SATISH
On hold with his contact in San Francisco, Satish inched closer to the TV. Mère and AnnaSophia sat next to each other on the sofa. Anastaysa and Magnus sat on the floor at the women’s feet. No one in the room spoke.
Grim-faced in the glare of TV klieg lights, a tic jumping in his jaw, Ben Davis opened the press conference without any notes or a podium. Satish studied him. For a guy running on no sleep, Davis appeared vigorous and alert. Make-up for the cameras?
When the Pope wears a tutu for Christmas mass.
Davis stood with loose hands at his sides and began with the identities of Maverick, his mother, and Jameson Whitmore. He followed with their ages, ethnicity, and location of their shared residence. He added the police had notified the next of kin whose names the department would not divulge.
A slight buzz started, but he kept talking and several media vultures hissed for quiet.
“Way to go, Ben,” Satish whispered. Everyone attending and watching the press conference recognized the circus ringmaster.
“Rumors abound regarding this case.” The undercurrent of a sneer colored Ben’s statement. “The SJPD will not speculate on the motive or the murderer. When we have further germane information, we’ll pass that information on to the media.”
Germane? Satish fought the impulse to clap. How many media types had a clue what the word meant?
“Now,” Davis said in his professorial tone, “I’ll take questions for the next ten minutes. Raise your hands. I’ll call on as many of you as time allows.”
A hand shot up, and the questioner began without waiting for recognition. “What about the fourth vic?”
“Jason, ignoring my instructions leads to chaos.” Without taking a breath, Davis hitched his chin at a petite brunette news anchor holding her motionless hand over her head.
Satish sucked in his breath. Damn, the ringmaster controlling the lions.
A couple of routine questions followed about the location of the bodies and cause of death. A woman Satish recognized from a San Francisco TV station raised her hand and brayed, “What about the young girl involved with Maverick O’Rourke? What part did she play?”
“No comment.”
Satish expected to see icicles hanging from the woman’s ears, but she yelled, “I have a source who saw O’Rourke leave Leather’s Bar with an unidentified female.”
“What’s your source’s name?” Davis shot back. “I’d like to speak with him.”
“That information is confidential.”
“So is any information about any minor, Miz Finley.”
Her nostrils flared. “This is the United States of America, you know.”
“Yes?” Davis pointed at a raised hand behind her.
“When can we expect the identity of the fourth victim, Detective Davis?”
“We’re pursuing a lead on the next of kin. When we’re finished, we’ll release the name.”
“In another press conference?”
“Press conferences take time from investigations. I prefer to investigate. If anyone out there has information that could lead to an arrest, call …”
Davis stepped off the HQ dais and strode through the mob as if taking a Sunday stroll in the park. Did AnnaSophia realize how adroitly he’d protected Alexandra?
AnnaSophia flicked the TV remote and slipped off the sofa onto the floor. His mother stayed put. He disconnected his call and texted his contact. Call ASAP. Thx.
She held out her hands and waited until Anastaysa and Magnus grasped her fingertips. She squeezed, remembering how she’d kissed those tiny bones after their birth. Mouth dry, she said, “The under-age girl the reporter asked about is Alexandra.”
“Will she go to jail?” Magnus whispered.
“Don’t be an idiot.” Anastaysa snatched back her hand.
A flinch, but AnnaSophia narrowed her eyes and trained them on her daughter as if they were the only two people in the room. “Magnus’s question is understandable—”
“It’s dumb.” Anastaysa crossed her arms over her heaving chest. “Alexandra never killed anyone.”
“Of course not.” AnnaSophia propped Anastaysa’s chin on her thumb and forefinger. “Let’s take care of each other instead of fighting.”
“I’m sorry,” Magnus said and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
“That’s disgusting,” Anastaysa hissed.
She tossed her head in the disdainful way that reminded Satish of Alexandra. Christ, two rotten kids out of three.
Magnus jerked his thumb from his mouth as if about to gag.
“Satish used to suck his thumb when he was under stress.” The revelation flowed out of Mère’s mouth like warm honey, choking Satish with its brazenness. The woman had never understood humiliation. She smiled like the wife of a diplomat. “I suggest we all have some chai tea. That’s what we do in India, you know. Drink tea when we’re upset.”
“May I help you fix it?” Anastaysa got to her feet.
“I was thinking both you and Magnus could help—if that’s all right with your mother.”
Anastaysa’s chin came up. “I don’t want Magnus to help.”
“I see. I should have realized you wish to apologize to your mother and brother—a very mature behavior, in my opinion.”
Red-faced, lips pressed together, Anastaysa stared at Mère as if she’d spoken in Hindi.
Satish repressed a smile. He could tell this amateur she’d engaged in a game she’d never win. Mère could outstare a dozen cobras and mongooses anywhere, anytime.
AnnaSophia cleared her throat. Her daughter was throwing off you-have-to-be-kidding-me vibes. They had zero effect on Mère. Her steady, unwavering gaze remained steady and unwavering. According to his father, she’d cowed Russian, Iranian, Chinese, and Saudi diplomats without speaking a single syllable.
The pouting went on for another decade or so. But Satish detected a couple of cracks in Anastaysa’s cement-veneer. First, her shoulders slumped. Next, her chin came down enough he could see her eyes. They were watering. He gave her two seconds.
She blinked on his mental count of nine.
“Can you teach me how to do that?” she asked Mère.
Gaze unblinking, Mère said, “The skill is very powerful. It can bring painful consequences. Learning takes a long time and much patience. You would have to promise never to use the power on your mother. Or younger brother. Or older sister.”
Anastaysa glared at Magnus, hesitated, returned gazing at Mère. “I’d promise.”
“There are other prerequisites … the first one is earning the respect and permission of your mother.”
“I like a challenge.” Anastaysa crossed her ankles and pushed herself to her feet.
The vibration of Satish’s phone distracted him. He moved out of earshot but caught a bit of Anastaysa’s apology.
“Magnus, I was mean. I’m sorry. Mamá, I was afraid for Alexandra. She doesn’t have many friends at school, you know.”
For an instant, AnnaSophia’s face splintered. She filled her lungs with air and spoke on the exhale. “You are a wonderful sister.”
Anastaysa accepted the compliment without thanking her mother or commenting on her forgiving nature.
Satish clamped his jaws shut. When was the last time he told Mère she was wonderful?