who robs convenience stores, would he not be in your files, in your databases?”
“We’re certainly checking that all out, Mr. Patil.”
Jasmine said, “It has to be a robber, Agent Savich, not some evil archenemy who does not exist, out to murder my Nandi, because—well, because why? Yes, a robber, it simply must be.”
Savich left five minutes later, thinking about Jasmine Patil, who’d given him a come-on sweep of her eyes before he’d left the hospital room.
CHAPTER 23
Chevy Chase, Maryland
Sunday afternoon
Lucy was opening the front doors when she heard Mrs. McGruder call out, “Lucy! Wait a moment!”
She turned, a smile on her face, to see Mrs. McGruder, dressed in her favorite dark purple, walking as quickly as her bulk would allow up the steps and onto the front porch, Mr. McGruder behind her, dressed in dark work clothes, heavy old work boots on his feet.
“How nice to see you both,” Lucy said, and shook their hands. “I was very pleased you were at my dad’s funeral.” Her voice broke, and she held still, trying to get a hold on herself.
Mrs. McGruder took her hands, squeezed them. “I know, dear, I know. It’s very difficult for all of us, but especially for you. You and Mr. Joshua were so very close. Isn’t that right, Mr. McGruder?”
That nearly made Lucy smile. A wife calling her husband by his last name, something that was done maybe a hundred years ago. She’d always thought it was curiously charming.
Mr. McGruder scratched his forearm and allowed that it was right.
Lucy said, “I’m very pleased you came by, since I wanted to speak to you both. Thank you for filling the fridge, Mrs. McGruder, but I can do my own shopping now. But perhaps you could come by once a week and straighten up for me, do some general cleaning?”
“Well, naturally, but I can come every single day, if you would like, Lucy.”
But Lucy didn’t want anyone around. She wanted to be alone to search this barn of a house. No, she told Mrs. McGruder, that wasn’t necessary. Before Mrs. McGruder could try to talk her around, Lucy turned to Mr. McGruder, complimented him on the nicely raked front lawn, done, he told her, that morning.
She didn’t want to ask them in; she had too much to accomplish. But neither of the McGruders appeared to want to come in. Mrs. McGruder said, “How we miss Mr. Joshua. It was a lovely service, Lucy. Ah, and how we miss your grandmother. Such a gracious lady, she was, so interested in everything, and always seeing to her charities, always on the go, always reading and studying. A very sharp lady, she was. Isn’t that right, Mr. McGruder?”
Mr. McGruder nodded, walked over to pick up a stray yellow oak leaf on the flagstone sidewalk.
Lucy said, “Do you remember my grandfather, Mrs. McGruder?”
“Well, that is a question for Mr. McGruder. He and Mr. Milton were great friends, weren’t you, Mr. McGruder?”
“That we were,” Mr. McGruder said, straightening, still holding that lone oak leaf in his hand. “A fine man; missed him sorely when he left. One day to the next, he was gone. I never could understand that.” He shook his head. His gray hair didn’t move, and Lucy realized he’d pomaded it down flat to his scalp.
“Did he seem unhappy before he left?”
“Mr. Milton? Oh, goodness, no,” said Mrs. McGruder.
“Aye, he did,” Mr. McGruder said right over her. “Maybe not exactly unhappy, but I remember he was all jumpy and distracted, I guess the word is, but when I asked him, I remember he wouldn’t tell me what bothered him. And then he was gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers, then shook his head sadly. “So much trouble, so much death; it’s enough to make a man wonder how much more time he’s got left.”