SATISH
Sunday—2 p.m.—San Jose, California
The sun’s glare pierced Satish’s sunglasses as he left Cassie’s place. He added Pérron The Yappy Dog to his mental TO-DO list and climbed into the Porsche. Dropping the bomb on AnnaSophia about Maverick’s murder came first. Then, if his mother cut her sermon short about his failure to marry a good Indian girl and produce grandchildren, sleep. Yappy Dog he’d deal with later. Maybe even tomorrow. Cross-eyed from exhaustion, he pulled away from the curb and inched through the reporters rushing toward the Porsche, waving mikes like royal scepters.
Disgust burned his gut. He kept his foot on the brake and revved the engine. Wolves. Vultures. They didn’t give a damn about Maverick. They’d bark and caw about the kid’s pathetic sleeping conditions for as long as they could manufacture a three-second sound byte. Cursing, he took a right turn and ended up in a cul-de-sac lined with more fourplexes.
His gut growled while he drove in circles. Logic surfaced. He punched Hill View’s address into his GPS. The route out of the maze required concentration.
Another excuse not to call Mére.
His headache pounded as he looped through unfamiliar streets. Maverick’s mother let him sleep in the garage with no apparent guilt. His own mother would sleep in the gutter before she let him undergo such shame. AnnaSophia? What part of her soul did she sell to rid the world of Michael Romanov so her children could sleep in peace?
His exit was coming up. In less than ten minutes, he’d reach Hill View. Once he found AnnaSophia, he might not drag home for a couple of hours. Okay, he and Mère were at each other’s throats. He still owed her the courtesy of a phone call. He ground his teeth, preparing for his execution by verbal cannonballs.
She answered on the first ring. “My God, Satish, where have you been? Are you all right? Why didn’t you call me? I’ve been worried sick.”
“Mother. I’m sorry.”
“Ten more minutes, and I was contacting the police. I called El Camino Hos—”
“Mother.” His biceps burned from choking the steering wheel. “You’re right. I should’ve called. I’m fine. I’ll tell you everything. Later.”
“What time are you coming home?”
“Did you even hear my apology?”
“Of course I heard it. Do you think because I am sixty-nine years old I am deaf? It is just that you never apologize. I’m in shock. I may require a pacemaker.”
He laughed. God, she was priceless. “Let’s talk to a friend of mine first. He can recommend a good cardiologist—”
“Oh, you.” She snickered. “I’m sorry for ranting. It’s just that—if you had children, I wouldn’t have to explain.”
“Thank you, Mother. I need to go now, but when I get home, we’ll talk. I promise.”
“Are you hungry for something in particular? I will make you something special.”
“Surprise me. But don’t go to too much trouble. I’m asleep on my feet.”
The exit to 280 appeared, and he cut across two lanes without giving a signal.
A horn blared.
“Are you driving like a Mumbai taxi driver?”
“I’ll slow down.” Familiar with the straight stretch ahead, he hit the accelerator, hardly feeling the Porsche leap to ninety. What she didn’t know wouldn’t …
The cliché stuttered in his tired brain. If he killed himself from speeding, he’d destroy her. She was barely alive without his father—her husband for forty-five years. He eased off the accelerator, holding the speedometer steady at eighty, letting other cars pass.
“I’m hanging up now, Mother. I can’t concentrate on more than ten things at once.”
“I love you.” Before he could echo the phrase, she disconnected.
His mind shifted gears—not smoothly like the Porsche, but jerky. His brain lacked the fine tuning of his car. Would AnnaSophia feel outrage at Maverick’s murder? Maybe she’d be relieved. Poof. Bad PR worries gone.
Informing next-of-kin had never been one of his strengths as a homicide cop. He’d never gotten better with experience. Experience made the job worse—because he learned what to anticipate, but he never foresaw the depth of the sorrow and disbelief and anger.
How the hell should he begin? I have something to tell you, AnnaSophia.
The phrase stuck in his brain for the two miles to Hill View. He tried a few embellishments—I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to hear the news first on TV. Let’s sit down.
None of these phrases added any value to his original idea.
Once he exited the freeway, he really did have to concentrate on maneuvering the hairpin curves and twist backs. He pulled into a visitor’s parking spot and turned off the ignition. Mildly stunned by the sun’s heat and the stink of sweat oozing off him, he sat there, his mind turned off like the car’s engine. The third time his chin hit his chest, he lurched up and tumbled out of the Porsche. His stomach dropped, growling as if he’d starved for days.
Perfect way to keep her attention.
Impatience shot through him like a bolt of lightning. Stop stalling. What’d he think was going to happen once he told her?
That she’ll fall apart.
And when people fell apart, that could be the beginning.
A beginning could be when incriminating admissions about Michael Romanov’s murder began to slip out.
Teetering into the twilight world of speculation, Satish jogged across the hot asphalt.