She kicked a pebble out of her path and jerked the Camry’s passenger door open. She looked at him over the roof. “You’ve got your hands full—two homicides, banging some of the gang members’ heads together if you can even find one hanging somewhere, and finding that guy in the alley. I wish I could help.”
“I know, but you’ve got to stay in character. By the way, if we ever compete on the firing range, you don’t have a chance, not in this lifetime.”
The thought of his having the last word frosted her, and it wasn’t going to happen on her watch. She said, “Maybe not, but you’d still be pretty.”
The Hoover Building
Monday morning, three hours later
Savich said to Agent Sullivan, “Thanks for picking Ms. Freestone up in Maestro, Davis, and delivering her to us in one piece.”
“Not a problem. Always a pleasure to be flying.” He turned to Delsey. “It was fun spending some time with you, Ms. Freestone, but you’ve gotta suck this one up—you’re way off base about Vincent and the Onepotts. And if you don’t like Big Escape, you’re an enemy of rock ’n’ roll. Hey, what’s not to like about tattoos and huge doses of punk attitude?”
Before Delsey could jerk out his tonsils, he added, “I was out surfing with my brother in L.A. last June. He took me to hear them play in Santa Monica at the One-Up Club. He actually called it a little retro for his taste. It takes all kinds, right? So, I’ll pick you up tomorrow evening at seven o’clock, at Agent Savich’s house. Any problems, there, Savich?”
“Not a one.”
Davis Sullivan gave them a general salute and was out the door.
One of Sherlock’s brows shot up. “Davis is a fast worker. Be careful, Delsey, that man’s got a reputation that would make Mama’s hair turn white.”
“I used to,” Delsey said sadly.
Savich said, “As long as he doesn’t wear a dog collar like Vincent, I’m fine with it.”
“Sounds like it’s his brother I want to meet,” Delsey said.
Savich grinned, and Delsey found herself smiling back at the big man with the hard face. “Sherlock, before you take her home and settle her in, we need to speak a moment.”
“I’m really staying with you? You don’t mind?”
“Not a problem,” Sherlock said, and patted her arm. “It will be our pleasure.”
Delsey fretted her thumbnail. She suddenly felt like she was being tossed around like so much flotsam, sleeping in yet another strange bed, intruding on strangers, like she didn’t belong anywhere, and she hated that. “I’ve never been to Washington before. Davis said you live in Georgetown.”
Sherlock nodded. “Your room is across from Sean’s. He’s our five-year-old son, and a live wire. Sometimes he talks in his sleep. You can either join in and discuss Flying Monks, one of his gazillion video games, or ignore him.
“Since you’re not only talented but also beautiful, I have a feeling Sean might ask you to marry him. If you accept, you’ll be his fourth wife and the oldest. So he might ask you to help support his other wives.” She laughed, and Delsey thought she was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. And she was married to Mr. Hard and Tough.
Then she remembered exactly who Sean was. “Goodness, Sean is the Sean Savich? Like half the planet, I saw him on YouTube at Emma Hunt’s performance in San Francisco.”
“Hopefully all the hype and media attention is about over,” Sherlock said. “A five-year-old on a two-week sugar high isn’t any fun.”
Savich took the time to introduce Delsey Freestone to all the agents in the CAU, tell them all she was the sister of Griffin Hammersmith, the new agent coming from San Francisco to join the unit. Then he guided her into his office, nodding for Sherlock to follow.
Savich looked Delsey over. “You look like Griffin’s twin.”
Delsey grinned. “Isn’t that something? Griffin told me that you, Sherlock, play like a dream. I can’t wait to hear you. Does Sean play?”
“After a fashion,” Savich said. He studied her, then his voice dropped and she realized it was time to get down to business. “Griffin tells me you’re a trouble magnet, that two people have died around you in the past three days, one of them a gang member who tried to kill you.”
What to say to that? Nothing but the truth. She said, “I’m pretty scared, all right,” and leaned toward this man who looked like he ate knuckles for breakfast. “I’m sorry I’m a trouble magnet, but things always sort of happen when I’m close by. It started when I was a teenager, but listen, there wasn’t any trouble at Stanislaus until I opened my shower curtain to see a dead man in my bathtub and got smacked on the head. Really, it wasn’t my fault.”
Sherlock said. “Are you having any concussion symptoms?”
Delsey shook her head. “I feel fine, no more dizziness or feeling like someone hit a home run off my head. I got my memory back really fast, so I could tell Griffin what happened.”
Sherlock studied her as her husband had. “Maybe it’s a good thing Griffin is so intuitive.”
“Oh, you mean how he simply knows sometimes what someone’s going to do or where they are? Yeah, he’s done that all his life.” Her eyes lit up and Savich thought, Uh-oh.
She leaned in close. “Agent Savich, I’ve got some ideas about what happened to poor Tommy Cronin. I don’t want to be a burden, I’d like to do something. Really, tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”
She was as eager as Sean with a new basketball. Sherlock was right, he thought, Sean was sure to ask her to marry him. She was dealing with a horrific experience in Maestro, she’d had to leave her brother behind, and she was worrying about being a burden. It must be driving her nuts. Not a bad idea to keep her busy. “You’re part of family here, Delsey, but we can’t have you working for us, there are rules about that. You’ll be no burden, believe me. We’re looking forward to having you stay with us.”
Rats on Rafts belted out “Orangeorangutan.” He picked up his cell off the desk. “Savich.” He listened, then punched off.
He walked to the door and called out to Ollie, “I have someone here who’s dying to see your photos of Sarah, right, Delsey?”
Something had happened and he wanted to get rid of her. Delsey smiled and met Ollie Hamish at the door. He’d been smooth about it, she’d give him that. What had happened?
When they were alone again, Savich said to Sherlock, “Dr. Hardy said Stony had enough oxycodone and lorazepam to kill him, with plenty left over in his stomach. They call it edible heroin, and an overdose is just as deadly. He said other than being dead, Stony was in perfect health. No signs of anyone forcing those pills down Stony’s throat, no bruising or any other signs of any violence or coercion. He’s going to rule it a suicide.
“And since Dr. Hardy’s rarely wrong, it’s time to go see the Harts. It’s going to be hard, but we’re going to have to find out when Stony stole his mother’s pills. Probably yesterday after the interview.” He sighed, hating to have to ask Stony’s mother that, knowing it would add more pain, more devastation. And guilt.
Sherlock said, “I keep thinking about what Stony said when we spoke to him yesterday—But how can that be? I mean—like he knew something wasn’t right. What was it? Did whatever it was drive him to kill himself? What was he holding back?”
He cupped her face in his big hand. “We’ll find out. But first we’ll have to deal with their grief.”
“I hate this,” Sherlock said.
Tunney Wells, Virginia
Late Monday morning
Savich turned his Porsche onto Cotswold Lane in the Metterling section of Tunney Wells, home of Wakefield Hart; his wife, Carolyn; and their two surviving daughters. It was a cul-de-sac in a high-end community of large houses on big lots with so many pine and oak trees covering the grounds it had to drive the fire department nuts. Though the snow was no longer as thick on the ground, the pristine yards still glistened like diamond facets under the noonday sun. He pulled into the three-car driveway behind a Mercede
s and an Audi beside a house that looked like an in-your-face modern painting. The Hart manse was mostly glass held together with steel and a couple planks of redwood and little else. Maybe a third of the other houses on Cotswold Lane were various versions of extreme modern sitting next to Federal-style houses and a few big sprawling Colonials. A mishmash of styles, every one with its own spin on the American dream.
Sherlock said, “The setting’s incredible, and I’ll admit it, the house is a marvel, but I wouldn’t want to live in it. Couldn’t run around in my undies. Hey, idea—I could let you stroll around in your boxers and charge admission.”
And Savich thought, Nope, it would be you strolling around in your hair rollers.
Before he could offer up that thought, she turned sober and grim as a judge, and so he leaned over and kissed her instead. He held her for a moment. “This is going to be tough. The Harts are going to be a mess. Their twenty-two-year-old son was alive one day and dead the next. He killed himself and that’s horrible enough, but to know he did it because he felt guilty about something, couldn’t live with it. How devastating to a parent not even to know what it was that pushed him over the edge, and that he didn’t even talk to them about it.”
“It’s got to have something to do with Peter Biaggini, Dillon. I wish I could figure out what. If only Stony had written more in his suicide note, made things clearer.”
That in itself was odd, Savich thought, as he looked toward a raven hopping up and down on a low-hanging oak tree branch, sending puffs of snow into the air. Most suicide notes he’d ever seen laid things out in detail. “If Peter’s responsible, we’ll get him,” he said.
Mrs. Hart wasn’t at home, Regina, the maid, told them in a charming thick Polish accent, but Beth and Lisa were upstairs. Regina was small and slight, her light hair a near skullcap around her head. She was dressed entirely in black. They saw she’d been crying. They showed her their creds.
“Mr. Hart is here, alone in his study, but they leave soon now for funeral dealing. It is sad thing, very sad thing. Little Miss Lisa tells me Mr. Walter was here Saturday and Sunday, and he was so sad because his friend was dead. But I know Mr. Walter. For him to take his own life, he was beyond sad, and I do not know why.” Regina shook her head and turned away. She led them through an immense angled entry hall that soared high, giving directly onto the blue sky through spotlessly clean skylights two stories up.
They followed her into a huge room with two glass walls filled with high-gloss black lacquered furniture, beautiful stuff that reflected your face back at you. Sherlock wondered how Regina kept it so spotless. They didn’t sit—couldn’t, really—it felt too much like they were on a stage, an unseen audience watching their every move.
Nearly five minutes passed before the door opened and Wakefield Hart came in. They’d been with him not twenty-four hours earlier. Yesterday he’d radiated an air of supreme confidence and a healthy dollop of arrogance. But not this Wakefield Hart. This man, the grieving father, looked haggard and pale and almost insubstantial, his bespoke English suit no longer flat against his sagging shoulders. The powerhouse man was awash in shadows, grief bleeding the life from him.
“You two again. Why are you here? To tell me my son is dead? I know my son is dead. Director Mueller gave me the courtesy of calling me himself. Did he send you here?”
Savich nodded. “We are very sorry about Stony. As you know, we must work very quickly, and that is why we’re here, to speak to you. We need your help, Mr. Hart.”
“Help for what? My son killed himself. If there is blame here, it is on you sadists. If not for you, my son would still be alive. You pushed him to this, treating him like a criminal, making him feel guilty over Tommy’s death. This is your fault. You should be brought up on murder charges.”
He eyed them for a brief instant, his hands fists at his sides.
Savich’s eyes held pity and infinite calm and patience. “Mr. Hart, we understand Stony was here Saturday morning.”
“Yes, he’d heard Tommy was dead. He drove here in that blizzard, nearly killed himself. He was distraught, as we all were. My son was broken; he was a mess. I tried to comfort him, but he was inconsolable.”
Sherlock said, “Mr. Hart, was Stony also here Friday?”
“Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Please answer, sir.”
“Yes, he was here, for a little while.”
“And what about Sunday after the interview at the CAU, after he called you?”
“Yes again. My wife and I asked him to come over, to talk with us about what happened. He was frightened and bewildered, said he knew nothing about Tommy’s death, or about that picture.”
Savich said, “We’re trying to pinpoint when Stony took your wife’s prescription pills, sir, whether he planned this before or after we brought him in to interview. It would help us all understand Stony’s death better, and maybe something more about why he did this.”
They looked up to see Regina standing in the doorway, wringing her hands. “It’s Mrs. Hart, sir, she cry. Please come now. She say cas-ket over and over, and she cry.”
Hart’s face was a study in contradictions: he wanted his wife to keep her awful grief away from him, he wanted to escape these FBI agents or, better yet, shoot them, and he wanted to be left alone in a corner somewhere, all his thoughts passing like movie frames across his face.
He said, “Forgive me, but my wife is distressed, as you can well imagine. At least one likes to believe you can imagine her pain,” and Hart walked quickly from the living room, and closed the door behind him.
Savich said, “Hart wants to blame anyone but the person who murdered Tommy. His lashing out at us is his way of dealing.”
“He deserves to be allowed whatever works for him for now. At least he’s talking with us.” Sherlock paused, rubbed her hands over her arms. “I’m cold. It’s this room, not the temperature.”
Savich agreed. “I wonder what it costs to keep these windows sparkling. It’s like being out of doors inside this room.” He turned directly to her, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “There’s a camera focused on us, over my left shoulder, molding height. Probably mikes, too.”
Sherlock took only a glancing look at the camera, then waved her hand toward the fireplace, built like a funnel of smoked glass. She said, “They use the fireplace often; look at how black it is on the inside.”
Savich nodded, felt his cell vibrate in his pocket. He answered, listened, and said after a moment, “Griffin, yes, Delsey’s at our house, safe and sound. Have you got your sketch of that dead gangbanger posted? And the one who ran down the alley?”
Sherlock listened to one-half of the conversation, her attention on Dillon, trying not to look at that camera until Mr. Hart walked back into the living room.
Savich looked up over at Hart, said something to Griffin, and punched off. “Mr. Hart, do you know whether Mrs. Hart noticed her prescription medication was missing? May we speak with her?”
“My wife is not well enough to speak to anyone. Director Mueller did not, naturally, ask about her prescriptions. It’s more than likely the pills were hers; where else would Stony have gotten them?
“Listen, Carolyn is not well. She has a great many prescriptions to help her deal with her chronic pain and an anxiety problem. I doubt she would have noticed a missing bottle or two, and I’m certainly not going to ask her now. What difference does it make, except to try to absolve the FBI from being responsible for his death?”
Sherlock didn’t let that indictment hang in the air for long. “Mr. Hart, when Stony came yesterday, did he have an argument with anyone while he was here? On the phone, or with you or Mrs. Hart?”
“I told you, we talked about Tommy’s death and your accusations against him. It was an emotional day for all of us, but of course we didn’t argue. What in heaven’s name would we argue about? As for phone calls, he only had two that I remember, and they made him cry. Is that enough for you?”
“Yes, that’s true. I asked Stony if he thought Peter might have posted that picture, since my son certainly didn’t post it. Stony said he didn’t know who did.”
Sherlock remembered Hart’s veiled contempt toward his son yesterday about how Peter treated him. She said, “Stony told us yesterday he and his friends usually did what Peter wanted. He said Peter slashed the tires on your wife’s new Prius years ago because he’d refused to do something Peter wanted him to do. Do you remember that?”
Mr. Hart began pacing the living room, all the way to the huge floor-to-ceiling windows and back, his hands clenched at his sides. She saw him take a quick glance up at the camera, then away. “I don’t want to believe that, but, the thing is, I do. Carolyn was livid. Stony didn’t tell us it was Peter who’d done it, but I knew. I knew.”
Savich said, “Sir, you told us Saturday you thought Peter Biaggini was a little shite. I neglected to ask you why you believe that.”
“Peter’s as arrogant as only a young man who’s smart and knows he’s smart can be. I don’t understand why this isn’t clear to you. Peter must have uploaded Tommy’s photo on Stony’s computer because it has the anonymizer software and he believed no one could ever trace it. There’s simply no other reason I can think of for any of this. So why don’t you go arrest him and make him tell you who it was who viciously murdered his friend, and why he uploaded that photo, thus putting blame on my son.”
Savich wished he believed Peter had murdered Tommy, but deep down he knew he didn’t believe it at all, despite Peter’s asinine behavior in interview, despite his just-so alibi. Had he uploaded the photo? If he had, then—“Was there any reason you know of for Peter Biaggini to kill Tommy Cronin?”
Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) Page 20
