SATISH
“So you want me to tell you everything I’ve ever learned about shit.”
“Just what you’ve learned about the two samples I brought you.” Satish turned up the collar on his jacket. As always, the temp in Winstead Rice’s lab hovered below that in a morgue. Maybe it was true pathology techs really were ghouls.
“Male. Young—late teens. European—–I’d guess Eastern European stock. No obvious gastro-intestinal medical issues.”
Satish snorted. “That’s it?”
“What’d you want? The color of his eyes? His shoe size maybe?” Round and pink as Santa Claus, Winston laughed and picked up a slide which he placed under a scope. “Sometimes I think cops believe that shit—excuse my low sense of humor—they see on CSI.”
“I don’t watch TV.”
Rice waved a chubby hand. “Good. Means you can take me out for that beer tonight.”
“Can’t tonight. Gotta chase some leads.”
“Chase your tail, you mean.”
“Raincheck, Win.”
His friend was already peering into his scope. He said goodbye without looking up.
In the parking lot, Satish sat in the car, alternately sniffed the space around the passenger window, and stared at the building he’d just left. Winstead would howl his ass off if he even suspected one sample of shit came from the Porsche. Winstead coveted the Porsche.
Dammit, another dead-end. How many teen-age males lived in Silicon Valley? How many of that particular species knew Satish? How many knew Alexandra Romanov? Did one of them have the hots for her? Did one of them—
His damn cell phone vibrated. Ben Davis.
Satish rolled down the window, stepped out of the car, and strolled to a picnic table near the side door of the lab. Too early for lunch, but 11:00 was perfect to catch some fresh air. When he answered, he tried to tone down his hostility.
“The brass wants a news conference. At noon,” Davis said by way of a greeting. “Mrs. Romanov may want to know I can’t control the questions the media will throw at me.”
“What else?” Something—a hesitation or a tightness—vibrated in Davis’s voice and poked Satish’s gut.
“Not a damn thing. You got anything for me?”
“Not a damn thing,” Satish drawled, hoping his casual ’tude conveyed a scintilla more truth than Davis’s rushed cadence. “You had any sleep yet?”
“Going straight home after the press conference. My wife’s out of town, so I’ll sleep like the de—like a baby.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Stay in touch.” Davis disconnected.
Satish tapped the phone against his palm. What the hell was that all about? Was he hallucinating from lack of sleep or did Davis invite him to his house?
Did the Pope run through the Vatican buck naked?
Satish got back in the car, calculating the quickest route to AnnaSophia’s. Ten minutes max. If he hustled, he could justify showing up on her doorstep without calling. On the other hand, a phone call gave her a chance to figure out what to do about her kids watching the newscast. His kids he’d take to an execution first. He accelerated through a yellow, crossed 101, and reached for the phone.
Voicemail picked up.
Shiiiiit. He braked for the slowest pedestrian in Mountain View, and the committee meeting in his brain hijacked his thoughts. Mère could be entertaining the kids with more cooking lessons. Or refereeing another Frisbee game with Molly and Magnus. Or watching morning TV because the kids forgot to inform her AnnaSophia limited their TV consumption like a medieval censor.
Traffic came to a standstill at St. Francis High School. Teenagers dawdled across Miramonte. Headed for an eye-opening cuppa at Starbuck’s.
So much for getting to AnnaSophia’s in ten minutes. Satish called again.
Still busy. Dammit. Her meeting at Hill View must’ve ended by now.
Unless Alexandra threw another howling fit.
The Porsche’s engine idled in a low, steady hum. Herds of yelling boys charged up behind gaggles of giggling girls. With zero finesse the boys yanked on the girls’ sweaters or swiped their books. Jesus, no wonder Alexandra went looking for someone older.
Not that Maverick showed any more maturity than these sex fiends high on testosterone.
God that poor, stupid bastard—never dreaming Alexandra Romanov was addicted to walking on the wild side. Satish smacked the steering wheel.
The self-inflicted pain produced a second of concentration. Palm tucked under his armpit, he called Mère and asked for AnnaSophia’s whereabouts.
“She’s on the phone with the children’s headmistress. When she hangs up, we’re all going for ice cream and a walk with the dog.”
“Speaking to me is more important.”
“The children need to get out of the house for a while, in my opinion.”
Her slight emphasis on my reminded him she was the kid expert—even though she didn’t remind him she had earned a Ph.D. in childhood development.
“I’ll relay your message, but she has already agreed a walk offers a respite.”
After several decades, the traffic light changed. He inched past St. Francis at a steady 15 MPH. “If the ice cream store has a TV, get in and out fast.”
“Have you had enough water to drink today? You sound delirious.”
“Please, Mère. I’ll explain later.” He bit back adding, Trust me, but said, “Now, I need to speak to AnnaSophia.”