Bombshell

by Catherine Coulter

  “Amen to that,” Sherlock said.

  “Some of the media were here when I arrived early this morning.” He waved past the postcard-beautiful lawn with snow blanketing the maple and oak trees toward the three TV vans hunkered down at the distant curb. “Those gates you drove through have helped keep the vultures out, but they’re still sitting out there. Why? Do they think someone will welcome them in, tell them how they feel, offer them a latte? I take a stroll around the perimeter every once in a while, show them how big and mean I look. Did they hassle you?”

  “Not really,” Sherlock said. “We smiled at them and gave them a little wave. I thought one of the guys was going to try to sneak through the gate, but better heads prevailed at the last minute. I do believe, though, he had some comments about Dillon’s antecedents.”

  “Give me the nod and I’ll go speak to him.” Atkinson gave a ferocious grin. “Come on in before you freeze to death. It’s beautiful with the sun shining on all the snow, but it’s still cold enough to see your breath.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cronin are in the living room, have been for the past three hours, huddled together, not talking much. Enduring, I’d guess you’d say. It’s been a terrible blow for those poor old folks.” Atkinson shut the front door behind them, paused for a moment, then locked it and shrugged as if to say, You never know, now, do you?

  “This old place dates back to 1910,” Atkinson said. “Can you imagine the heating bills?”

  They stepped through a large Art Deco entrance hall with signature black and white floor tiles. A kidney-shaped Art Deco table that looked to be an Émile-Jacques Ruhlmann original sat against one long wall. Savich’s mom loved Ruhlmann, had bought a small table designed by the man himself.

  Centered on the wall over the table hung a painting of a small barefoot girl in pink shorts running on a beach, hanging for dear life on to a kite string, the tail of a vivid red dragon nearly slapping her face as it whipped and whirled about in the wind. You could feel the young girl’s excitement and the absolute perfection of that single moment, feel the beating wind stinging your face, tearing your eyes. You could smell the brine. Savich stared at the painting, couldn’t help himself. It was one of his grandmother’s, titled The Child.

  He said quietly to Sherlock, “There are only three of my grandmother’s paintings I haven’t seen since I was her age.” He pointed to the little girl. “This is one of them. The Cronins have owned it for a very long time.”

  Atkinson nodded at the painting. “You like that painting? I think it’s kind of pretty.”

  Sherlock smiled at him. “The artist is Sarah Elliott, Dillon’s grandmother. Most of her paintings are in museums.”

  Atkinson said, “My wife tells me I’m going to get shot for my big mouth one day, since I’m too big to bother beating on.”

  Savich waved it away. They followed Atkinson into the living room on their right, a barn of a room that was, surprisingly, toasty warm, the fire in the old brick fireplace blasting out heat like a bellows. Palmer and Avilla Cronin sat pressed together on a sofa, silent, their eyes moving to the three agents walking toward them into the room. Even their eyes looked flattened, Sherlock thought, and no wonder.

  Their deadening pain was palpable in the very air, bowing the Cronins under the weight of it. Sherlock knew the pain would morph into rage and blame; it was the only way to survive such devastation. The Cronins would blame the monster who murdered their grandson, yes, but she knew they would blame the world at large and the FBI as well, for not somehow preventing Tommy’s murder from happening in the first place. It was human nature, and she’d seen it far too many times, and was prepared for it.

  Palmer Cronin was seventy-seven, once a compact and solid man, with swarthy skin and lots of hair, and looking more in keeping with his moniker, Big Buddha. Now he was thin, his shoulders stooped, his hair a tonsure of gray around his large head. He looked, Savich thought, ten years older than the last time Savich had seen him on the cover of The Economist six months before. Inside the covers was a smoothly ironic review of Cronin’s decisions and where they’d led, with photos of mortgage, banking, and investment-firm villains sprinkling the pages.

  Cronin was wearing ancient leather bedroom slippers, old brown wool pants, a faded plain brown shirt, and, oddly, a lovely new pale blue cashmere cardigan. A Christmas present?

  He got slowly to his feet, shuffled more than walked across to them, and looked up at Savich. He seemed folded in on himself, Savich thought, his face pale and drawn, but those dark eyes of his were deep and hard with an intelligence that looked beyond every word uttered to him to the consequences of his reply. Odd, Savich thought, that such formidable intelligence had gone so awry in what had been his undisputed area of expertise.

  And now this. This man whose daughter-in-law had died two years before, and his only son last year, had now seen his only grandson brutally murdered yesterday. His name would die with him. He looked, Savich thought, like he’d reached the end of his road and didn’t care.

  Cronin said, his voice flat, “You’re the FBI agents Director Mueller told me he was sending.”

  Savich nodded, introduced both himself and Sherlock to Mr. and Mrs. Cronin, and out of habit, they showed them their shields. He said, “Please accept our condolences, though they aren’t enough, we know that, nothing could be. We are very sorry to intrude on you at this time, but we have to move quickly and we lost a day because of the blizzard.”

  “We have heard of both of you,” Cronin said. “Avilla and I saw you Saturday morning, Agent Savich, speaking in front of the Lincoln Memorial. The news stations have been showing that clip all weekend. You didn’t know then that the victim was my grandson. We watched you like every other benighted human being, shocked and horrified, of course, at the finding of a frozen dead body at Lincoln’s feet. It doesn’t say much for the human race, does it, our rapt attention at our safe distance, to a violent death displayed for the world to see? Neither Avilla nor I thought you wanted to be standing there speaking to the media. You looked . . . angry, Agent Savich.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t want to speak about it,” Savich said, “and yes, I was very angry.”

  Avilla Cronin said from behind her husband, “Tell me now, Agents, do you honestly believe you will find the monster who murdered our grandson?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Cronin, we do,” Sherlock said.

  Palmer Cronin gave Sherlock a brief dismissive look and continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Despite that revolting photo and where that poor boy was left, is the FBI considering the possibility that Tommy was murdered for personal reasons?”

  Savich said, “It’s possible, sir. That’s one of the reasons we’re here, to find out more about him.”

  Cronin studied Savich’s face for a moment. “But of course you know it’s a waste of time. Sit down, both of you.” He waved at two Art Deco chairs sitting opposite the rounded sofa. He shuffled back and sat down carefully next to his wife. Savich watched him take his wife’s thin hand in his, but he didn’t squeeze it. Their two limp hands simply rested against each other.

  Cronin asked, “Do you know yet who posted that horrific photo of Tommy? Has anyone claimed responsibility?”

  “Not yet, sir; we’re working on it.”

  “Avilla and I have talked of nothing else, of course, and it seems obvious that a quiet, studious boy like Tommy would not have had an enemy who would go to such lengths to kill him and add the final humiliation of placing him at Lincoln’s feet. I do not wish to accept it, but Avilla tells me I must. He was killed because I am his grandfather, as revenge against me.

  “What kind of insane person would hold Tommy accountable for my actions, any mistakes I may have made, even if he held me responsible for his financial misfortunes?”

  “We will return to that, sir,” Savich said. “Bear with us.”

  Avilla Cronin sat forward and said, her voice
filled with the authority of someone who expects to be listened to, “No, answer him. My husband is correct. Tommy was too young to have such crazed enemies. The killer has made it obvious, has he not? A malcontent or a radical or an anarchist murdered Tommy, spurred on by all the media frenzy about those people in Zuccotti Park, or perhaps because he lost everything in the banking crisis. He wanted to make someone pay, and he selected Palmer, the most important and well-known face of banking in the world. He wanted to show the world he was getting revenge. Will he try to murder us next?”

  Avilla was seventy-six years old, a year younger than her husband, the daughter of Boston shipping wealth and for nearly fifty years the wife of the powerful Palmer Cronin. In her early years she’d been outspoken, involved in the civil rights protests, and spent a few nights in jail. Later, she’d been managing director of MIS—Make It Stop—a charity organization that awarded antipoverty grants for economic development in the third world.

  “We don’t know what he will try to do,” Savich said. “Until we make an arrest, we will do our best to protect you.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Director Mueller said we would have an FBI agent to guard us. For that, at least, we are grateful.” Her strong face collapsed, but she didn’t cry, she sat there frozen, her hand now clutching her husband’s.

  “What I find difficult to understand,” Mr. Cronin said, “is why anyone would wait so many years after I resigned my position as the Federal Reserve chairman?”

  Savich nodded in agreement. “Mr. Cronin, your staff has forwarded to us the file of threatening letters you’ve received in the past two years. If need be, we will look back all the way to 2008. Have you personally received any threats, sir?”

  “Nothing in my personal mail at the house, or in my private email. But of course no one would be able to get my private email.”

  “Do you know if Tommy received any such threats?” Savich asked.

  “No, not that he mentioned. You know, Agent Savich, I have never paid too much attention to protests in the street or to random threatening letters. It would seem to me that you in the FBI always know more about such people, and such matters, than I do.”

  “Indeed we do, Mr. Cronin,” Savich said. “And so that would bring us back to information you can help us with, more personal matters.”

  Mrs. Cronin said in a deep, strong voice, “Very well, Agent Savich, ask your questions.”

  “Let’s begin with Tommy,” Sherlock said. “Do either of you know where Tommy was Friday night or what he would usually be doing on Friday nights?”

  “Tommy was our beloved grandchild, Agent Sherlock,” Mrs. Cronin said, “but since he got busy at college we saw him far less than we would have liked. You will have to ask his friends at school.”

  “Agents are interviewing his friends at Magdalene right now, Mrs. Cronin. Did you meet any of Tommy’s college friends?”

  Mr. Cronin said, “Tommy has brought a number of college friends here upon occasion, as well as his friends from childhood. I remember when he brought his girlfriend here for Thanksgiving. He was proud of that girl, besotted.”

  Mrs. Cronin said, “We were distressed because she was a very unfortunate choice, but Tommy is—was—young and experimenting, and we thought he would get over her, given time and experience.”

  “Why did you think she was an unfortunate choice, Mrs. Cronin?” Sherlock asked.

  “It became obvious to us she was using Tommy to gain entrée to our world, probably sleeping with him to keep him interested. I even saw her making notes while they were here, saw her messaging on her phone. She was doubtless writing down what Palmer said to post on a blog, or some such thing.

  “Her name is Melissa Ivy, and she is a sophomore at George Washington, a communications major.”

  Mr. Cronin said, “When we asked her what she intended to do with her communications degree, she told us she wanted to become a TV news anchor. Many things fell into place. It should have been clear to Tommy as well, but it didn’t appear to be. He was so young. We asked how they’d met. We were not surprised to learn she had sought Tommy out. I even chanced to see them kissing. I know, I know, they are young, but still—we had no wish to see her here after that.”

  “Tommy called me in early December,” Mrs. Cronin said. “He wanted her to come over on Christmas Eve, when all the family gathers here. He was upset when we told him we did not wish to have her in our home again.” Mrs. Cronin sighed. “He was angry, demanded to know why we didn’t like her. I was honest, told him she was using him, that she was even taking notes during her visit here, that it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d tried to sell her ‘exclusive’ with us to the tabloids.

  “Tommy didn’t come Christmas Eve. We never saw him again after Thanksgiving. We regretted his absence, as did his Aunt Marian and his sisters, but what I told him was honestly what we thought, it was the truth.”

  He was twenty years old and in love, for heaven’s sake, Sherlock thought, and wondered how the Avilla Cronin she’d read about had become so rigid and judgmental. She could only imagine the intense and never-ending scrutiny that had colored their every interaction because of Mr. Cronin’s position over the years, particularly after the world’s economies had almost imploded.

  Mrs. Cronin said, “I imagine she broke off with him when she realized we’d seen through her. If only I’d been able to see Tommy again, before he—” She swallowed. “Tommy was such a bright boy, a very high GPA, higher even than yours, Palmer, or his father’s, at Magdalene. He’d laugh when we asked him what he was doing besides studying. He didn’t have all that much time to socialize, he told us; he had to study too hard.”

  Mr. Cronin said, “So you see, don’t you, Agent Savich, that Tommy simply didn’t have the time to stir up a lot of enmity from anyone. I’m sure some students were jealous of him because of his grades, but surely not because of his connections. After all, most of the students at Magdalene come from families of position and wealth.”

  “He tended to be a loner,” Mrs. Cronin said, “not very big on parties or drinking. That’s not to say he wasn’t popular, because he was, maybe not in high school, but he was admired and rewarded at Magdalene for his fine mind and his hard work.

  “We always found him levelheaded, and respectful to us. The only time he gave us cause for worry was when he brought that Melissa Ivy girl here with her notebook, and her fingers flying on her phone.” She fanned her thin veined hands in front of her. “What else is there to say about him? He gave Palmer the lovely cashmere sweater for Christmas.” Avilla Cronin’s fingers lightly stroked her husband’s arm, feeling the soft material. She blinked and licked her lips, so white they disappeared into her parchment face.

  Sherlock said, “If we could discuss some of Tommy’s other friends, perhaps. Of course we will be speaking about that with Tommy’s aunt, Marian Lodge, and Tommy’s two sisters as well.”

  Cronin’s old mouth seamed and twisted. “Marian—she will mourn the boy with us as if she were his mother, though she showed no such courtesy to my own son, Palmer Junior, when he died. But that is a family matter.” He fell silent for a moment. “Avilla and I couldn’t take the children, simply couldn’t, so we stepped back when she sought their guardianship.

  “You asked about other friends. One of the boys Tommy brought here regularly was Peter Biaggini—I remember I didn’t care for him. He was a handsome boy, but too polite, a bootlicker, that’s what you called him, Avilla. Nor did I like the way he tried to dominate Tommy, treated him as if Tommy were his acolyte or his boy Friday. Why Tommy put up with that, I can’t say.

  “There was Stony Hart—his real name is Walter. His father, Wakefield Hart, was at one time a colleague of mine, one of the senior accounting officers at Fannie Mae during the accounting irregularities that led to the whole senior staff resigning some eight years ago. When he was forced to resign that position, he reinvented himself as
a financial consultant and a public speaker. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He earns most of his money now denouncing his erstwhile colleagues, calling for decentralization and regulations, and warning of financial Armageddon. We no longer speak.

  “His son, Stony, though, has always seemed a fine boy, though he, too, seemed too much under Peter Biaggini’s thumb. Actually, all of them were. Stony—Walter—is another smart young man who attended MIT, one of those very logical people who used to write software programs for fun, and now— I really don’t know what he is doing now.” Mr. Cronin stopped talking, as if it were simply too much effort to continue.

  Avilla said abruptly, “When will we be able to bury Tommy?”

  Savich said, “We will notify you as soon as we know.”

  Henderson County Hospital

  Sunday morning

  When Griffin left the elevator on the hospital’s third floor, he stopped to speak with Maestro Deputy Tuck Warner, stationed outside Delsey’s room. There’d been a lot of people wanting to see Delsey, Tuck told him. He’d let Henry Stoltzen in again since Delsey had called out when she’d heard his voice. Anna was still with Delsey. He said Anna’s name with a good deal of affection. Griffin didn’t know if Deputy Warner was married, but if he was, Griffin hoped he curbed his enthusiasm at home.

  Warner said, “We all know Anna. She’s not snooty like some of the students at Stanislaus. She’s always nice, always ready with some fresh coffee and a big smile when you sit down at the diner. She even invited some of us to one of the concerts at Stanislaus last fall, to hear her play a violin solo.”

  Anna was sitting beside Delsey’s bed, her head down, her long hair falling along her face, looking over some papers on her lap. All her winter gear was on the floor beside her chair. She was wearing jeans and a blue turtleneck, boots on her feet. He heard Delsey in the bathroom taking a shower. She was set on leaving the hospital once she was cleaned up. Griffin knew she’d walk over him to get out of here.