Bombshell Part 30

Savich said, "Ms. Ivy, your income from your part-time waitressing brings in about half what it costs to pay the rent on your apartment. Then there's your tuition, food, those new UGGs on your feet. Did Tommy help you out with rent money, with your bills?"

She wanted to say no-it hovered-but again, she proved she wasn't stupid. She stuck up her chin. "Yes, he did, because he knew I couldn't pay all my tuition last September and he offered to help me out. As I told you, Tommy was my friend. He knew I'd pay him back."

Savich said, "When exactly did you stop seeing Tommy and start up with Peter Biaggini?"

"Weeks ago, really, right after Christmas."

"And Peter then took over Tommy's a.s.sistance with your bills?"

"No! Well-a little bit."

Savich said, "You've been making healthy cash deposits since around the first of the year, right? All from Peter?"

She hadn't expected that question and stumbled out a reply. "What of it? Peter's a really nice guy-"

And you're so beautiful you drop boys in their tracks at twenty feet, a perfect damsel in distress. "Like Tommy?" Sherlock asked. "How many other boys have helped you out since you arrived in Was.h.i.+ngton, Ms. Ivy?"

"I know you're federal officers, but you shouldn't be able to look at my bank account. It's not right. It's none of your business how much money my friends lend me."

"I agree," Savich said, rising. "A cop would never do that without a warrant."

She looked at him, realized she'd emptied her bucket without a whimper and looked furious. She jumped to her feet. "I didn't have anything to do with Tommy's awful murder, I didn't! Peter said you'd come here and threaten me, but I couldn't imagine why you would. Peter was with me, he really was. Yes, I remember now, we did make love. He didn't snore; he never does. He didn't have anything to do with Tommy's death; he didn't."

Sherlock said, "Ms. Ivy, I really hope you're not lying to us. But I've got to tell you, I do wonder if you're telling us the whole truth about Friday night. I'd hate to see you in a federal penitentiary for a couple of years. It wouldn't be a pretty sight."

"I'm not lying; I'm not."

Sherlock smiled. "I think you might do very well in TV someday if you guard your reputation, your looks. Oh, yes, if you're not lying, then I suggest you be careful around Peter Biaggini. I would wager my Super Bowl ticket that if he drugged your wine he might have killed Tommy, too." She shrugged. "I fear you could be a loose end, Ms. Ivy."

"There's no reason for Peter to kill Tommy. I mean, why would he? I left Tommy for him. He knows that. He won! I don't know if he made fun of Tommy about it, I don't, but why would he? They were friends forever!"

At last the truth, Sherlock thought.

Savich said, "Ms. Ivy, a tech could be here in a half hour to draw your blood, and we could find out."

She stared at Savich as though he'd grown an extra head. "Draw my blood? No! My mom would never allow that, never. Peter's not bad, really, he's-"

"Very generous, I know," Sherlock said. She handed Melissa a card. "Wouldn't you like to know what really happened on Friday night, Ms. Ivy? Perhaps you owe it to Tommy to try to find out the truth."

Melissa stared at the card but said nothing more. Savich turned at the doorway. "Ms. Ivy, like Agent Sherlock, I caution you not to speak to Peter Biaggini. If you tell him you don't remember spending the whole night with him, if you can't really give him an alibi, you could be a danger to him."

Sherlock's last sight of Melissa Ivy was her chewing on her lower lip, her pink UGGs bright on the banged-up hardwood entrance hall.

Maurie's Diner

Maestro, Virginia

Sunday evening

Griffin eyed Anna, the kick-b.u.t.t waitress wearing a Maurie's red ap.r.o.n, and decided her full name, Lilyanna, brought to a man's mind a vision of a flowy-dressed Southern woman with long loose hair lifting romantically in a summer breeze while she served sweet tea on the front porch. Nope, this was a solid Anna with a Glock 22 stuck in her jeans. He realized he'd like to get into it with her, let her wrestle him down. Griffin shook his head. He was losing it. He watched her, always friendly to the customers, always a smile in place. She was moving closer to their booth.

He'd brought Delsey here for dinner after she'd awakened, showered all the hospital off her again, she'd told him, since once wasn't enough, and managed to cover the sutures with a small bandage, a hank of hair covering it.

A ketchup-drenched french fry paused on the way to her mouth. "Hey, whatever are you thinking about, Griffin?" She smiled over at Anna, watched her wave a menu at them, then start over.

She saw her brother's eyes follow. "Hmm. Maybe you don't have to tell me. She's something, isn't she?"

"What? Who? What did you say, Delsey?"

"Anna. She's very cool, isn't she? And here she comes, and would you look at that, her eyes are locked right on you, like a laser. Hmmm again."

Griffin eyed his spoonful of mushroom soup. "Shut up."

"Have I been missing something since I got my brain addled?"

"No more than usual. Eat your salad."

She forked up some lettuce with Maurie's signature dressing. "So if you're not checking out Anna, what are you thinking about? That DEA agent? I'll tell you, Griffin, I can't get over that. Every time I think about him, I get cold and want to cry. I wish I knew why he was in my apartment in the first place."

Griffin was silent as a post and spooned up some more soup.

"Hi, Anna." Delsey popped another french fry into her mouth. "Tell Maurie his fries are still the best, and the salad-I'll eat the salad if you put a gun to my head."

"I'll tell him, but he knows it. He always eats two fries out of every order, for quality-control purposes, he tells me. And would you look at him, skinny as a fence post. Hey, Mr. FBI, how's your soup?"

"It's great."

Anna looked down at the nearly full bowl. "Great, huh? You on a diet, Griffin? Nope, not even a shadow of flab on you. You're not eating because you're still worried about Delsey, aren't you? Well, stop it. Look at her, she looks ready to salsa on Main Street."

"Maybe tomorrow, Anna," Delsey said, and Griffin saw his sister look from Anna back to him. "We were talking about that poor DEA agent. I overheard Griffin and Ruth talking about him at the hospital and why he was here in Maestro." She drew a deep breath. "And I heard them talk about maybe Professor Salazar being the drug czar, or whatever you'd call it."

Griffin said, "Do you ever remember seeing anyone hinky at Stanislaus, Delsey? Anyone who didn't look right being there?"

"There are always so many people visiting Stanislaus-that's why it's such a great place. Musicians performing from out of state and their entourages, critics, writers, so yes, lots of strangers. I'd have to say Professor Salazar has more strangers than anyone cruising around him. I've asked who they were and was told they were visiting friends, from Europe, from New York, cla.s.sical guitarists from all over the country here to wors.h.i.+p at his Gucci-clad feet. All of them looked like they fit right in."

Griffin said, "When I met Salazar at his house yesterday morning, he was wearing moccasins."

"I'll bet they were Gucci," Delsey said.

"Dels, did you ever see any Hispanic guys hanging around him?"

Delsey shook her head. "No, and I already told you, I never saw the man who hit me before, only heard two men's voices. Anna, have you ever noticed any young Hispanic guys in the diner before?"