Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER)

by Catherine Coulter

“We got a text from forensics. They traced the serial number on the gun in Peter’s bedroom, the gun that killed him. You won’t believe this.”

  Tuesday morning

  Savich had half an eye on Sean as he ate a mini English muffin with turkey bacon and mayonnaise, his miniature BLT. Sean didn’t look at all upset, Savich thought, as if he’d already forgotten about all the excitement in the middle of the night. Astro was sitting at his feet, waiting for another piece of bacon Sean was sure to slip him. He pulled out his cell to call Griffin and saw that this time Bo Horsley had texted him and he simply hadn’t heard the buzz. I know you’re still up to your ears in bad guys. Call me when you can.

  Savich started to punch in Bo’s number, realized Bo was right—he was up to his ears. Whatever was going on in New York, it could wait a bit longer. He looked over at Delsey as he tapped Griffin’s number. She was sipping black coffee out of a Redskins mug, trying not to look scared for Sean’s sake, maybe for her own sake, too. Her head snapped up when she heard him say her brother’s name.

  Savich gave her a quick smile and walked out of the kitchen into the dining room. He didn’t want Sean to hear him—didn’t want to worry about Delsey, either, for that matter. He told Griffin concisely what had happened. “. . . Two officers were here within minutes, and the three of us checked out the neighborhood. There was nothing but the brand-new ladder.” He paused for a moment, listened. “No, Delsey’s all right, but she’s scared. You’ll need to tell her yourself what shape you’re in.”

  “Yeah, I will. Got to assume he was after Delsey, maybe that gangbanger we saw in the alley outside the B&B, but in your own home? The same night they came at Anna and me in Maestro? Has whoever’s in charge in that gang totally flipped?”

  Savich said, “These people are organized, but they appear to have more muscle and commitment than brains. They came at an alarmed house of armed FBI agents without even thinking it through. There are easier ways to take out a witness.”

  Griffin said, “They must have been in a hurry. They had to be watching the house, watching you through the windows, if they picked the right bedroom.”

  Savich said, “They’re crude and they’re acting desperate, and that makes them dangerous. I’ll take steps now, Griffin. Trust me, I’ll protect her. What’s happening there? How are you feeling?”

  “My leg’s a little sore,” Griffin said. “The doc wants me to hang around until this afternoon, but we’re serving Salazar with a search warrant this morning, taking him into custody for questioning. No way I’m missing that.

  “Savich, there’s something I’ve been thinking about. This gang has struck in Maestro three times now, always at night, and last night with a lot of firepower. But no one has ever seen a gang presence in town, or around Stanislaus. They’ve disappeared every time, around our checkpoints and everyone out looking for them. They’ve been moving drugs in and through the area, and the DEA hasn’t found them, either. I’m thinking they’ve got to have some local hideout somewhere near town they can get to by back roads.”

  Savich agreed. “The DEA has been checking property records, deeds, leases, even going door to door, Griffin. I put MAX to work on it yesterday. I’ll see what we’ve got, check with Dix to see if he can help us narrow the search.”

  • • •

  WHEN GRIFFIN RANG off the phone with Delsey a few minutes later, he looked over at Anna’s nicely made cot, and then up at the clock. He felt a little pulse of pain when he put weight on his leg, but it wasn’t bad. He limped to the bathroom. He was pulling on his wrecked pants from last night’s firefight when Nurse Morsi came in, a tray of instruments in her hand. She stared at him zipping up his trousers. She sputtered, then said, “Agent Hammersmith, you get back in bed this instant. Dr. Chesney wants to check your leg before you leave, and I need—”

  Griffin said over her, “If you could give me some aspirin for the road, I’d appreciate it. And maybe help me get my boots on.”

  Tunney Wells, Virginia

  Tuesday morning

  Savich hadn’t called ahead because he’d thought it better to surprise Wakefield Hart than to give him time to prepare for them with a lawyer at his side and, most important, get rid of evidence. He wanted to see Hart’s face when he told him about Peter Biaggini’s murder. How good an actor was he? He and Sherlock nodded to the agents and the CSI team holding back, with their vehicles parked a good half-block from the Harts’ house, pulled into the driveway, and walked to the front door.

  “We’re here to see Mr. and Mrs. Hart, Regina.”

  She looked them up and down silently, nodded, and led them through the tall entryway with its modern glass-block partitions and sculptures to the glass living room.

  Savich’s eyes passed from the artfully recessed webcam in the molding above them and down to Wakefield and Carolyn Hart. They were sitting side by side on the stark white sofa, a Meissen coffeepot and cups arranged beside a creamer and sugar bowl on a tray on the glass coffee table in front of them. It appeared they hadn’t touched any of it. They weren’t looking at each other; both were silent, as if sitting alone, their faces vacant with grief. Both looked up when Savich and Sherlock stepped into the living room. Savich saw a flicker of alarm in Wakefield Hart’s dark eyes, but Mrs. Hart’s eyes were unfocused, disinterested. Savich wondered how many sedatives she’d taken this morning, and if this was how she dealt with life in general. They hadn’t met her formally, but he didn’t want to take time for introductions. He said from the doorway, “We came to tell you that Peter Biaggini was murdered last night.”

  Hart didn’t shrink back, didn’t feign confusion or ignorance. He rose straight up, his face tight, his eyes hard. “That worthless piece of scum is dead? He took our boy away from us, drove him to kill himself. Who did it? Who else did he hurt?”

  What to make of this? But not unexpected, Savich thought. No, not at all unexpected. As for Mrs. Hart, she didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She seemed frozen, apart from all of them, except for her pale eyes. They were fastened on her husband’s red face.

  Savich said, “I need to know where you were last night, Mr. Hart.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Mrs. Hart said in a loud, clear voice, “Wakefield was here with me. He did not go anywhere. We had friends over to help with Stony’s funeral arrangements. The wake is on Wednesday night, the funeral on Thursday at noon at the First Presbyterian Church of Tunney Wells. We had to wait because Wakefield’s parents are flying in from Montana.” Her voice broke and she turned her head away, holding herself stiff, her arms wrapped around herself, rocking, silent again.

  Hart said, “When our friends left, neither of us felt like going anywhere. I know what I said was harsh. We are both truly sorry for Peter’s parents, both nice people who will suffer for this. But what they loosed on the earth in Peter is—was—an abomination. Peter didn’t love anyone, particularly them. He felt nothing but contempt for his father and indifference for his mother. He thought she was useless. I heard him say once that her only expertise was opening cans, in that dismissive, arrogant voice he had.”

  Mrs. Hart slowly rose. She tried to stand ramrod straight, though she swayed a bit, as if unsteady from too many drugs. Her face, Sherlock saw, was leached of color, but hard and set, as if she was trying to mask her pain from them.

  Sherlock had seen several photos of Mrs. Hart and thought her a handsome woman, probably quite spectacular-looking when she’d been younger, a woman who seemed at home in her moneyed world and knew how to conduct herself on all its occasions. Now, Sherlock thought, she looked as though she’d been knocked sideways, loose from all the familiar moorings. Her hair was dull and limp, and still, deep lines scored the flesh around her mouth. The pants and sweater she was wearing looked too big for her. She looked as if death had touched her on the shoulder, caressed her cheek, then passed over her to take her only son, Stony, and her own soul with it.

  She had to be a strong woman, Sherlock imagined, to have spe
nt her life with a husband like Wakefield Hart. What did she think of him, this man who’d been up to his ears in joyous greed, and then profited again from the banking collapse by attacking the very people he’d once shared his bed with? Like Palmer Cronin. Did she not care? Whatever she thought of Wakefield Hart, whatever she’d suffered, she had stood up as tall as she could, and given her husband an alibi.

  Sherlock said, “I’m sure we are all sorry for the Biagginis, Mr. Hart. What they will want from the FBI is to find his murderer. There are three young people dead by violence now. Tommy Cronin brutally murdered and left at the Lincoln Memorial, your son’s suicide, and now Peter. We don’t know yet who killed Tommy, Mr. Hart, but you have the motive to have killed Peter, you have told us so yourself. You could easily have slipped out of here last night and driven to Peter’s apartment.”

  Savich picked it up. “When he answered your knock, did he see his death in your eyes? I’m betting you had the gun pointed at him and he ran into his bedroom, only there was no lock. And when you caught him, you shot him twice in the head. Did you imagine what it would be like, Mr. Hart, to have Peter’s brain matter and blood splattered over you? Did his blood soak into your clothes, feel sticky and wet against your skin?”

  Wakefield Hart raised his fisted hand and screamed at them, “I did not kill that puking little bastard! I never left home last night! Listen to my wife, she’s not lying. Ask our friends, we were here.”

  Savich said. “You own a gun, do you not, Mr. Hart? Your father’s Bren Ten, a gun he gave you?”

  “My father did give me a gun when I turned sixteen, but I haven’t seen that old Bren Ten in years. It may be in the attic somewhere, I don’t know.”

  “It isn’t in your attic, Mr. Hart. We have it. It was the gun used to kill Peter last night.”

  Hart reared back, opened his mouth, closed it, and seamed his lips. He looked confused, Savich thought, perhaps bewildered, but why? Then he looked down, as if studying the tassels on his Italian loafers. He shook his head, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. When he finally looked again at Savich, he’d wiped all expression from his face.

  Savich waited, but Hart said nothing.

  Sherlock stepped forward. “Mr. Hart, this is a warrant to search your house without restriction. Our forensic team is already waiting outside.” Sherlock handed him the warrant, watching his face.

  Mrs. Hart looked toward her husband, whirled back around, and shouted, “You’re saying my husband killed Peter with that ancient, ugly weapon? That’s a horrible thing to say; it’s ridiculous. He was here with me, all evening and all night! I have told you so. He did not leave. He did not kill Peter. He’s right, neither of us have seen that gun in decades. It could have been stolen years ago, do you hear me? We haven’t seen it! Are you accusing me of lying?”

  Sherlock said. “Not yet, ma’am.”

  Savich had already texted the CSI team outside, and Tom Leads showed his face in the glass living room. Mrs. Hart yelled at him, “Our daughters are upstairs in their rooms. Will you at least leave them alone to grieve for their brother? Or are you going to tell them you believe their father killed someone?”

  Tom Leads, father of six, said, “No, ma’am, we will respect your daughters’ privacy. However, it might be better for you to arrange for them to go elsewhere. If you wish to go up to them, it’s quite all right.”

  Savich saw Mrs. Hart look at her husband and slowly shake her head. “I must stay here. You will be respectful,” she added fiercely, and Tom nodded.

  Savich’s cell rang. He walked into the hallway, saw Regina was there, her eyes red from crying. Naturally, she’d been listening.

  He heard Hart yelling through the door at Sherlock, “My wife has sworn to you I was here last night. I’m calling my lawyer, to put an end to this harassment. We’re going to bury our son on Thursday. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hart, it means a lot to me,” Sherlock said. “It breaks my heart. For your family’s sake, you should have waited to kill Peter until after you buried Stony.”

  That drew Hart up, but only for a moment. Savich heard him mutter something, but couldn’t make out the words because he was trying to listen to Ollie on his cell. “While we were out interviewing your neighbors about the alarm last night, Delsey spotted an SUV cruising your neighborhood in Georgetown. She’s got eagle eyes, Savich, and she tagged the car. The SUV was reported stolen right out of a garage in Mount Perse, Maryland. We’ll go check that out. As you know, Coop is staying with Delsey. You know he’ll keep her safe.”

  They’d taken Sean to spend the day with his grandmother, so he was out of harm’s way, his short-term future bright with the promise of a half a dozen chocolate-chip cookies. Savich looked up when one forensic team leader, Tommy Voss, called out, “Agent Savich, could you come over here, please? Bring Agent Sherlock.”

  They followed Tommy into a laundry room behind a large, painfully modern kitchen with stainless-steel appliances so highly polished they looked brand-new. The laundry was large and utilitarian, lined with shelves filled with detergents, softeners, cleaning liquids, and stain removers, no doubt for Regina’s use.

  Tommy pointed to piles of freshly washed and folded clothes. “We’ll start out with pictures of everything in here before we start looking for blood on those clothes. As you know, even washing can’t get out all the blood. Nothing can. We’ll go over the interior of the washer and drier with Luminol. If anyone washed bloody clothes in this washer, we’ll find a trace. I’ll tell you, I’ve got a feeling about this.”

  Savich did, too. “We’ll have to hope he didn’t burn the clothes or dump them.”

  Tommy said, “We’ll check the clothes hampers, spray all the sinks and showers, see if anyone washed blood off themselves last night. If you really think he was stupid enough to bury the clothes in the backyard, or even farther out in the woods, we can get that bloodhound, Bitsy, from the Washington Field Office out here. She can find anything.”

  “Good, Tommy. I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Wait a minute, guys; this was just my opening prelude. Now let’s get to it. Come take a look at this.”

  Tommy led them through another door to a large storage area with more shelves and bins holding luggage, ski paraphernalia, and golf equipment. He opened a smaller door, flipped a light switch, and ushered them in.

  “Would you take a look at this.”

  They were in the control room for what once had been the complex and highly sophisticated surveillance system. Now it was a jumbled mess of ripped-out wires and connections, all the system guts strewn on the tiled floor.

  Sherlock said, “Torn to shreds by very angry hands, not neatly uninstalled. Look, there’s no dust where the computer sat. This was done recently.”

  Savich said, “Systems like this one are typically motion-activated and store their audio and video on rewritable DVDs. I don’t see any.”

  “They’re all gone,” Tommy said, “and I’ve looked. Maybe they’re hidden in the house; if so, we’ll find them. If they’ve been tossed, well—” He shrugged.

  Savich knew in his gut the disks weren’t here in the house. What was on them?

  He and Sherlock returned to the living room, where the Harts stood silent and still at opposite ends of the room. Because Mrs. Hart had finally realized her husband was a murderer? He said, “Mr. Hart, where else in this house do you have cameras installed for your surveillance system?”

  “What? You still think I spy on people who visit my house? That’s insulting, Agent. I told you when you were here before, the cameras are simply left over from the past owner. When will your people be out of here?”

  Savich said, “You seem to have torn the control center out pretty recently. The room is a shambles. What brought on such rage to push you to destroy your own system, Mr. Hart? What did you do with the recordings? Where are the disks?”

  Hart’s face suffused with color. “I destroyed nothing! I know nothing abo
ut any recordings, any disks! My lawyer advised me not to talk to you until he arrives, so the last thing I’ll say is this. As I told you, the cameras were simply here. They do not work. There are no recordings. I have never recorded anything. Indeed, I have not been in the control room for a very long time. There was no reason for me to go there.”

  Savich didn’t believe him for a minute. He knew Hart had ripped out the surveillance system. What had happened to enrage him so much to do it? His son had killed himself, that’s what. The disks, he thought; it had to do with what was on the missing disks.

  He’d thought to arrest Hart then and there, but he realized something wasn’t right about the Bren Ten they’d found by Peter’s body. Why would he have left the gun there? He might as well have painted a target on his back with a big red arrow pointing to it.

  He said, “We’ll wait for your lawyer, then, Mr. Hart.”

  Maestro, Virginia

  Tuesday morning

  It had to be fate, Griffin thought, when he saw one of Maestro’s half-dozen taxis pull in front of the hospital doors as he limped out on his cane. An elderly man helped a woman out of the back, then leaned in to give the driver some cash.

  The driver eyed Griffin. “You look kinda pasty, son. You sure you’re not going the wrong way? Out instead of in?”

  “I’m definitely out,” Griffin said, and climbed carefully into the backseat. He hoped the aspirin Dr. Chesney had finally given him would kick in soon. He laid the cane over his legs. He gave the driver Salazar’s address on Golden Meadow Terrace.

  They pulled up to Salazar’s house ten minutes later to join four other cars overflowing the driveway. “Fancy address,” the driver said. “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Griffin said.

  “Hey, that’s the sheriff’s Range Rover. I sure hope he wasn’t the one who dragged you out of the hospital.”