“Very thorough. Thank you, Officer Horne. Keep a sharp eye out. I don’t want anything else to happen to Mr. Patil.”
“You really think he was shot on purpose, Agent Savich?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But why would anyone want to shoot an old man?”
Savich only shook his head, then looked through the glass window to see Mr. Patil lying perfectly still in the narrow bed, IVs attached to each wrist. He was so slight, there was hardly a lump to see. He looked old and frail and insubstantial, but he was tough and he was alive, and Savich wanted very much for him to stay that way. He’d read the financial report Ben Raven had e-mailed to him, and then done a thorough check of his own. Mr. Patil had a fat portfolio, well diversified, and an excellent bank balance. He’d bought the Shop ’n Go fifteen years ago and had expanded to own four more stores spread throughout Washington, D.C., operated by members of his extended family. But the Georgetown store was his baby, and he insisted on managing it himself.
Savich remembered how Mr. Patil had welcomed him when he’d moved into his grandmother’s beautiful house, telling him with a good deal of excitement that he’d known his grandmother, what a marvelous lady, and believed her paintings were admirable. Admirable sounded a bit like saying her paintings were interesting, and Savich could see his grandmother grinning at that. Savich walked in quietly and stood beside the bed.
Savich started to say Mr. Patil’s name when he opened his eyes and looked up at him. There was only an instant of blankness before he smiled. “Hello, Agent Savich. It pleases me very much to see you.”
Mr. Patil spoke English with the beautiful faintly sing-song accent of his native country. Besides English and Hindi, he also spoke French and Spanish. He’d come to the United States when he was twenty-four, too old to relearn English with an American accent, he’d told Savich. He spoke very formally, and his English was perfect.
Savich lightly touched his fingertips to Mr. Patil’s forearm. “I’m very glad to see you, too, Mr. Patil. How are you feeling?”
“I am feeling quite pleasant, only I am tired, always tired. Sleep hovers over me, is always dragging at me.”
“Then perhaps it would be best if I came back tomorrow.”
Mr. Patil said, “Oh, no, it is very nice to see someone other than family. They all wring their hands and look at me like I’m already in my coffin. Detective Raven was here earlier, but I fell asleep in the middle of one of his questions. My arm is sore, but it doesn’t bother me too much. I have heard the nurses call me a tough old buzzard. I like the sound of that.”
Savich said, “I do, too. Your family is very worried about you, Mr. Patil, and your friends, Mr. Urbi and Mr. Shama.”
“Oh, yes, and I love them, but after a while, they do grate on one’s senses. Ah, but to see my very good friend Amal Urbi and his nephew Krishna, that was good. They do not hover. They act like sensible men and sit and speak to me until I fall asleep. They were here this morning.
“But then after they left, my wife came and stayed and stayed. Jasmine always asks questions—the nurses, every doctor who comes within twelve feet of me. She is not happy, she tells me over and over, not happy that I should be robbed two weeks in a row. It makes no sense, she says, and asks more questions. She does not believe in coincidence. The poor young police officer who is sitting outside this room, he does not have a chance against Jasmine. She tells me she hears that he is engaged and very possibly thinking of his fiancée and not really paying all that much attention to my safety. And then she shakes her finger in his face.”
“I plan to speak to your wife myself. She can question me as much as she wishes to. Do you feel up to telling me what happened, Mr. Patil?”
“I would like to, yes, Agent Savich.” He was silent, and Savich could practically see his brain weaving together the facts of what had happened Wednesday night, but it was difficult for him, even though he’d already told his story to Ben Raven. Savich waited. “There was not a great deal of business Wednesday evening, and so I decided to close thirty minutes earlier than I normally do. This was not unusual for me. I went through my same routine—straightening merchandise, making certain the refrigeration units were working properly, checking the locks, the lights, lowering the blinds over the front window, removing the cash from the register, counting it, preparing the deposit slip, and putting it in a deposit bag to take to the bank.”
“Did you know the police found the empty deposit bag beside you?”
“That is what Detective Raven told me. It is odd, because many nights I leave the deposit bag in the safe for my son to deal with in the morning, but I decided to put the deposit bag into the business drop box at the bank myself.”
“Tell me what you did then, sir.”
“After I finished my routine, I let myself out of the back door. I was locking the door and setting the alarm when I heard someone breathing behind me. I was turning when I felt a very hard slap against my back, and it threw me against the door. And then I must have passed out, Agent Savich. I have no memory of anything else.”
“Did you think it was a man you heard breathing behind you?”
Mr. Patil thought about that, slowly shook his head. “I do not know, I am sorry.”
It was a thoughtful, cool recital. Savich asked him a couple more questions, got more information about Mr. Urbi and Mr. Shama, and said, “Mr. Patil, I plan to help Detective Raven find out who did this to you.”
“Detective Raven told me the robber last Tuesday night is just above my head on the fourth floor, recovering from the wound in his shoulder. He said there were complications following surgery but the man is doing better. Have you talked to him, Agent Savich?”
“I’m going up to talk to him now. You rest, sir. I will speak to you tomorrow.”
“I remember that Mr. Raditch was there with Michael and Crissy on Tuesday evening, the night of the attempted robbery. I called him when I was able, and he said they were fine. Are they still all right? Do you know?”
“I spoke to Mr. Raditch two nights ago. There have been a couple of scary dreams for the kids, and one really bad one for him, he said. He and his wife are being very careful with them. My wife set them up with a child psychiatrist.”
“That is good. I will tell you, Agent Savich, I was so scared for the children when that man walked in and pointed that gun at me. Now, you will tell me, Agent Savich, why is there a guard at my door?”
“What did Detective Raven tell you, sir?”
“Nothing at all, merely that since this was the second robbery so very soon after the first, there might be some connection between the two robberies, and that concerned him. Like my wife, Detective Raven does not appear to like coincidences, either.”
Mr. Patil looked very alert now, and there was such intelligence in his dark eyes that Savich pushed ahead. “Mr. Patil, think back to that Tuesday night. Do you believe the man with the stocking over his face was really there only to rob you?”
“You are thinking perhaps that he meant to kill me? And since he failed, another came to kill me two days ago?”
Savich said, “That is why the guard is outside your door.”
“But who would want to kill me? I am an old man. I have no enemies that I am aware of. It is my wife who should be in danger, for she flays alive anyone who criticizes me or her children or her grandchildren. She is brutal. I am quite terrified of her.” Mr. Patil shook his head, and Savich saw a small smile.
Minutes later, Savich went to the fourth floor to see Thomas Wenkel, a former resident of Ossining, in for ten years for armed robbery, paroled after eight years, and released eight months ago. He was a career felon. Did that include murder?
There was a guard outside his room as well. His name was Officer Ritter. No, Savich was told, no visitors, nothing out of the ordinary. Officer Ritter looked, frankly, bored. Ben had best change out the guard.
Savich paused in the doorway. Thomas Wenkel was watching TV, his eyes glued to the small s
et high on the opposite wall. It was a soap opera.
“Mr. Wenkel.”
Thomas Wenkel brought his narrow, watery eyes to Savich. “You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
When Savich stuck his creds under Wenkel’s nose, he ignored them. Savich saw his long, thick fingers drum against the bedsheet. Then he turned to face Savich. “You’re the guy who shot me.”
“Yes. I could have killed you, but I didn’t.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for that, you bastard. Go away.”
“Did you know Mr. Patil was shot this past Wednesday night, during another supposed robbery?”
“Stupid old fool. Did he bite the big one this time?”
“You know he didn’t, since Detective Raven doubtless came to speak to you about it.”
Wenkel shrugged, convulsively swallowed at a hit of pain in his shoulder, and concentrated on the soap opera.
“Were you going to kill Mr. Patil?”
“You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
“Tell me, Mr. Wenkel, when you hooked up with Elsa Heinz.”
“I don’t know no Elsa Heinz.” He shouted at the TV. “Hey, Erica, don’t cheat on your husband with that yahoo! Don’t you got no brain?”
Savich’s eyes flicked to the soap opera, then back to Mr. Wenkel. “Elsa Heinz was forty-three years old, in and out of prison for years, just like you, Mr. Wenkel. Why did she come running in to save your bacon? Were you more than criminals together? Were you lovers, Mr. Wenkel?”
Wenkel started humming. There was a commercial on TV.
“She’s dead. I had to kill her.”
Wenkel never looked away from the television. He only shrugged, but Savich would swear he saw Wenkel’s mouth tighten.
“Who hired the two of you to kill Mr. Patil?”
“You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
The D.A. had offered Wenkel a deal to roll, but he’d said he didn’t rat nobody out, ever.
Savich left. This was interesting indeed. Someone like Wenkel, he should have rolled. Something was wrong with that picture.
CHAPTER 14
Hoover Building
Late Friday morning
Coop said, “I gotta tell you, Savich, Inspector Delion was so excited this morning when I called San Francisco and told him the serial killer is Ted Bundy’s daughter, he nearly hyperventilated. I gave him her probable age, sent him the most recent sketch, told him we were betting she lived and attended school in the San Francisco Bay Area since that’s where the murders started. I told him we’d have a name for him soon. He’d already done some work on the first two murders committed in San Francisco, and he said a lot of people in the SFPD would be hyped with this news.
“He called me a couple of minutes ago, said they’d already looked through their unsolved murders but there weren’t any good matches, but he found six unsolved missing persons—all women—who might fit the ticket. None of the six missing women have ever showed up, anywhere, and the young ones they didn’t consider runaways.”
Savich waved Coop to a seat. “Over what period of time?”
“He said the first one was a missing teenager, seventeen years ago, then another missing female every couple of years to the present, when the two women were murdered in their homes in San Francisco and, naturally, found pretty quickly. If Bundy’s daughter is responsible for the missing women, she didn’t want them found.”
Savich punched a couple of keys on MAX, then frowned. “It seems to me if she killed those missing women, what she was doing was working all the kinks out, fine-tuning her craft. But why did she change everything when she took her show on the road?”
MAX beeped.
“Ah, here we go.” Savich typed a couple more keys. “Come here, Coop, take a look at this.”
Both men stared down at a series of high-school yearbook photos of three young women, sixteen or seventeen years old, at three different high schools in San Francisco, eighteen years ago. “Looks like that one, doesn’t it?” Coop said, and pointed to a girl’s photo in the Mount Elysium High School yearbook. “Look at that dead white face. The hair’s blond and the clothes are red, but hair and clothing are easy to change. She’s pretty, but there’s a sort of indifference about her, maybe a remoteness, you know what I mean?”
Savich said, “As if she’s not really plugged into this world, and she doesn’t give a crap about any of its inhabitants.” A couple more key taps and the screen filled with the face of the girl called Kirsten Bolger. Another couple of keys, and her hair became black. “Look at those eyes, Savich, dark as a pit. Black hair looks natural—bet she dyed her hair blond for the yearbook picture.”
Savich made her clothes black, too, set a black beret on her head. “Okay, let’s line her up with the sketch.”
They studied them. “They’re very close,” Coop said.
“Now let’s try her next to Ted Bundy.” Two photos appeared side by side.
Coop whistled. “Would you look at that. Kirsten looks a lot like her daddy.”
“Close enough. Okay, ask Delion to find Kirsten Bolger’s mother.” Savich paused for a moment, tapped his fingertips on his desk. “I want you and Lucy to go out to San Francisco, speak to her mother yourselves. I know it’s the weekend, but ask Delion if he’ll give you and Lucy some time this evening, maybe set something up so the three of you can meet the mother.”
“You think the mom is in San Francisco, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You know Delion will take the bait. Bundy’s daughter—who could turn that down? The entire police department will want to come with us.”
“I’ll work with MAX to find out what I can about Kirsten Bolger and her family, and send the info on to Delion. He’ll uncover more about Kirsten with some local phone calls, you can count on it. Vincent’s smart, he’s got a canny sort of intuition, though he likes to play gruff and tough. He’s bald as a shiny egg, and you won’t believe his mustache; it’s his pride and joy. Say hello to him for Sherlock and me.”
“You know the media’s going to get hold of this and go wild with it. It’ll be a sensation—Ted Bundy’s daughter, another serial killer. It ain’t going to be pretty. Every police department in the country is going to get flooded with calls claiming she bags groceries at Food Lion.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it, as usual. We’ll keep forging ahead until it happens, and then we’ll deal with it when we have to.”
When Lucy came into the CAU at noon on the dot, Coop said, “Tell me if this girl dyes her hair.”
Lucy took the photo and looked down at the young face. “Yes,” she said.
“Okay, now we’ve got the expert’s opinion. You wanna go on a honeymoon trip with me?”
She cocked her head. “Don’t you think we should get married first, Coop? Oh, wait, I bet you’ve used that line on a dozen women. Does that one work for you?”
“I should have said pre-honeymoon trip, and it isn’t a line. It’s business. We’re going to San Francisco, Savich’s orders. It could be a line, I guess, but I just made it up, actually. I repeat, Lucy, there aren’t dozens of women waiting to jump me, okay? Interesting idea, though, taking a little trip to San Francisco as a trial run to see if we can last several stress-filled days in each other’s company without physical violence on either side. Actually, a pre-honeymoon might save some parents a lot of money for a fancy wedding.”
Lucy had to laugh, and it felt good for a minute, but then she thought about the three hours she’d spent that morning going through a half dozen rooms at her grandmother’s house, with nothing to show for it except, literally, an aching back. She said as she stretched a bit, “If I end up smacking you, I swear you’ll deserve it.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, my back. My grandmother’s got so much stuff, it’s taking me forever.”
“You need some help with that?”
Are you nuts? Shut up, shut up. “No, that’s not why I said it, merely an observation. The long
er you live, the more stuff you collect, I guess.”
Coop, who had grade-A cop radar, wondered why she was doing all that work by herself, but he let it go. The fact was she looked wrung out, not from a hangover from too much wine at The Swarm last night but from grief for her father. The last thing she needed was for him to start questioning her. At least he’d gotten a little laugh out of her, and maybe she didn’t think he was such a loser playboy anymore. He heard himself say, “I told you I’m not a dog when it comes to women.”
She didn’t blink. “We’ll see.”
That was something, he thought. “Okay, like I said, we’re going to San Francisco. Here, let me show you the rest of the photos of Kirsten Bolger, then let’s get packed. Shirley made reservations for the four-o’clock flight to SFO.”
Lucy’s heart leaped when she saw the photos side by side. Kirsten Bolger—was she really the killer? She thought briefly of all the thousands of square feet she still had to search in her grandmother’s house, and the hundreds of books in the study. That all paled in comparison to this. Whatever was in her grandmother’s house could wait. It had already waited twenty-two years; what was a couple more days? Nothing was going anywhere.
She asked, “So, where are we staying in San Francisco?”
“I’ll go butter Shirley up, see if she can’t get us an upgrade from the usual Motel Four and a Half. Hey, what’s the matter?”
“I was thinking about the media.”
“Try not to.”
CHAPTER 15
San Francisco
Friday evening
It was a warm evening in San Francisco, and go figure, Coop thought as he shrugged off his leather jacket. He had to admit shirtsleeves felt nice after the near-freezing temperatures they’d left behind in Washington.
He hadn’t visited San Francisco in four, five years, but he remembered the air, how it usually felt crisp and fresh, didn’t matter if it was foggy or rainy or sunny. He breathed in deep, and the air was as he remembered it—fresh and a little exotic, with a touch of the ocean in it.
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 137