SATISH
Satish stepped out of the Porsche, leaned on the roof, and peered through the black wrought-iron gate at the long, tree-lined, private lane shrouded in fog.
Smart thinking, Patel. Driving here to the Karpov mansion.
The place could withstand a tank invasion.
Howling guard dogs offer a distraction.
They never stop.
He remembered after he stepped out of the car. No one had any idea of his whereabouts.
Lefevbre’s bosses lost track of his whereabouts ... Salt coated Satish’s throat.
Stefan Lefevbre, aka, Matt Ward … murdered by a psychopath.
Karpov swims in the same end of the pool as his dead boss.
Like father, like son.
Jaw locked, Satish kicked a rock into a high arc. Christ, he’d about used up his stupidity quotient. By now, Karpov must’ve destroyed the red Audi.
Getting near the garage would test James Bond. Could Alexandra shed a ray of light on anything? He pushed off the Porsche. Had she shed a single tear for Maverick? Would she rat out Nicholas? Confirm Satish’s hunch her boyfriend was jealous—murderously jealous?
With no answers to any of his questions—including who owned the Audi—Satish got back in the car. A split second later, a silver 458 Italia barreled toward the gates. They swung open smoothly. In the heartbeat it took for the Ferrari to pass through to the house, Satish caught the plate’s number. His fingers flew across his cell’s keypad as he strained to see the driver. The gate swung shut on the back of a dark head.
Call Ben Davis. The logic made sense. Except Satish wanted to make one more attempt at reaching his fiftyish, Mumbai-born, DMV contact. They’d met ten years ago at a cop-bar. They’d chatted about her college-age daughter—more Western than Indian. Although he’d managed to resist her blatant matchmaking, she took no offense.
Ever since when he called for info the DMV could provide, Anjana had found what he requested and kept up a running monologue about her daughter’s undergrad success, master’s program, and Ph.D. studies. Someday, the right Indian man would come along ...
Anjana’s phone rang. Satish drummed the horn. He’d learned Monday she’d taken a week’s vacation. She was scheduled to return today. One, two, three ... The ringing sounded weaker.
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. If she didn’t answer, he’d go to the DMV—all the way to hell and back in East San Jose.
“And what if she didn’t come back today, genius?” He pressed the phone harder against his ear. Dammit, he was spinning his wheels.
“Hang up.” He tapped the phone against his forehead.
“Hello? Satish? Is that you?”
“Yes,” he yelled, blurting out his case, rattling off the license plate, asking about red Audis in the area. “I need to know about those two cars. Knowing the owner, Auntie, could solve the murders of two people younger than your daughter.”
“Omygod,” she whispered, her buoyant tone heavy with melancholy.
Dammit, he’d gone too far. Calling her Auntie bordered on manipulation. Referring to two murders and her daughter in the same sentence bordered on shock-tactics. “I’m sor—”
“The Ferrari and eight other cars are registered to a corporation owned by Dimitri Alexis Karpov.” Her words rushed over each other like monsoon rain bursts—too fast and too hard to interrupt since she spoke without inhaling. “The corporate address doesn’t exist in my database, but all the cars carry current plates and insurance.”
Satish cleared his throat and rasped, “Is one a red Audi?”
Eyes closed, seeing the parked car in front of AnnaSophia’s that first night, he counted off the seconds—up to twenty—before she came back with a firm no.
“Can you check again?” He opened his eyes. “Search for an R8 Spyder Convertible?”
She sighed. “I’ve checked three times, Satish.”
“What about in the state? How many red ...” He let his voice wind down.
“Seventy Audis in California.” She sounded as if she was crying. “None registered to Karpov. Or to the corporation. I find only three in the Bay area. No Spyders. None of them red.”
“Sonuva—” He caught himself. “Thank you, Auntie.”
He disconnected and ground his thumb in the cheek he’d smacked in the bathroom. The pain focused him. Goddammit, he wasn’t wrong. The red Audi at AnnaSophia’s confirmed his gut. Cassie’s dying word, red, soothed his gut. The drunk in San Francisco … So what if he hadn’t found the connection between the car and Nicholas Karpov?
“He’s the driver,” Satish spoke out loud, his insides on fire again. “He’s the killer.”
By the time he rolled away in the Porsche, with no plan in mind, he felt better than he had in days. The hope of justice for Maverick and Cassie swamped his brain. He almost missed the streak of red coming right at him. The Porsche spun in a tight, dizzying circle. The airbags popped, but his head hit the side window. Blackness ...
*****
“I know who you are.” Nostrils flared, Dimitri Karpov filled the open door of his sprawling Georgian mansion. “I also know it’s illegal to impersonate a police officer.”
Whiplash gave Satish a bad headache. Made him pissy. Made him decide on the spot about using the hit-and-run as a way to jab ole Dimitri. He shrugged. “I never said I was a cop. I said I wanted to talk to you about the car that came close to killing me.”
His exact words swam in his head like disoriented guppies, but he must’ve made sense on the intercom. They’d opened the gate, and Karpov had come to the front door. Without a badge to flaunt, Satish flipped open his wallet to his CDL.
Karpov’s laugh climbed up Satish’s spine. It ached from the other car’s impact, but the fog had evaporated during his hour-long siesta, and the sun warmed the stiffness in his neck.
Slipping the wallet back into his inside pocket, Satish ignored the man’s gorilla-size and the hostility snapping off him from head to fingertips. He cut the bullshit. “Is your son here?”
“Why would I tell you anything about my son’s whereabouts? He has nothing to do with your accident.”
Satish kept his hands at his sides and replied in his flattest, no-bullshit cop-tone, “You know he’s a cold-blooded killer.”
Derision inflated Dimitri’s belly laugh. “Is that why you’ve brought so many policemen—to arrest him?”
“Is that what you want?” Satish paused. The guy had to be carrying, but where—Waist? Hip? Shoulder? What—A gun? A knife? “The police on your front step?”
“What I want is you to leave. Save your accident-ruse for someone gullible.”
A seven-foot hulk suddenly loomed behind Dimitri on little cat feet. He pointed an HK-23 at Satish’s heart.
“Ivan will escort you off the premises,” said Karpov. “I’ll be sure to relay your message to my son.”
“Be sure to tell your boy here that cops look long and hard at accidental shootings.” Refusing to turn his back on the goon, Satish stepped backward. How far to the edge?
Ivan growled and rushed forward with a two-handed grip on his HK-23.
Adrenaline poured into Satish. His fingers closed around the Glock, but Dimitri whipped around and spit out an unintelligible barrage in Russian. Head thudding, Satish glanced over his shoulder. He’d blacked out after being rear-ended, and his knees and back still felt the impact. The drop to the walkway was too high to take in a single leap. Voices rose. His scalp prickled. Instinct took over.
One deep breath and he plunged down the six broad steps.
Better to break his neck than play badass with The Hulk.
The mid-afternoon sun still hadn’t dried the morning fog on the steps. He hit the walkway, hydroplaned, threw his hands out, regained his balance without falling. Thank God, he hadn’t drawn the Glock. The ten-yard sprint to the Porsche stretched into the next zip code. Muscles in his back screamed. So did his mind.
Guess what? Involuntary muscle spasms don’t deflect bullets.
He unholstered the Glock and aimed through the passenger’s window as he jerked the driver’s door open left-handed. The door made a lousy shield. That the Porsche still drove was a testament to German engineering. Doubled over, Satish slid under the steering wheel. He jammed the key into the ignition, shifted into reverse, and floored the accelerator.
His breath roared in his ears like a wounded rhino charging. Would they open the gate?