Bombshell Part 37

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 pa.s.sing 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 las.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.s. 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 g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger 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?"

Savich said, "You told us Peter Biaggini wielded great influence over Stony."

"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 Sat.u.r.day you thought Peter Biaggini was a little s.h.i.+te. 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?"

That brought Hart up short. "Well, no, not really. And listen to me, as much as I dislike Peter Biaggini, I don't believe he did murder Tommy Cronin; why would he? If he uploaded the photo, then where did he get it? I have no idea, but still, where's the motive for him to do such a heinous thing? It had to be someone striking out against the old man, against Palmer Cronin. If the fool hadn't turned a deaf ear to all the warnings bombarding him, if those imbeciles in Congress hadn't kept encouraging the banks to continue writing unpayable mortgages, let them develop and market derivatives no one understood, the collapse wouldn't have happened. It's that simple. But no, they all kept going on, a triumph of greed and stupidity."

Savich had already heard about a more flamboyant version of the same diatribe delivered by Hart to the Commonwealth Club two weeks before. He'd probably been paid a princely sum for it. Savich said, his voice precise and cold, "I understand, Mr. Hart, that you sold quite a few of those bonds yourself before the crash. Wasn't it after they went under that you decided to turn against your own compatriots and join the talk circuit?"

Hart looked like he wanted to punch Savich in the face, but he was smart enough not to try it. He turned away and walked quickly toward the windows, to get control of himself. He said over his shoulder, "What we did, we did because it seemed smart, it seemed simply good business that made money for the banks and a good return for our investors. None of us guessed some of the biggest banks in the world could totter toward collapse in a few short weeks. Impossible, most thought, but happen it did.

"I am on the talk circuit now, as you call it, to encourage the Fed, the SEC, Congress, all interested parties to move forward with the regulations I suggest."

Another quote from Hart's speech, and a question he had fielded many times. Not defensive, not all that remorseful, either, but look at the new man, the new wise man with a plan of action. Savich thought he did it well.

"If you're right, Mr. Hart, about Tommy's murder being revenge against Palmer Cronin, then how do you explain the photo uploaded on Stony's computer? Why did Stony kill himself?"

They watched Hart deflate, no other word for it, his son's suicide once again front and center in his mind. He said, his voice hoa.r.s.e with pain, "An innocent boy was brutally killed, and my poor son killed himself. I can't explain any of it, but I know it had to be revenge on Cronin, had to be. Peter Biaggini didn't do it. It was someone you don't even have on your radar."

"Mr. Hart, why do you have cameras in this room?"

"What-oh, the cameras. When I bought the house the former owner had an elaborate security system installed because he had an expensive art collection. I thought it interesting, and so I kept it. Easier than ripping it out.

"I need to be with my wife now, Agents. Regina will show you out."

Savich was aware of Hart's bleak eyes following them as Regina led them from the living room.

Maestro, Virginia

Monday afternoon

Anna was surprised when Dr. Elliot Hayman walked into Maurie's Diner well after the lunch crowd would normally have thinned. It was still crowded today here at gossip central, what with all the buzz about the shooting at the B&B last night. She'd heard many hairy tales about what had happened, but few that remotely resembled reality. And Delsey didn't star in any of them, a lucky thing indeed.

He sent her a warm smile, maybe too warm, she never really knew with Dr. Hayman, and he waved. It had been at least a month since she'd seen him in here, too pedestrian for him, too blue collar, she'd always a.s.sumed. Why today? He walked straight to a back table where three female Stanislaus graduate students Anna had already been serving were gossiping, not about the shooting but about Gabrielle DuBois. "I wonder if she'll go after Dr. Hayman now that Professor Salazar's cooled off," and, "Well, she's French, isn't she?"

Musicians, cops, waitresses, Anna thought, listening to them. Jealousy and gossip were always the same. She followed Dr. Hayman to the table, where the three women gladly welcomed him to join them. Anna gave him a big smile after he'd settled in. "I believe you like sweet tea, don't you, Dr. Hayman?"

He smiled back at her, that too-warm smile, and nodded. "Yes, thank you. I'm told Ms. Freestone didn't attend cla.s.ses this morning. Is she not feeling well?"

"I'm not sure, Dr. Hayman, but I know she would have been there if she could."

"Do you know where she is now, Anna?"

"Can't say, Dr. Hayman."

"Our campus police chief told me there was another break-in and a shooting at the B&B. He said he couldn't find out more because Sheriff n.o.ble was keeping a tight lid on it. Have you heard anything about it, Anna?"

"People have been talking about it, but like you said, the sheriff isn't letting out any of the details." It was a relief to all of them that the gang member had tried to kill Delsey in the middle of the night when no one was around. And luckily the forensic team and the ME and his team weren't from Maestro and not around to be grilled over scrambled eggs.

Anna poured Dr. Hayman's sweet tea, took more orders, and delivered them to the kitchen window-most medium-rare hamburgers, Maurie's specialty, and orders of his stiff-as-soldiers-at-attention french fries. It didn't feel right to her that Dr. Hayman was in here today asking questions about Delsey and the shooting. A local shooting was unusual, it was exciting fodder for the gossip mill, but for Dr. Hayman?

He wasn't drinking his tea. She was also aware he was watching her. Did he disbelieve her? Did he think she was holding something back, since she and Delsey were best friends? No matter. She had no choice, she had to keep working and lying through her teeth.

She delivered late lunches, refilled gla.s.ses, and smiled and said cheery things and pa.s.sed more orders through the kitchen window to Maurie, who was sweating in a thick, fat-filled heat, whistling softly as he flipped hamburger patties and barked at Mickey Cross for another order of tuna salad. Mickey was an aging Desert Storm vet who never paid Maurie much mind, having survived an Iraqi prison.

And she had a growing premonition that trouble was going to walk through the door at any minute.