SATISH
The closer Satish got to AnnaSophia’s, the more he questioned phoning her. He’d squashed some of last night’s awkwardness with his first-born-son, dumb-ass comment. He groaned. What more proof that she turned his brain to molasses?
He babbled. Logic took a vacation. He reeked of testosterone.
Now was his chance to rectify all his blunders. No informing her about the press conference over the phone. He needed to tell her. In person. Watch the circus on TV at her side.
The ashes in his gut stirred, but he stomped the accelerator and picked up speed. Three blocks from AnnaSophia’s cul-de-sac, he called Mère. She answered on the third ring.
First mistake. He asked what took her so long. She informed him that eating a double-dip ice cream cone while strolling in the park with two children and their dog involved more mental and physical agility than he might imagine. Instead of winding down, she demanded to know why he’d called. She’d given AnnaSophia his message before leaving the house.
“Mère …” Should he head for the park where she and her entourage must’ve gone? A snapshot exploded of him asking his question face-to-face, and he blurted, “If a link existed to four murders and your child, would you want my siblings present at the press conference?”
Her silence swelled in his ears, overriding the noise of screaming kids in the background. When she spoke, her tone buzzed with restraint. “That question leaves me wondering why your father and I sent you to Cambridge.”
“A philosophical question for another time.” An LAPD cruiser passed him exiting AnnaSophia’s cul-de-sac. His hands went slick with sweat. He kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Would you like to rephrase the question?”
“Give me a minute.” He craned his neck and tasted curdled cream from his morning coffee. The cruiser turned the corner. Three houses on this street. What were the chances—
“Slowly.” Mère’s implication being he spoke faster than the typical Indian street vendor.
“ Of course.” He entered AnnaSophia’s driveway and stopped at the garage door. He turned off the ignition but remained in the Porsche.
The cruiser could’ve been a routine drive-by. If he believed shovelers in hell liked the heat. Davis wouldn’t ask an LAPD cop to break the news of the upcoming press conference.
Mère coughed. Ice cream stuck in her throat or a gentle reminder for him to speak up?
“In twenty-two minutes, the San Jose police are holding a press conference,” he said. “They’ll recap the status of a high-profile murder case with four vics—victims.”
The magnitude of the conference knocked the air out of his lungs, and he stared at the sun glancing off the garage door. Damn, why’d he ever show up at AnnaSophia’s command?
“Go on,” Mère said, her tone soft and encouraging.
“There’s a link … between the victims and … Alexandra Romanov. Some reporters ferreted out the connection. They’ll attend the press conference. They’ll ask—AnnaSophia knows a couple of TV stations have Alexandra’s name. The press conference will be ugly.”
Unlike him, Mère didn’t curse or blaspheme or miss a beat. She said, “Tell her the children and I will be home in ten minutes. Volunteer me to keep them busy while she watches the conference. Or, assure her I can watch with you and them and stay afterward.”
*****
The heat from AnnaSophia’s brass doorbell burned Satish’s fingertip. When she didn’t appear by his third ring, he raised the brass knocker. After the third rap, he peered in the side windows. Hardwood floors gleamed, but no sounds or movements. He stepped back. Punched the bell with his fist. Shouted her name for good measure. Silence hummed.
Was she outside? In this heat? He walked around to the gate into the backyard and entered the password she’d given him Sunday morning. Maybe she went to meet Mère and the kids. No, dammit. He saw the LAPD cop leaving the cul-de-sac. He stepped through the gate, following the pavers toward the pool house. No sign of her at the pool. Maybe in the shower.
Dammit, he retreated to the back door. He didn’t want Mère arriving before he delivered news about the press conference. To hell with ringing the bell. Neck muscles rigid, he entered the password on the keypad and entered the garage. Blinded by the dimness, he blinked. Her SUV sat in its customary bay. He cocked his head. No sound of running water.
Must have enough insulation to deaden a jackhammer.
“AnnaSophia?” He stuck his head through the door into the kitchen and froze. The hairs on his arms stood up. Not from the A/C—though he half expected icicles on the kitchen cabinets. She was inside. He could feel her. “AnnaSophia. We need to talk.”
“Go away. I don’t want to talk.” Her response was a whisper from the family room.
“My mother will be here any second with the kids.” He crossed the kitchen and stopped.
“No.” She dropped her knees from under her chin, stood, and swayed.
He closed the distance between them and gripped her elbow. Eyes vacant, she slumped into him, and he caught a whiff of coffee and cream on her breath and dried sweat in her hair.
He laid his hand in the middle of her back, eased her down into the wing chair, and knelt next to her on one knee. “Why were the Los Altos police here?”
Her breathing sped up, and her gaze shifted to far space. She turned her head so he couldn’t see her face. She stared at something invisible to him. “They came about Jennifer.”
His gut dropped. Either dead or dying. He shoved the hunch into a bottomless hole in his brain. “Can you tell me?”
“She’s dead.” Tears thickened her voice. “But I need-I need to think. How to tell Anastaysa and Magnus. When to tell—”
“You don’t have much time. As soon as the vultures learn your connection—”
“Déjà vu Michael’s murder all over again.” Lips pressed together, she faced him.
“It gets worse.” He met her gaze with a steady watchfulness. “At noon, Detective Davis is holding a press conference. He’ll release the identities of Maverick, his mother, her boyfriend, and Cassie. He’ll ask anyone with information to come forward. He won’t be able to deflect all the insinuations about Alexandra.”
“She’s underage, dammit!”
“No one will mention her name—”
“Riiight.” She punched the chair’s arm. “But they’ll do everything else—use my name. Or drop where she goes to school. Or give a description a blind man could use. Or—”
When she gave no sign of speaking at a rate slower than the speed of sound, he touched her wrist. “Okay, okay. Unless you ban Magnus and Anastaysa to a mountain yurt without a TV for the next year, they’re going to see and hear—”
“They know most of the story …” Her tired, flat tone trailed off.
“No.” He exhaled. “No one knows most of the story.”