SATISH
Molly, barking non-stop, leaped for a high-flung Frisbee. Within a tooth-snap of her plastic prize, she dropped from the air and sat on her haunches. Head tipped skyward, she opened her mouth and howled. One mournful wail after another raised the hair on Satish’s neck. He tossed the Frisbee to one side and listened. Screams from Alexandra? Or a siren?
No sirens in this ’hood.
Magnus, a missile with one target, raced past Satish and took a slider on the lush grass. “Molly, are you hurt? Molly?”
The dog shied away, continued yowling at whatever her kid failed to hear, and refused to allow Magnus within an arm’s length.
Tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks as he jogged toward the sliding back door and called to Satish over his shoulder, “You stay here. I’ll get Mamá. She can help—”
AnnaSophia’s appearance on the patio stopped Magnus and saved Satish.
Her white face, drained of life and shiny with sweat, told the scene inside the house. Satish exhaled. No need to hear sirens. No need to see inside. He’d witnessed heartbreak countless times, in countless homes. Mouth tight, AnnaSophia prodded Anastaysa outside.
The door snicked shut a heartbeat too late. Shrieks from inside set Molly into a new frenzy of yelps. Magnus clapped his hands over his ears. Satish gritted his teeth and fought the impulse to grab Magnus and run. Jump in the car. Take off. Never look back.
Hand extended, Anastaysa revealed a doggie treat in her palm. The screams faded. Anastaysa motioned Magnus to take the treat. His dog crawled toward him, whimpering.
AnnaSophia stared into space.
A mind in shock can focus on only one thing at a time.
The clock in Satish’s head turned time backward. At the police academy, a black forensic psychologist and mother of a son killed ten months earlier by an off-duty BART cop had spoken this truism. She mesmerized every rookie in the class. Satish’s years in homicide had proved her right and given him the ability to stay objective while taking charge.
Hyper-aware of seconds ticking by, he asked, “How can I help?”
AnnaSophia was lost in another place.
“Take Mamá to Hill View Hospital,” Anastaysa said. “Alexandra’s going to be admitted.”
“What’s wrong with Zandra?” Magnus ran to his sister and tugged her hand.
“She hasn’t been sleeping.” Anastaysa, mouth too tight, glanced at her mother, went down on one knee, and steadied Magnus without losing her balance. “Zandra needs rest.”
“Why can’t she rest here? Is there something wrong with her bed? She can have mine.” Magnus’s childish voice dropped to a whisper that thickened with tears.
“She needs to get better first. Eat more. Sleep better.”
This kid’s a shrink at thirteen. The daughter of a murdered man. A kid who’s learned to cope with more than most kids her age will ever imagine. He steered AnnaSophia closer.
“You ’n me could fix her favorite foods.” Magnus wasn’t giving up without a fight. “I can keep Molly real quiet in the mornings. Get up with her earlier so she won’t wake Zandra.”
“When she comes home, okay?” Anastaysa brushed hair out of his eyes.
Magnus’s face crumpled, and he shook off her hand.
“We can take food to the hospital.” AnnaSophia spoke as if talking in her sleep.
“You should go now, Mamá. I’m sure Detective Patel will drive you.”
“We’ll have to leave right away.” He felt as if he was strangling. His smallness of spirit left a taste as bitter as nicotine on his tongue. Anastaysa’s not-so-subtle command was admirable—but he intended to decide how entangled with the Romanovs he’d become. He’d take AnnaSophia to the hospital and call it a day. Go home to a gin and tonic.
Forget he’d made sure she wasn’t arrested for her husband’s murder.
She has to handle this problem with her kid on her own.
AnnaSophia mashed a thumb against her bottom lip. “I can’t leave the children alone.”
“It’s okay, Mamá. When the EMTs showed up, I called Ari. He’s coming.”
Thank you, Ari. The name stirred a sudden memory of AnnaSophia’s long-ago classmate, Ari Hoffman. In her life before she met Michael. In her life during those days the police contacted him at Stanford. From all Satish had heard, the professor and Soshanna Levi-Hoffman had been the only people she trusted.
She sure as hell never trusted me.
AnnaSophia scrubbed her face, wrapped her arms around her children’s shoulders, and pulled them into a circle with their three heads touching. “I’ll keep my cell phone on.”
Five minutes later, Satish climbed behind the wheel and tapped the horn. How long did they need for goodbye kisses? A decade later, AnnaSophia dropped into the passenger seat. Magnus pushed the remote. The garage door slid up, flooding the walls with daylight. Satish started the engine and rolled down the windows. Say nothing.
At the end of the lane, AnnaSophia punched in a number on her cell and started talking to Ari—not just a prof—but a genius prof. Her oldest friend. She ignored Satish as if he was her personal chauffeur.
Served my purpose showing up at midnight.
His empty gut growled. Dammit, except for the OJ and a banana half an hour ago, he hadn’t eaten for over twelve hours. Hunger might account for his pissy mood. Breakfast had become a big deal with his mother insisting on preparing onion rava dosa or kuttu ki khichdi or scrambled eggs if he preferred. She treated him like a spoiled brat. Small wonder he was acting like one now with his widdle feelings hurt because AnnaSophia’s damned phone call mattered more than filling him in on Alexandra. He lowered the visor and logic kicked in.
Tired as AnnaSophia was, she’d passed the point of secretiveness hours earlier. So her excluding him wasn’t deliberate. So why was he mentally giving her crap? He pressed the accelerator harder. When she disconnected, she was still so pale, he thought she needed at least two pints of blood. She had to know better than him Alexandra’s prognosis was grim.
Her voice cracked as she reported the prof was on her cul-de-sac. Satish grunted. A lot could still happen. An observation he kept to himself. He ignored the GPS and the speed limit. More twists and bends on his route, but he might beat the ambulance.
During the next phone call, AnnaSophia’s tone softened as she spoke to both kids. Full sentences versus the monosyllables with Ari. She made a lame joke that went over Satish’s head, but at least she wasn’t unconscious—because her mouth twitched.
The modern, three-story psychiatric hospital did, in fact, sit on a hill with a view. The Stanford campus sprawled to the North. The old blimp hangars rose to the South on Moffett Field in Mountain View. An ambulance pulled into the emergency bay at 10:30—seconds ahead of Satish. AnnaSophia made a noise, disconnected again, and pressed on her door handle.
Her seatbelt held her in place, but Satish slammed an arm across her chest. “Give me a clue how I’d explain to your kids you broke your head jumping out of a moving vehicle.”
She licked her dry lips and exhaled a long breath. “That’s Alexandra’s ambulance.”
“Surprise.” A sign prohibited parking, but he slid in behind the ambulance.
“I have to go.” Tears thickened her voice. She yanked the seatbelt out of its lock.
“Go.” He released the door locks. “But for God’s sake, don’t let her break your heart.”
“How can I stop her?” She reached the gurney as its wheels touched the ground.
A security cop crossed from his sentry box to the Porsche. “Three seconds and I write you up. It’s a thousand-bucks violation. No chance of beating it.”
The threat rolled off Satish like water off glass. His cell beeped. He watched a dark-haired woman hug AnnaSophia. They disappeared inside. His phone rang and rang. He let it ring, reversed out of the ambulance bay, and waved at the guard.
In the Visitors’ parking lot, he glanced at the LED. San Jose Police Department.
His brain stuttered but kickstarted. Not Mère. She’d never drive to San Jose. Never.
All business, he said, “Satish Patel.”
“Homicide Detective Ben Davis. I’ve got a mess here, Mr. Patel. You’re a former cop so I won’t waste our time. Did you ever give Francis Maverick O’Rourke your business card?”
Adrenaline churning now, Satish nodded, remembered Davis couldn’t see the gesture, and asked, “Is he okay?”
“He a relative? A friend?”
Awww shit. Satish pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is he dead?”
“Shot four times. Looks personal.”
“You have the shooter?”
“Not a clue. Got any ideas?”
“His mother had a boyfriend. Live-in, I think.”
“He’s dead too. So is she.”
Satish closed his eyes against the hope and gratitude he’d read in Maverick’s face as the kid drove away from AnnaSophia’s.
Murder was rarely random. He had a memory surge of the red Audi. Goddammit, he should’ve …
“You still there?” The edge in Detective Davis’s voice conveyed his impatience.
“No. I’m on my way. Give me the address.”