Violet Darger | Book 8 | Countdown To Midnight

by Vargus, L. T.

  Except there was no boom because the video had no sound. And the silence seemed wrong. That much devastation didn’t happen quietly.

  The flash was so bright the entire camera flashed to white. And then a violent outward burst overtook the frame as the color seeped back in. Debris flung like dirt clods. Pulsating black smoke that dispersed almost as quickly as it appeared.

  In the aftermath of the flash and the smoke, what was left was only the destruction. The crater and Passmore’s figure sprawled on the floor amidst the chips and shards of gleaming quartz.

  Agent Fredrick replayed the video, this time in slow motion. Worked through it frame by frame. Even then, it was impossible to see the moment of impact in the video. It was too fast. Too bright.

  “Christ,” Darger said. “We’re lucky more people don’t make bombs.”

  A few seconds after the detonation, someone else appeared in the frame. Creeping at first, the fear evident in the body language. Darger recognized the black t-shirt and cargo shorts.

  “This is the car detail guy?” she asked. “Trobiani.”

  “That’s right,” Fredrick said.

  When Trobiani saw the carnage in the kitchen, he froze. There was another beat before it dawned on him exactly what he was seeing. His hands flew to his head, and then he spun around and ran back the way he’d come. Agent Fredrick went back to the outside camera, where Trobiani could be seen making a phone call.

  “He calls it in as soon as he’s back outside.”

  “Any background on him?” Darger asked.

  “He’s been working for Passmore for six months. Lives in Hempstead but is originally from Staten Island. No criminal record. Seems well-balanced. But he’s also been asked to stay in the vicinity, just in case.”

  “I’d like to talk to him,” Loshak said. “Is he still here?”

  Agent Fredrick gestured toward an ambulance parked off to one side in the driveway.

  “He got a little woozy, probably mild shock, so we sent him over to the paramedics.”

  Loshak turned his head toward the vehicle. A pair of legs were visible where someone sat perched in the open rear door, feet dangling over the brick pavers.

  Loshak turned back to Darger.

  “Let’s go see what he’s got to say.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Mark Trobiani appeared to be typing something into his phone as they approached the rear door of the ambulance.

  “Mr. Trobiani?” Loshak called out.

  Trobiani hopped down from the back of the ambulance. A shammy cloth stuck out from one of his back pockets.

  “I’m Agent Loshak. This is my partner, Agent Darger.”

  Trobiani nodded.

  “Let me guess. More questions?”

  “If you don’t mind,” Loshak said.

  “I mean, I don’t know what else I can tell you. I’ve told it about six times now.” Trobiani sighed. “Don’t really have anything new to add.”

  “Well, for starters, how are you feeling?” Darger asked.

  “Oh, I’m good. It was just my blood sugar.” He lifted one side of his shirt to show off an insulin pump. “Forgot to eat, what with all the excitement. Started getting kind of shaky. But the paramedics gave me some glucose gel, so I’m fine now.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “Instead of going over the incident again, why don’t you tell us about Gavin Passmore. What was he like?”

  “Ah. OK. Well… I guess I should preface this all by saying that I’m sorry that this happened to him. I mean, nobody deserves that. And I know he’s got family. Friends. This is gonna be rough for them. But I’m not gonna lie. Mr. Passmore was kind of a jackass.”

  “In what way?”

  “Like he could never remember my name, for one. And a couple times he started talking to me in his half-assed Spanish. I’m Italian, man. I think he was getting me confused with the gardener. Daniel. He was born in El Salvador, but he’s been in the US since he was like two and speaks perfect English, so I still don’t know why Passmore would think he needed to talk to either one of us in Spanish. I kind of figure we were all just servants to him, so he didn’t bother to remember our names or faces or whether we spoke English. Didn’t need to, you know?”

  “You’d think if you could live in a house like this, you could also afford some manners,” Loshak said.

  Trobiani shrugged.

  “Maybe his problem was that he couldn’t really afford it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Trobiani reached down and fiddled with one corner of the shammy cloth in his pocket.

  “This is gonna make me sound like my nosy-ass Aunt Lynette, but I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping on purpose. It’s just that one time, I overheard him talking to his agent on the phone. He was kind of in a panic because he said he’s got five different high-limit credit cards, and they’re all maxed out. The agent must have said something about living more within his means or whatever, because then Passmore really lost it. Started screaming about how image is everything, and that he shouldn’t have to downsize just because his agent was thinking too small.”

  He gestured at the house and at the freshly waxed Mercedes.

  “That’s when I started to realize that this — all of it — was just for show. All to appear successful… or more successful than he really was.” Trobiani clicked his tongue. “Seems nuts to me. A single guy renting this six-bedroom house in one of the most expensive places in the country, just to give off some vibe that he’s a big deal or whatever? And even worse, he’s gotta drag me into it, too.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “Well, I usually only work weekdays, right? But a couple of times, he paid me extra to come on a Saturday, in the middle of the afternoon, when he had guests over. Like, he easily could have had me do the car on Thursday or Friday. No difference. No extra. But I think he wanted me here working so he could show off. Like, look at me, with my hired help. He did the same with Daniel, the gardener I was talking about.”

  The phone in Trobiani’s pocket chimed and buzzed. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen before tucking it away again, but the momentary interruption caused him to lose his train of thought.

  “Shit. What was I talking about again?”

  “You were saying that you thought Passmore hired you to come on weekends sometimes to show off.”

  “Right! Daniel told me that one time Passmore paid him to come pretend to be trimming the hedges around the pool, even though he’d just done it two days before. We were like props to him, man. Not that I minded so much. He did pay me extra and all. And the one time he had a check bounce, he made it right. So like I said… I can’t really complain.”

  Darger considered whether being treated like a servant would be enough motive for murder. She thought in some cases it might, but here she doubted it. Trobiani didn’t seem too bothered by it, all things considered. And if he did have an axe to grind with Passmore, he likely wouldn’t have started out the interview describing the man as a jackass.

  “Probably sounds like I’m judging the dude, but I figure it’s his life. Just seemed kinda pointless to me. All that stressing out trying to convince people you’re more famous than you really are? But I guess he was the ‘fake it ’til you make it’ type. And the way he’d been talking lately, he was convinced he was about to make it.” Trobiani frowned. “Bad timing.”

  His phone buzzed again, and he blew out a breath.

  “My girlfriend. She’s kind of freaking out since she heard what happened. Texting me nonstop, even though I told her I’m fine.” He started tapping out a reply. “Sorry, this’ll just be a second.”

  When he finished and returned the phone to his pocket again, Darger tried to get him back on track.

  “You seem to have a lot of insight into all of this. The idea that Gavin Passmore was desperately trying to keep up appearances.”

  “Most of my regulars are up this way. And believe me, Passmore wasn’t the only one putting on a litt
le show. But when you work around these types long enough, you start to notice the difference between the truly wealthy and the people who are just playing at it.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, like Passmore was kinda cheap. A penny pincher, you know? Always demanding discounts or refunds. Like one time I vacced the car but didn’t do the trunk, mostly because it didn’t need it. Gavin demanded I deduct eight dollars from his next bill, since I hadn’t done a full vacuuming. He wanted his dime’s worth.” Trobiani chuckled. “That’s what he said. And he’d go on and on about how that’s how people attain wealth in the first place, by keeping an eye on every dime. But I’ve worked for some of the real old money families out here, and that just isn’t true. These people, if you did their grocery shopping for the week and told them a gallon of milk cost ten bucks, they’d believe you. They ain’t into the nickels and dimes, see? They probably haven’t ever seen loose change. They’ll tip you with a hundred because it’s the smallest bill they got and think nothing of it. The truly rich people? Chumps like Gavin Passmore have no idea. No idea, man. They have so much money that any amount of cash on hand is like Monopoly dollars. It’s a toy. Insignificant.”

  Darger glanced at Loshak. Wordlessly, they agreed that they’d gotten what they needed from the interview. Loshak put out a hand.

  “Thank you for your time, sir. Sorry to put you through that yet again.”

  “Eh, it’s no big deal,” Trobiani said. “But does that mean I can go now? My girlfriend is hounding me about when I’m coming home.”

  “You should talk to Agent Fredrick about that,” Loshak said, pointing her out near the command center.

  Trobiani sauntered off, phone in hand.

  “What do you think?” Loshak asked.

  “I’d be surprised if he was our guy. He’s too… relaxed. Too open.”

  “Agreed,” Loshak said.

  “I thought what he said about Passmore’s agent was interesting. That they had an argument about finances and whatnot. We should make sure they’re looking into him.”

  Loshak raised an eyebrow.

  “Changing your mind on the serial angle?”

  “I haven’t decided either way. I’m ‘letting the evidence tell the story,’” Darger said, quoting something Loshak always told the agent trainees in his classes.

  He smirked.

  “You want to head back inside and see if the techs have dug up anything interesting?”

  “Lead the way,” Darger said.

  CHAPTER 7

  Darger and Loshak went back inside through the large front door, but this time, they took a flight of stairs up to the second floor.

  Their footsteps whispered over cream Berber carpet stretching the length of the hallway. Doorways on each side of the hall formed portals into fresh exhibits of the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Bedrooms with more expensive-looking furniture. Art and artifacts decorating the walls. A bathroom with marble covering every available surface aside from the toilet and glass shower walls. A bird of paradise plant in the window that stretched nearly to the ceiling.

  In one room, they found an analyst with a laptop, scanners, and printer, surrounded by stacks of paper. He glanced up at them and sprang to his feet.

  “Oh wow! Agent Loshak! I’d heard you were coming, but…” He stepped around the desk and put out his hand. “You probably don’t remember me, but I was in your Advanced Crime Scene Analysis class when I went through the academy two years ago.”

  Loshak’s eyes flicked to the lanyard with the man’s credentials.

  “Of course I remember you. Bill Crowley. One our best and brightest.”

  Crowley beamed.

  “I just wanted you to know that your lecture series was my favorite part of training. I still think about it all the time. The way criminal behavior paints a picture of damaged psychology in action, consciously and subconsciously. Once you have a little insight into something like that, you start seeing it everywhere. In my other classes, I learned investigative techniques. In your class, I got a whole new perspective on the human condition.”

  “Well… that’s wonderful to hear,” Loshak said. “This is my partner, Agent Darger.”

  “Of course.” The analyst’s eyelids fluttered. “An honor to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” she said, shaking his hand. She gestured at the stacks of paper littering the desk. “What is all this?”

  “Various personal documents of the victim. Cell phone records, credit card statements, etc.”

  “Mind if I take a look?” Darger asked, jutting her chin at one of the piles.

  “Be my guest.”

  Darger picked up the closest sheet. It was a statement for Passmore’s American Express Gold card. Beside her, Loshak whistled at the balance amount. Trobiani had been right about the man’s spending habits.

  “That is some pretty massive debt,” Loshak said.

  Darger’s eyes bugged out as she ran down the list of expenses. She paused on one.

  “Three thousand dollars for wine?”

  “That’s a light month,” Crowley said. “I guess he liked to throw big parties with an open bar. A few months ago he spent almost seven thousand on alcohol. And about the same on catering.”

  “Jesus.”

  “He also had a boat. Paid a few thousand a month to dock it up in Montauk. And then a few thousand whenever he hired a crew to take it out.”

  “Look at the minimum payment due on that card.” Loshak jabbed his finger at a five-figure number in an outlined box at the top of the page. “What if Passmore was so over his head in debt that he started borrowing from someone unsavory?”

  “Maybe,” Darger said. “But they usually go for something a bit more low-key. A relatively subtle busting of the kneecaps so as to still give the person an opportunity to pay what they owe. Blowing the guy up doesn’t leave a lot of wiggle room.”

  “Yeah, but maybe someone wanted to send a message. Use this public figure as an example. Pay us back on time, or we’ll send you a present.”

  Crowley shook his head.

  “The funny thing is, the victim was on the cusp of actually being able to afford all of this. Kind of ironic.”

  “What do you mean?” Darger asked, remembering that Trobiani had also said something about Passmore being on the verge of finally ‘making it.’

  “His agent says he was up for a role in a film by an A-list director.” His voice lowered to something barely above a whisper. “He wouldn’t name names, but he implied it was Tarantino. Would have been Passmore’s big break. The agent kept repeating that it would have ‘made his career.’”

  Loshak’s eyes glittered.

  “The plot thickens. What if this is all motivated by professional jealousy?”

  Darger was already shaking her head.

  “Oh come on. You think someone offed this guy to keep him from getting the role? A rival actor?”

  “Would someone really do that?” Crowley asked.

  “Hey, look at the Nancy Kerrigan thing,” Loshak said, shrugging.

  The space between Crowley’s eyebrows wrinkled.

  “Who?”

  “Oh, you sweet summer child.” Loshak patted Crowley’s shoulder. “OK. January 1994. The US Figure Skating Championships were being held in Detroit, Michigan. This would decide who made the Olympic team, right? The top two skaters for the ladies' singles were Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding. A few days before the Championships were to begin, Nancy Kerrigan finished a practice session and was assaulted in a hallway of the arena. A guy named Shane Stant approached her from behind in a ski mask, took out an extendable police baton, and whacked her on the leg. He’d been hired by Harding’s former bodyguard and ex-husband to carry out the assault.”

  Crowley’s mouth hung slightly ajar.

  “So what happened?”

  “Oh they all got caught.”

  “No, I mean with the lady who was attacked?” Crowley clarified. “Could she not skate anymore?”

&
nbsp; “Kerrigan didn’t skate at the US Championships, and Harding got first place.”

  “Wait. They still let her skate after that?”

  “At the time, they couldn’t prove any involvement. Harding was later banned from the sport, and her Championship win was annulled.”

  “Jeez.” Crowley blinked. “That’s crazy.”

  “Even crazier, they both skated for the Olympic team later that year,” Darger added. “It was a big thing in all the tabloids. Kerrigan took silver. Harding… well, there was this whole thing with her shoelace… she was a mess, really.”

  “Hard to imagine anyone being that committed to ice skating,” Crowley said, frowning.

  Loshak held up a finger.

  “Exactly. Now imagine you’re a hungry young actor. Landing a role — a juicy role — in a Tarantino movie would very much be like skating in the Olympics. Maybe bigger.”

  Darger crossed her arms.

  “Right, but they didn’t send Nancy Kerrigan a bomb. There’s a big difference between hiring a goon to bludgeon a knee with an extendable baton and building explosives.”

  “So maybe our guy doesn’t want to leave anything to chance. Kerrigan got the goon treatment and still ended up skating. It’s gotta be cut and dry.”

  “A bomb would be that,” Darger had to admit. “Still… this is so big. So over the top. If you just need the guy dead, hire a hitman, for God’s sake. Corner the guy in a dark alley. This is someone who wants attention. Someone with a cause, a set of beliefs they’re trying to express with violence. The scale puts it beyond something personal, I think.”

  Loshak seemed won over by that, but his words remained guarded.

  “Maybe. We’ll have to wait and see what the evidence says. Speaking of which, let’s go see if there have been any updates on tracking the origin of the package.” He put his hand out again for Crowley to shake. “Bill, my man, it was a pleasure to see you. I hope we cross paths again soon.”

  “Thanks, Agent Loshak.” Crowley’s face turned pink, and Darger almost expected him to giggle like a schoolgirl. “And it was nice meeting you, Agent Darger.”

  “Likewise. Thanks for the help.”