SATISH
“South Bay triple homicide!” The blonde anchor’s pouty red lips filled most of the LED on Satish’s phone. He switched to another news station.
“Police will not confirm reports in this Blossom Valley neighborhood of a triple homicide.” The male delivered his headline in the plummy tone of national news reporters, rising on triple homicide.
Seated in the hospital lobby at the top of the circular staircase, Satish kept one eye on his phone, the other on the carpeted steps. Unless Dr. Levi left the café by way of the garden, she’d pass through here. She’d ignore him. Too bad. He’d follow her and hijack AnnaSophia.
Satish thumbed through a couple of radio stations’ breaking reports. All with the same story lead-in. So far the police had released no names, falling back on the tried and true standby of first notifying next of kin.
He yawned. Jesus, the recliner molded to his body better than his bed.
The sun glancing through the big window zapped the energy he’d refueled with the soup. He yawned again. At this rate, he’d miss Dr. Levi riding a camel up the stairs. He brought the recliner to an upright position, planted his feet on the carpet, and grabbed a short-term memory.
Family. The vics’ families. Specifically Maverick’s dad. He Googled Francis O’Rourke. Ten hits in the Bay Area. Too young and too old, none matched the little he knew about the man. Not a huge surprise. For the hell of it, he refined his search to The Lone Ranger O’Rourke.
A grinning face came up. The chin belonged to Maverick. The vintage VW van fit Cassie’s description. The web-page bio proclaimed he “lived where the freakin’ govmint would never find him.”
Satish read it all, exhaled, and texted the link to Davis. Good luck.
Contrary to Cassie’s character assassination, Boyfriend Whitmore probably did not crawl out from under a rock. Which didn’t mean the police would find his NOK anytime soon. But the media lions wanted red meat. Unless they turned up more on the Internet than Satish, they’d have to rely on other sources for Whitmore. No doubt an anchor chasing his or her big story would leak the names sooner rather than later.
Hey, how many times did a triple homicide come your way?
Dr. Levi’s low, cell-phone voice carried up the stairs. Satish reclined the chair again and closed his eyes. Her voice stopped. Damn, she’d seen him. He let his jaw sag and made gurgling sounds close to snores. He sensed her watching him, but remained inert. Her footsteps, all but inaudible, faded. He slit his eyes. She took a left turn.
Yeeesss. He came out of the chair and approached the front desk she had skirted. The receptionist stopped playing solitaire on her phone and raised her brows. He laid out Dr.Levi’s wallet, recited a cock and bull story about finding it in the cafeteria, and left.
The woman made no effort to call him back, and he strode down the hall as if he had a reason for his route. Paintings—none of which he recognized—hung on nearly every wall in the area where the shrink had vanished. Swirls of reds and blues and oranges merged into meaningless blobs. They left him disoriented. Why the hell so many?
Make it through the weird angles and dead-ends and get the GO-card to leave Hill View.
He laughed. Watch yourself. The notion of surviving an obstacle course of walls was crazy. Crazier ideas existed. Maverick hooking up with Alexandra Romanov, for one.
Sweat trickled through Satish’s hair. He patted the back of his neck. No mirrors, thank God. The twists and turns confused him enough without seeing his lost expression every time he turned around. Half the damn doors were painted façades. Who came up with this hair-brained funhouse? What chance did he have of whisking AnnaSophia off to someplace they could talk?
He exhaled through his teeth. Hell, for all he knew, Dr. Levi had already slipped out the door they’d entered. How long ago? He checked his wrist.
Two minutes? He brought the Rolex closer into his line of vision. Two minutes. His brain stuttered. Nearby, a door clicked.
“Hello, Soshanna,” a woman said. “You’re just in time to take AnnaSophia home.”
AnnaSophia’s inaudible response floated into the hall.
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning,” the woman said. “Between seven and ten.”
“Can’t you be more specific?” AnnaSophia shouted.
“Between seven and ten.”
In the background, a phone rang. Satish pressed his back against the wall and crept to the next corner feeling sillier than a TV-cop tracking the bad guy.
The woman continued, “I have to get that.”
The conversation ended with a door closing.
AnnaSophia said, “You’re sure she’s the best there is?”
“Walks on water,” Dr. Levi said. “Let’s go to the garden. I have to tell you something.”
“Are the kids okay?” Panic rode the question.
“Fine. They’re teaching Ari how to bake chocolate chip cookies.”
AnnaSophia sighed. “That’s what I need to know.”
No, it’s not. Neck muscles stiff, Satish inched forward and stuck his head around the corner. The shrink had her arm around AnnaSophia’s waist.
“Dr. Levi.” He stepped away from the wall. “Your wallet’s at the front desk.”
She whirled around, her mouth hard, her eyes harder, his BS spiking off her like bullets. “I don’t think so.”
He shrugged. “I found it in the cafeteria.”
She patted her purse. Opened it. Rummaged inside. Stared at him, searching his face, lifting her chin, but still only coming up to his shoulders.
“The receptionist leaves in ten minutes. Said she’d put it in the safe.”
Dr. Soshanna Levi’s face flushed tomato-red. Tapping one foot, she pressed her lips together and frowned. He could see the frames unrolling in her head. Him and her at the cafeteria table. Him knocking off his spoon. Him picking it up.
Her eyes narrowed, widened, hardened. He grinned. Slow, easy, mocking. Zinnng. The pieces all fell in place.
“Go, Sanna, before she leaves.”
“Did she say if someone in admissions can open the safe?” Dr. Levi asked Satish.
Straight-faced, he said, “No.”
“Shit.” Shoshanna turned blazing eyes on AnnaSophia. “If my hospital ID wasn’t in—”
“Go,” AnnaSophia repeated. “We’ll wait outside.”
“Where?”
Satish appropriated AnnaSophia’s elbow. “In the shade.”