Griffin said, “Better you waited a bit, Henry, or you might have been hurt. You didn’t see anyone? Hear anyone or anything other than the bumping sounds?”
Henry shook his head. “Nope, not a thing—well, I did hear a car engine when I was already on my way to check on Delsey, but that’s it. I was thinking about her.”
“Did you happen to glance out a window, see the car?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry, but I didn’t.”
“What did you do next?”
“Your front door wasn’t locked, Delsey, so I stuck my head in and called your name. When you didn’t answer, I went on in.”
Griffin asked, “Was anything out of place, Henry?”
Henry said to Delsey, “Yeah, that little Persian carpet you’re so proud of was all crumpled against the table you have for your mail.”
Like someone had dragged a body over it or was in a big hurry.
“I can’t remember anything else out of place. When I looked in your bathroom, there you were lying on the floor, on your side, your clothes in a pile beside you. You weren’t moving, and I thought you were dead at first. It scared the crap out of me, Delsey. It looked like you’d slipped and fallen, hit your head, maybe, because there was blood in your hair and on the floor. I didn’t see the blood in the bathtub until a paramedic pointed it out, said it was way too much to all be yours. I guess one of the paramedics called Sheriff Noble, because he came right away and asked me about it. He let me follow the ambulance to the hospital, but they wouldn’t let me near you since I wasn’t family, so I finally went home.
“I did go to bed, but I couldn’t sleep, not a wink, so I spent most of the night listening to Anton Rubinstein’s Cello Concerto in A Minor. You know, the piece I’m going to perform in February. What I really wanted was to actually practice it, but I know Mr. McGibbs would be pissed since it was the middle of the night—” Henry shrugged. “Mr. McGibbs lives a good fifty feet away from us but he still bitches if I play too late. I guess I finally fell asleep, since I didn’t wake up until about nine o’clock this morning. I called the hospital, but nobody would tell me anything, so I went to Maurie’s Diner for breakfast. Anna was there. Since she’s your best friend, I told her what happened. She was really upset. I saw her walk over to the restrooms and make a call on her cell phone. When she came back with my bacon and eggs, she spilled coffee on me.”
Who did she call? Griffin wondered.
“Henry, did you tell someone I found my lover dead in the bathtub? Why ever did you say such a thing?”
Henry flushed, looked agonized, and popped his knuckles again. “Well, that blood the paramedics saw in the tub and what I heard meant someone else was there—and, well, I didn’t know who, Delsey, that’s all, I just said something about your maybe knowing him; it made it a little less scary, you know?”
Griffin let it go. “Is that all you remember, Henry?”
“Yes, sir.”
Griffin nearly laughed at all the “sirring,” since Henry Stoltzen looked to be a couple of years older than he was. He’d seen it before. It was the power of the FBI shield.
Griffin said, “Delsey, since I taught you well, I know you locked your front door when you left for Salazar’s party. Whoever was in your place jimmied open the back door.”
She stared at him. “I didn’t know. I must not have noticed when I went in. I still don’t remember anything.”
They heard Claus say, “Sir, you can’t go in there—”
Henry said, “Oh my, it’s Dr. Hayman.”
Griffin raised his hand. “It’s okay, Claus. Thank you.” He watched Dr. Elliot Hayman, director of Stanislaus, walk—no, stroll—into the room.
So this was Professor Salazar’s brother. Dr. Hayman was a bit taller than his twin, a bit leaner, and even more the fashion plate in a fur-lined suede jacket, perfectly pleated black slacks, white shirt, tie, and Italian loafers he’d obviously protected since they had a high shine and no sign of snow or mud. Apart from a certain Mediterranean look, there wasn’t much physical resemblance between them. There were no slashes of gray at Dr. Hayman’s temples. He looked younger than his brother, and, Griffin thought, he appeared more thoughtful. Dr. Hayman’s eyes rested on Griffin; his dark brows went up. He didn’t look through Griffin, as his brother had. He met his eyes and nodded. “So I’m told you are Delsey’s brother, Agent Griffin Hammersmith of the FBI?”
“Yes, I am.” He shook Dr. Hayman’s hand, a fine hand with long, thin fingers, like his brother’s. Griffin had to admit Dr. Hayman looked more a convincing aristocrat than his smooth lizard twin. He had more gravitas, had the look of the man in charge of his kingdom.
“I am glad to meet you, Agent Hammersmith. I have come because I was quite worried when I heard Delsey had been hurt. She is one of our finest students. No one could tell me what happened. Ah, here is Mr. Stoltzen. How are you today, Henry? How is the Rubinstein cello concerto coming along?”
Henry beamed. “I’ll be ready, sir.”
“Yes, of course you will.”
Henry darted Delsey a glance. “I, ah, I’ve got to go, Delsey, all right?”
She nodded, waited for Henry to leave, then said to Dr. Hayman, “Thank you for coming, sir.”
“Of course. You and your brother, you have different last names. Why is this?”
Delsey smiled up at him. “Freestone was my married name. Even though I’m no longer married, I liked the name because it sang to me, and so I kept it.” She left unspoken even though it belonged to a real loser. “How did you know Griffin is my brother?”
“Ah, your brother has already been around town, asking Rafael, and many of your well-wishers, about you. I heard he was here at the same time I learned of your injury.” He walked regally to Delsey’s bedside and took her hand. “My poor child, whatever has happened? Are you all right?”
With the way he’d recognized and treated Henry, the concern he was showing for Delsey, Griffin thought Dr. Hayman had all the charm and charisma his twin lacked.
“Could you please tell me what happened?”
Griffin gave him the general outline, but no more than he needed to know. “Dr. Hayman, I understand my sister had a bit too much to drink at your brother’s party last night. Something to do with your special margaritas?”
Dr. Hayman nodded toward Delsey. “If that had anything to do with what happened to you, I am very sorry.” He smiled down at her. “The party gave me an opportunity to speak to you, since there is so little opportunity at school. But then you quite disappeared and no one knew where you were. What happened?”
“I decided to go home, Dr. Hayman, and someone hit me on the head in my apartment.”
Dr. Hayman waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.
Griffin said, “Sir, have you noticed anyone recently who didn’t seem to belong on campus? Someone you found not quite right?”
Dr. Hayman seemed to give this thought, stroking his chin with his beautiful long, thin fingers. “I’m sorry, but no. I am quite busy in my position, Agent Hammersmith. There is so much to do each day, so many students demanding my attention, not to mention the faculty and the board of directors. It sometimes seems a whirlwind, and I see so many people. It’s rare that I’m able to simply enjoy the company of a student as I did last night. But then you were gone, Delsey, simply gone, and I must say, I was a bit worried.” He gave her a warm smile.
“They tell me I will be fine, probably back to school in a couple of days. Please don’t worry about me. Thank you for coming to see me.”
“It is my responsibility to worry about my students,” he said, but gave Delsey a warmer smile than Griffin thought was necessary or appropriate. “Such a shock, someone in your apartment, striking you down. I certainly hope our law enforcement officers will get to the bottom of this quickly and put an end to it. We cannot have such things happening to our students; the board will not stand for it.” He added to Griffin, “I am glad you’re here to help them, Agent Hammersmith.”
Griffin nodded.
Dr. Hayman said to Delsey, “You will call me if there is anything you require? And you, Agent Hammersmith? If there is anything we can do to sort this all out, we are at your service.”
Griffin followed Dr. Hayman out of Delsey’s hospital room, impressed with how well he wore the mantle of director of Stanislaus, like a well-picked actor from central casting. Unlike his brother, Dr. Hayman was one to quiet troubled waters, not stir them up.
There was nothing Griffin liked better than to stir troubled waters. He said without preamble, “Why are you so interested in my sister, Dr. Hayman?”
Dr. Hayman said, “I am interested in all my students, Agent Hammersmith. Delsey reminds me of your incredible grandmother Aladonna Hammersmith. She was an immensely talented woman, both witty and charming. I can still remember her incomparable voice, her artistry. I consider it a privilege to mentor her granddaughter and perhaps change her mind about continuing in a commercial direction with her compositions. She should be developing her talent to create something lasting with her music.”
“Thank you for those nice words about my grandmother, Dr. Hayman. As for Delsey, she has never been at a loss about what direction to take her life. I met your brother this morning. Why is it you invited him here as a visiting professor?”
Dr. Hayman blinked, taken off guard for a moment, but clearly understanding why Griffin was asking. “Rafael is a fine musician, and, more important, he has the ability and the temperament to teach, which many talented musicians do not. He was more than qualified to join the Stanislaus faculty.” He looked back at Griffin as if daring him to express an opinion.
“I wish you a good day, Agent Hammersmith, and hope you will solve this nasty business. If you would be so kind as to keep me informed? And of Delsey’s progress as well.”
Griffin nodded. Dr. Hayman shook his hand again, and walked away.
When Griffin returned to Delsey’s room, she said, “I remember now. I remember seeing a dead man in my bathtub.”
Savich’s house
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Saturday evening
Since a record snowfall had brought Washington to a standstill, Savich Skyped his agents and Mr. Maitland from home. He looked at each of them arrayed in front of him on MAX’s new twenty-three-inch monitor. He could see Mr. Maitland’s wife moving around in the background, carrying what looked like a huge bowl of guacamole and chips for her four sons, whose eyes were probably fixed on the play-off game the agents were missing. In smaller boxes were the faces of agents Ollie Hamish, Lucy Carlyle, and Coop McKnight. Ollie rocked his infant daughter in his arms.
Savich said, “Thomas Malcolm Cronin was twenty years old, a student at Magdalene College in Boonton, Virginia, about an hour’s drive from the Beltway. As you probably know, Magdalene is a small, prestigious, liberal-arts school with an outstanding academic reputation. Most of its endowments come from its wealthy alumni, leaders in both the business world and in politics, in roughly the same percentage as Harvard or Yale. It’s very private and very expensive.
“Thomas declared a business major at the beginning of the fall semester, junior year, with an emphasis in international banking.”
“Like his granddaddy,” Agent Lucy Carlyle said, “following in the steps of the Big Buddha.”
Jimmy Maitland shook his head. “Not anymore, sadly. That nickname, though, it sure fits Cronin, even though he’s skinny as a bicycle spoke. It’s that placid all-knowing smile, the way he sits with his hands folded in front of him. Too bad he wasn’t enlightened enough to try to head off a worldwide banking collapse.”
Savich said, “Coop, tell us about Palmer Cronin’s son and wife.”
Coop said, “Cronin’s only son, Palmer Cronin Jr., was a big muckety-muck partner at Pearlman Lock. I’m sure some of you remember he was killed last year when his Ferrari skidded off an embankment, through a railing, and into the Potomac. His wife, Barbara, died two years ago, a purported suicide with a bottle of pills.”
Lucy said, “I remember the son’s death was huge news. It was ruled an accident.”
Coop said, “Yes, it was. You know his son’s tragic death had to hit Cronin Senior hard. First Barbara, his daughter-in-law, then his son, both dead within two years.”
Savich said, “Cronin Junior left three children, two daughters and a son, Tommy. Barbara Cronin’s sister, Marian Lodge, had moved in with the family after her sister’s death to take over the care of the kids. After Cronin Junior’s death, she applied for guardianship, and it was made official a couple of months ago.”
Lucy said, “So much tragedy in one family, and now this.”
Savich thought of Sean, and closed it off.
He said, “Okay, that’s the background. Now let’s get back to the grandson. Thomas Malcolm Cronin—Tommy—had a three-point-eight GPA, quite an achievement at Magdalene. His father and his grandfather were both alumni, and both were big contributors. There’s a big new business administration building on campus called Cronin Hall, after the grandfather, who, as you know, retired as chairman of the Federal Reserve Banking System right after the investment banking debacle came to light.”
Ollie Hamish snorted. “Talk about a retirement coming way too late. It still frosts me that Palmer Cronin claimed he never expected the bankers’ shenanigans, that his philosophy of self-regulation turned out to be simply wrong. How incompetent does that make him?”
Coop said, “I think you’re expressing only one side of the anger and frustration that’s out there, Ollie. What about the politicians who said they were willing to take the risk and then pressed the banks to finance home loans for people who obviously couldn’t pay the mortgage?”
Mr. Maitland said, “There was predatory lending, for sure, but don’t forget the people determined to cash in on the real estate bubble, willing to sign anything to get their share of the pie. There’s surely enough blame to go around.”
“Maybe so,” Ollie said, “but most of the anger out there is at the bankers and Wall Street. That’s where it all started, with their packaging crap derivatives and worthless home loans and selling them to pension funds and municipalities and other banks—hey, to anyone who trusted them.”
As if to agree, Ollie’s small daughter burped in her sleep, making everyone laugh.
Ollie patted her small head. “I wonder if she’ll agree with me when she’s a teenager. So there’s rage out there, and there’s been some violence. There may even be justification for thinking some of the bloody bankers and some of our precious lawmakers ought to be in a criminal institution. Where does that leave us?”
Lucy and Coop were sitting side by side on the sofa, both in sweats. She said, “It leaves us with the fact that Palmer Cronin wasn’t the one who was murdered. It was Tommy, a twenty-year-old, who for all we know never did anything wrong in his short life. If Tommy was targeted by some kind of deluded out-there anarchist to make a statement, that isn’t a reflection of any justified anger still circulating in society, it’s a Timothy McVeigh kind of insanity.”
Savich said, “That’s assuming the crime was a political act, Lucy, but that’s not a trail I’m ready to commit to unless the investigation points us that way. All right, we’ve all had a chance to vent. Let’s move along to the photos of Tommy uploaded to YouTube. We’re going to treat the photos as part of the crime scene, since anyone close enough to upload a photo of Tommy may have been a witness, and we’ve been tracking those uploads to find those witnesses. Mr. Maitland?”
He saw Mr. Maitland turn around at the shouts and groans coming from his sons, who were glued to the play-off game, then back again. He said, “Ben Raven has been handling that. Most of the photos that have been uploaded aren’t relevant, they’re from around Magdalene College, yearbook photos, or photos with friends horsing around. We’ve found several photos of the crime scene, though, most showing no real detail because of the snow or because the cops had already established a solid perimeter ar
ound the Lincoln Memorial by the time they were taken. There was one, though, that was very close and very clear.”
“This is the photo,” Savich said, and brought it up onto the screen. “It’s the one Mrs. Cronin saw on the Internet that led Mr. Cronin to call us. It’s a close-up, straight-on view of Tommy’s face. Was it taken by Tommy’s killer or an accomplice, as a way of assuming credit and publicizing his killing? Or by someone who happened by at the right time and thought it would be cool to post it? There were no comments posted with it.”
Ollie said, “Or maybe even a cop.”
Savich said, “No one wants a cop to be the source. Believe me, Ben Raven is all over it. We’re dealing with all the photos by tracking down the IP addresses they were posted from. We have all of them already, except for this one.”
“What’s the holdup?” Coop asked.
Savich said, “Our techs have run into a roadblock, because whoever posted this photo used a bogus YouTube account and a proxy server to hide his tracks. We’re up against a computer nerd who knew we’d be trying to track his posting and knew how to protect himself. It’s the strongest reason we have to believe the killer or killers posted this picture, and not someone who happened by.”
Mr. Maitland said, “So why not get Spooner in on this? You’ve said yourself, Savich, it takes one to catch one.”
“You’re right,” Savich said.
Ollie said, “We’ve all heard about surfing the Web anonymously, using what they call anonymizers. What do they do exactly, Savich?”
“They’re a sort of privacy shield between a client computer and the rest of the Web, so you can protect your personal information by hiding your computer’s identity.”
Lucy said, “I read that a lot of the child pornography on the Internet is accessed through anonymizers.”
Savich said, “Like a lot of tools, anonymizers can be used for good or bad. If you lived in Iran or China, for example, where the Internet is severely restricted, using an anonymizer could save your life unless you make a mistake, and believe me, you’ve got to know what you’re doing. It gets even more complicated when you’re posting something—like a photograph. Then you need your own software to create a Web proxy and establish connections between chains of servers to hide your tracks. We’ve got a shot, though. I’ll get Spooner on it right away.”
Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) Page 6
