Chapter 11
“Diya mentioned that her brother fired some employees recently,” I told Ackerson. “Bobby owns and runs that big electronics store in the center of town, has several more branches around the country.”
“Elektrik Ninja?”
“Yes. I don’t know the reason for the firings, but apparently the people he fired weren’t happy about it.
” I folded my arms, suddenly cold. “They’re the only ones I can think of who might’ve had reason to be angry with any of the family.
But it still doesn’t make sense that they’d come for all of them. ”
Unless, of course, the Prasads had had a stake in their son’s company. Perhaps they’d even been silent investors. Given the family’s closeness, that would make sense.
“We’ll check that out. People have done worse things when driven by anger.”
My nape prickled, and I wondered if I was imagining the glint in her eye. It had to be my paranoia—no way she could’ve dug up any real information on me so fast. “So the fire was set on purpose?” I asked.
“That’s what it’s looking like.”
“And the explosion? Was that on purpose, too?”
“Fire investigator will work on finding an answer to that question, but it can be complicated—lot of things can set off an explosion.” Taking out her phone even though it hadn’t made a sound, she glanced at it.
“One more question,” she said after putting it back in her pocket.
“This might be me buying into the stereotype, but a lot of doctors end up with doctor kids. Why not here?”
I gave a hollow laugh. “I actually asked Diya that, because you’re right—especially in South Asian immigrant families.
If not a doctor, then at least a lawyer or an engineer.
” My family had been different, only one son set up for success—and in a field most immigrant families would never countenance.
But then, the Advani family had never toed any line when it came to tradition. Sometimes I’d wondered if that was why I felt so rootless, so divorced from life. Then I’d met Diya and understood that I’d been searching for her. She was my roots, was the solid earth under my feet.
“Diya told me that Bobby was determined to make his own way—and he was really good at mechanical-type things from childhood. She said there was tension when he was younger, but it evaporated once his parents saw how good he was at what he’d chosen.”
As for me, I’m the baby of the family. No one ever pushed me too hard.
The words had been playful, her eyes gleeful.
I hadn’t found the little brown bottles back then. And we still hadn’t talked about it. Now I told Ackerson the gist of what Diya had said. Let her believe my wife was just spoiled; better that than she start digging into the private pain that tormented the woman I adored.
“Where can I find you if I need to talk to you?” the detective said in response.
“Probably here.” I gave her my cell number and had the thought that I’d have to buy a charger—the battery would be flat by tomorrow.
“I probably don’t have to tell you this, but the house is off-limits,” Ackerson said after inputting my number into her phone. “There’s nothing there you can salvage anyway.”
Pain shot through my jaw as I remembered Diya’s dad watering his prized lawn, her mum pointing out the designer wallpaper mural she’d had hung on one wall of the lounge as a feature.
They’d been so proud of that house, of building something so beautiful after coming to New Zealand as doctors from a small island nation whose qualifications weren’t automatically recognized.
They’d worked hard to gain the right to practice here.
“What about the cars? Can I get access to one of them?” They were likely damaged from shrapnel sent out by the explosion, or just from proximity to the heat, but hopefully at least one was still in working order.
“The entire property is off-limits for the time being. If you need funds, I can get—”
“No, I have my cards on me.” Diya had bought me my sleek black wallet as a gift, even had it monogrammed with my initials in a muted bronze that suited me far better than gold or silver. “When…when will you know anything?”
“It’s a big scene, a lot to process. It’s going to be a while.” She passed a slightly crumpled card to me. “My contact information.”
After accepting it, I thought of what Diya would want me to do. “The funerals?” My mouth was dry, my hands a second away from trembling. I had no idea how to organize one funeral, much less two and possibly three.
“Don’t plan anything yet. There’s no guarantee when the remains will be released.”
Remains, not bodies.
I just nodded, grateful that Shumi’s parents were flying over.
They’d know what to do for the Prasads, the rituals that were to be followed.
My in-laws hadn’t been heavily religious, but I’d seen a small prayer alcove in the house, caught the distinctive scent of incense two or three mornings a week.
Their faith had mattered to them.
“Wishing your wife and your sister-in-law a fast recovery,” Ackerson said, the rote words sounding rehearsed and stiff.
I thanked her regardless, because right now, she was my only way into the investigation.
She paused before leaving. “Keep me informed of your movements, Tavish. I don’t want to waste time chasing you down.”
My pulse accelerated at what had sounded very much like a subtle threat, but, well-versed in dealing with cops, I just nodded again and stood slumped against the wall for long minutes after she’d left.
It was clear that Ackerson considered me a suspect.
She didn’t need to have any information from the LA cops.
All it would’ve taken was a simple online search.
The name Tavish Advani had been splashed all over the news and gossip sites three and a half years ago, when Jocelyn fell from her luxury apartment on the ninth floor, her body a shattered doll on the pavement.
Jocelyn Wai’s Boy Toy Lover Taken in for Questioning!
Did She Fall or Was She PUSHED?
Model, Philanthropist, Socialite…Murder Victim?
Accusations and insinuations like that tended to stick. Especially after they’d been raked up again in the wake of Virna’s accident.
If I didn’t get my head on straight, figure things out, Ackerson might railroad me right back into a nightmare I’d barely escaped. One of the first things I planned to do was call my father and ask him for the contact of a good local criminal defense attorney. Just in case.
“Mr. Advani?”
I jerked at the sound of the nurse’s voice; it was the same nurse who’d found an answer for me when I’d asked if Diya was still in surgery. That he’d tracked me down outside the ward had my heart thumping.
“Is my wife out of surgery?”
“Yes.” He held up a hand when I would’ve rushed past. “But you have to be prepared—she’s in a critical state.”
“I understand.” Happy to get even a glimpse of Diya, I followed the nurse upstairs.
The woman with the unread book was gone from the waiting area, but the couple was still there; they offered me small, tired smiles when I passed by—and I realized they must’ve told the nurse I’d gone downstairs with the police.
“Thank you,” I mouthed to them before we turned left to close the short distance to the ICU.
It was easy to find my wife once I was through the doors; the three patient beds I could see were placed in a generous space directly in front of the nurses’ station—from where the staff could keep a constant eye on them and intervene at a second’s notice.
However, that was the secondary level of care—the first would come, I saw, from the nurses seated at the small stations directly in front of the beds.
One nurse to one patient.
The seats and desks for the assigned nurses were higher than the beds, so they could easily monitor their patients.
Each bed also had a curtain that could be pulled fully around it for privacy—as long as the nurses never lost their line of sight.
Only Diya’s curtains were pushed all the way back right now.
And Diya, my Diya, looked so small and pale, far too many lines going out of her, far too many machines surrounding her.
The intricate mehndi of which she’d been so proud stood out stark and dark, almost as if it was hovering above her skin…
but for the spots marred by white strips of plaster to hold various lines in place.
Heavier wound dressings covered the side of her neck and the skin by her collarbone on the other side; no part of her body visible above the blanket was free of the evidence of violence. There was even a large, square dressing on the side of her skull.
I hadn’t realized she’d been stabbed there, there’d been so much blood everywhere. Her hair must’ve been matted to the wound. I wondered if the doctors or nurses had had to shave off a patch to check the wound.
Diya would no doubt scrunch up her face when she woke and realized. Then she’d laugh and shrug and probably go hunting for a vintage hair clip to help cover up the spot while her skin and hair recovered.
“Baby, I’m here.” I gently touched her foot through the blanket.
“I can arrange something for you if you want to stay here,” the nurse who’d brought me in said a few minutes later, “but I suggest you go home and get a few hours of proper sleep. You can talk to the surgeon tomorrow—she had to respond to another patient or she’d be here now.
I can tell you that your wife’s been placed into a medically induced coma due to… ”
I wasn’t listening, my focus on the rise and fall of Diya’s chest, the butterfly beat of her pulse against her skin.
She was alive. The woman I loved with all my heart and soul, the woman I’d watched put out seeds for baby birds every spring morning, the woman who’d danced with me in the glitter and glamour of Vegas, was alive.
I wanted to stay with her all night, just watch her breathe, but I knew the nurse was right.
I had to start thinking, had to start trying to figure out what had gone so horribly wrong.
Not just for Diya, but because right now, I was the perfect gift-wrapped suspect in the multiple murders and attempted murders of the Prasad family.
Sweat broke out over my back, my tongue feeling too fat in my mouth.
Because this time, I was innocent.