it together, there were things he had to do. That steadied him. He pulled out his cell, called Gabriella. He told her what had happened, where he was. He heard Sean in the background. “Put him on, Gabriella, and please listen, this is what we’re going to tell him for now.”
He said simply to his son, “Something has come up, Sean. Your mother and I won’t be home until late. Eat your dinner, ask nicely if Gabriella would like to play Captain Carr with you or maybe watch those clips of Steph Curry shooting three-pointers in China again. Go to bed when she tells you to. No whining, okay? You promise?” Of course, Sean wanted to know if they were chasing bad guys, and Savich, an excellent liar, spun a fine tale about three bank robbers on the loose, nothing to worry about. Finally, he said to Gabriella, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for hanging in with him.”
There were others to call, but he simply couldn’t do it yet. He slipped his cell into his jacket pocket and eased back down on a surprisingly comfortable chair. He looked straight ahead at nothing in particular, and prayed.
Savich was still sitting, his hands clasped between his knees, when Metro detective Ben Raven, a longtime friend, hurried in. “Ted Malone, one of the officers at the accident site, knew you and I were friends and called me. Savich, the nurse in the ER said Sherlock was getting tests, no word yet on the results.” Ben plowed his fingers through his hair. “Of course, you already know that.” He sat down beside Savich, laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Thanks for coming, Ben.” Savich looked at his friend. “It’s strange. There’s nothing I can do, only sit here like a zombie and wait. And wait. I don’t think they ever run out of tests. Her hair was soaked with blood, Ben, it was black.”
“You know as well as I do scalp wounds bleed bad. It doesn’t mean much.”
Savich shook himself. “Yes, I know. Do you know what happened? Who hit her?”
4
* * *
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
TUESDAY EVENING
Ben said, “An SUV ran a red light, swerved suddenly, and broadsided her passenger side, sent the Volvo into a spin. She ended up rear-ending a fire hydrant.”
Savich saw it clearly in his mind. She’d had an instant of awareness, and then wham—the rest would have been a blur. He’d bet Sherlock didn’t even know exactly what had happened. She was an excellent driver, but spinning backward into a fire hydrant? Shut it off. He had to know more, had to see. “Do you have photos of the accident?”
Ben hesitated and Savich merely stared at him. “All right.” Ben pulled out his cell and scrolled down, past a dozen shots of Callie, his wife, smiling that wonderful smile of hers, tickling their baby daughter, Taylor, who was showing all her gums she was laughing so hard. He stopped and handed his cell to Savich. “There are several videos witnesses forwarded to us, so, if you wish, you can watch some of what happened after the accident. Since Sherlock is well known, you can bet people will upload some videos on YouTube.” He handed Savich his cell and watched him stare at the totaled Volvo, the fire hydrant rammed into its rear, the smears of blood across the windshield.
“That’s not her blood, Savich. The blood on the windshield is on the outside, which means the Volvo struck someone when it was out of control.”
The next shot was of two paramedics lifting an unconscious Sherlock out of the driver’s side. Then a video of a woman somewhere in her thirties, her hair in black tangles straggling down nearly to her shoulders, wearing a brown trench coat, of all things, in the middle of summer. She was limping slightly as she walked past a paramedic and away from the smashed front end of a big black Escalade. She was holding her arm, and looked to be talking a mile a minute.
Savich felt killing rage, swallowed. “This woman’s the one who hit her, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re telling me she walked away? With what? A broken arm and a limp?”
Ben said, “Yes, and some bruises. She’s downstairs in the ER with two officers, along with one other person who was hurt. The woman’s name is Jasmine Palumbo, age thirty-six. She works as a security engineer for the Bexholt Group, going on eight years.”
Savich nodded. The Bexholt Group was a communications security company