“But then Delsey came in unexpectedly.”
“Yes. They had to be gang members, violent thugs, and they probably hadn’t been told to kill anyone else. I’m thinking one of them hit her on the head before they hauled Arnie away and ended up dumping him beside Breaker’s Hill in the thick snow and trees.
“Of course, that’s a guess, but one that makes sense. If I’ve got it right, then Arnie saved my life. But he never thought Delsey would be in danger. And now the gang members who killed him know that Delsey saw Arnie well enough to describe him. They’ve got to be wonderin’ if she saw them, too, and if so, she was a witness against a gang of killers. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, or how to protect her until I realized you were worried for her safety as well, and put a guard on her door. We have to continue to protect her.”
He looked at Monk, who was washing himself in front of the fireplace, looked back at her, standing stiff and so contained that if she moved, she might break apart. He rose. “We’re now in this together. Call me Griffin. And what should I call you?”
“Anna. It’s my name.”
“Why don’t you come back to the B&B with me? You can spend some time with Delsey. Anything’s better than being stuck out here alone with a gun pressed against your leg.”
“I can’t. I’ve got Monk, and Bud Bailey would have a hissy fit if he saw this big boy come through his front door. I know him well. Trust me. Besides, I’ve got to start my shift at Maurie’s soon. Remember, Griffin, I’m still undercover, still plain Anna Castle.” She fidgeted for a moment. “Are you going to tell Delsey who I am?”
“No. When that time comes, you’ll tell her. And good luck with that.”
He gave her a long look, patted her cheek, and started to leave. “Be careful.”
“Okay. You, too.”
He looked back to see her standing at the front door, her arms around herself against the cold, that Glock of hers still settled in the back of her waistband, watching him, and Griffin knew he not only admired her greatly, he wanted more from her and wanted it badly.
The Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.
Late Sunday afternoon
Savich looked down at his cell to see another missed call from Bo Horsley. He listened to the message. I know you’re up to your neck in alligators, but give a passing thought to coming up to New York for the Jewel of the Lion exhibit. I’m heading private security for the exhibit for the Met—quite a job, let me tell you. Call me when you get a chance.
Savich was on the point of returning Bo Horsley’s call when he looked up to see Mr. August Biaggini walk into the CAU. He looked so much like Savich’s father that for a moment he couldn’t speak. Like Buck Savich, August Biaggini was tall and fit, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, comfortably in his mid-fifties. But when Mr. Biaggini spoke, the spell was broken. His voice was quiet and lilting, with a whisper of Italy, not the clipped, edged cadence of Savich’s dad.
“Special Agent Savich,” he said and stuck out his hand.
“Mr. Biaggini, thank you for coming to us. This is Agent Sherlock.”
Biaggini turned his dark eyes on her, and Sherlock found a smile blooming naturally. He reminded her a bit of the photo of Dillon’s dad on their mantel. She shook his hand.
“Please sit down, sir.”
Biaggini sat. “My son is not here yet, I see.”
Savich said, “He’s waiting in the interview room down the hall. Before we join him, I wanted to hear your thoughts about Tommy Cronin’s murder.”
Biaggini’s expressive face turned hard, and Savich saw grief etched in the lines beside his mouth. “I have called poor Marian to give her my family’s condolences. She is inconsolable, as are Tommy’s grandparents and his sisters. I keep thinking it simply cannot be real, but no, it happened, some monster actually did this to Tommy. Neither my wife nor I can begin to understand the callous brutality, much less what sadistic message the murderer meant to send. Was there any sort of actual message found, Agent Savich?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Sherlock said, “Mr. Biaggini, do you believe Tommy’s murder had something to do with his grandfather and his role in the banking scandal?”
Mr. Biaggini said, “As you undoubtedly know, revenge against Palmer Cronin seemed to be the consensus among all the talking heads on television both yesterday and today. The single member of the Federal Reserve Board I saw interviewed said he believed it had been a personal matter. All others interviewed implied he was whistling in the wind, trying to deflect any blame from himself and the Board.
“It’s a much more titillating news story, isn’t it, to imagine some poor soul stripped of his livelihood and his self-respect in the banking collapse lashing out at Palmer Cronin through his grandson?”
“Yes, but what do you think, sir?” Savich asked him.
Biaggini waved a hand, an artist’s hand, Sherlock thought, like Dillon’s. “I find myself agreeing with the one lone opinion. Unless the man was insane, I can’t understand killing Tommy to exact some sort of belated revenge on his grandfather. Palmer Cronin didn’t mean for the banking collapse to happen; he wasn’t involved in anything unethical during his watch himself. His guilt lay in holding the wrong economic philosophy, and, I suppose, a stubborn blindness to what was happening. But again, he did not actually dirty his hands. If someone wanted revenge, why not kill the CEO of one of those big banking or investment firms who actually were responsible for leaving their investors dangling in the wind because they cared more about their golden parachutes than about morality, or ethics, or responsibility?
“I have thought about this and am forced to conclude that even though Tommy was only twenty, he must have made a violent enemy. A classmate, perhaps, though it chills me to think someone that young could have murdered Tommy so brutally.”
Sherlock said, “Do you know of anyone capable of doing this?”
“No, I do not. From what I know about Tommy over the years, he never seemed to venture far out of his circle. He had a comfort zone, and he stayed well within it. If he enraged someone, it would seem likely to have been one of his intimate group, but I know that isn’t possible. We’re talking three young people—Tommy, Stony, and Peter—who’ve known each other most of their lives. Of course there are other friends as well, but none so close as those three.
“And yes, Peter is one of the three.” He gave her a charming smile. “But of course Peter wouldn’t be capable of such a thing, and certainly not Stony.”
Savich said, “Naturally, Tommy’s circle enlarged significantly when he entered Magdalene.”
“Yes, of course. I imagine he initially had difficulty adapting, but adapt he did. Tommy was always liked well enough, but even more so at Magdalene, so my son Peter told me.” The charming smile bloomed again. “My son Peter will graduate from Magdalene himself in the spring, with a degree in international business. He has already accepted a position with Caruthers and Milton here in Washington. After a year of training and exposure to all the Washington clients, they may transfer him to the New York headquarters.” Mr. Biaggini radiated a father’s pride, and no wonder, Sherlock thought. Caruthers & Milton certainly was a big deal, one of the large investment banks that had taken its share of the billions of dollars coughed up by American taxpayers so they could stay in business, chastened, at least in the short term. Last she’d heard, C&M was flourishing. She couldn’t imagine anyone ever again handing their money over to any of the investment banks, but evidently there were many who hadn’t learned their lesson.
Savich said, “Have you spoken to your son about Tommy’s murder, Mr. Biaggini?”
“No, I have not seen him since Thursday evening, when he came over to the house for dinner. Spaghetti, always spaghetti. Peter loves his mother’s meat sauce. My son is very popular, always in demand. Although he spends much of his time on campus, he also has his own apartmen
t over on Winston Avenue.”
“Peter has three residences? One of them an apartment? Why?” Sherlock asked. “I understand you live with the rest of your family—Peter’s mom and his two younger brothers, nearby in Hillsborough?”
“His mother and I gave it to him as a gift for his senior year, to give the young man some privacy. We can always let the lease go when he moves to New York for Caruthers and Milton.”
Savich already knew about Mr. Biaggini’s extravagant gift to his eldest son—not too surprising, perhaps, for a successful owner of a chain of cosmetics stores. But he also knew about Peter’s country club membership, and the two troublesome DUIs he’d gotten in Virginia. No consequences for Peter, thanks to his father’s intervention.
Savich said, “How is your son doing in his senior classes at Magdalene?”
“Why, he’s doing very well. He’s a brilliant young man. Even though Peter is—was—Tommy’s senior by nearly two years, they were still close growing up; our families spent time together.”
Sherlock said, “Did you like Tommy, as a person?”
Mr. Biaggini thought about this for a moment. “Tommy was usually well mannered, respectful. But I remember thinking that as a teenager Tommy saw people as they really were and took advantage when he could. The word sly comes to mind, though it pains me to say such a thing now that he’s dead.”
Sherlock said, “Could you give us an example?”
Mr. Biaggini looked thoughtful. “I remember hearing him bait his aunt, Marian Lodge, about not preventing his mother’s suicide. I will admit, I was appalled and thought that was very unlike him, since he had to know that was very painful for her.” He shrugged. “Then his father died and Tommy seemed to change; he looked out for his younger sisters, became more thoughtful, more mature, rather than a spoiled teenage boy spewing out hormones and attitude. I guess you could say he became the man of the house, and Marian seemed pleased to let him assume that role.”
Sherlock said, “Did Tommy Cronin defer too often to Peter?”
Mr. Biaggini blinked. “That’s quite a question to ask a father, Agent Sherlock, and it is difficult to answer because Peter and Tommy were so different from each other. What I mean is, my son is a natural leader, and Tommy, well, wasn’t. Tommy tended to hang back, as did Stony, to see what direction Peter wanted to go.” Mr. Biaggini looked away for a moment, shook his head. “Who knows what Tommy would have done with his life if he’d been allowed to keep it.”
She said, “And what do you know about Stony Hart, sir?”
“Stony? The second major member of Tommy’s circle, and Peter’s good friend as well, I might add. The three of them together since childhood. Unfortunately, Walter—Stony—lacks maturity, something common at his young age, I suppose, but with Stony I always wondered if he was ever going to grow up. He seems much younger than Peter in his behavior, in how he views the world and his place in it, even though he’s a year older. Even his father, a rather authoritarian man, still treats him like a teenager in some ways.
“Of the three friends, Stony was the shyest, and the hardest to pry away from his computers. I remember when he was only eleven years old he was caught trying to hack into a local bank.” Mr. Biaggini smiled at the memory. “The FBI, if I remember correctly, made it a point to scare the socks off him.
“Stony is a kind soul, though; he seems to feel things more than most others. I’ve noticed over the years that his father thinks Stony’s kindness is a weakness, makes him less a man. But he’s wrong.”
Sherlock said, “You don’t care for Mr. Hart, sir?”
“No, I don’t,” Mr. Biaggini said. He paused for a long moment, studied his thumbnail, then added, “Wakefield Hart wants Stony to be a chip off the proverbial old block, but he isn’t, and never will be.”
Savich rose and motioned Mr. Biaggini down the hall. He opened the door to the same interview room Stony had occupied not two hours before.
As with Stony, Coop and Lucy stood silent and grim, their backs against the wall, arms crossed over their chests. Unlike Stony, though, Peter Biaggini was sprawled in his chair, looking loose and bored, his fingers tapping a smart tattoo on the tabletop. He was whistling under his breath and texting on his cell with racing fingers. Sherlock’s first thought was that he could be Dillon’s younger brother—handsome as sin, dark-eyed like his father—surely strong enough to haul Tommy Cronin over his shoulder and drop him at Lincoln’s feet.
Her second thought was that he looked as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
When Peter saw his father flanked by two agents, Savich saw surprise and wariness register on his face before he caught himself and smoothed it out. Savich was impressed that a twenty-two-year-old could adjust the controls so quickly. His surprise and wariness were soon replaced by thinly veiled impatience and contempt in the look he sent his father—the Hair Spray King, isn’t that what he called him? Savich wanted to haul him out of his lizard pose, but he merely nodded to the young man. His father didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. Didn’t Biaggini Senior see what was written so clearly on the son’s face?
“. . . And Mr. Biaggini, this is Agent McKnight and Agent Carlyle.”
After nods and handshakes, Savich pointed to a chair at the end of the table. Before he sat, Mr. Biaggini reached out his hand to his son. “You haven’t returned your mother’s calls, Peter. Your mother and I are so very sorry about Tommy. Are you all right?”
Peter Biaggini stared at his dad, stared at his hand, darted a fast look at Savich, and gave his father’s hand a quick shake.
What are you like when you’re alone with him? Savich wondered.
Peter nodded. “I’m all right, though of course I’m upset; none of Tommy’s friends can believe it.” He nodded toward Coop and Lucy. “Those agents over there told me the cops brought me here to be questioned about his murder. I asked them why, but they wouldn’t answer me. I guess they didn’t know because they’re pretty low on the food chain around here.”
Lucy bit her lip to keep from grinning. Good shot, kid.
Peter continued to his father, “They must think we have something to do with it. I know I didn’t. Did you have him killed, Dad?”
Savich watched Biaggini Senior literally recoil from the flippant words out of his eldest son’s mouth. Then he drew himself up again, and his voice was austere. “That is not amusing, Peter. The agents do not believe that either you or I had anything to do with this tragedy; they simply want to know about Tommy.”
Peter never changed his lizard sprawl, and now an ugly sneer marred his mouth. “Tragedy, Dad? Tommy was murdered. Tragedy would be if he died of leukemia. That’s like calling 9/11 a tragedy when it was mass murder. You really think these agents only want our thoughts and advice? I don’t think so. I think they’re looking for someone to blame. So what happens when they find out you hated Tommy’s grandfather, called him a dangerous buffoon? I remember all your harangues about him, about practically the whole financial industry. Looks like somebody finally struck a blow against all the greed you hate so much. Tell me, Dad, are you really sorry?”
Peter Biaggini’s contempt seared the air. Sherlock saw Coop and Lucy exchange glances, their thoughts clear on their faces—Why doesn’t Biaggini slam that idiot son of his to the floor and kick him a couple of times?
Savich hoped they’d get back to their poker faces quickly, because he’d been watching Peter as he spoke and seen him preen when he got the reaction he’d wanted.
Mr. Biaggini was pale and still. It was obvious to Savich he was used to his son’s abusiveness. When he finally spoke, his voice was a model of tolerance, probably used for so long with his son it was an ingrained habit. “I doubt Palmer Cronin would agree anyone deserves what happened to Tommy. He’s devastated, Peter; so is Tommy’s grandmother. I imagine he would gladly have taken Tommy’s place if he’d been given the choice.”
/>
Savich said, “I’m sure you’re quite upset, Peter. After all, Tommy Cronin was one of your best friends since when? You met when you were six years old and he was four, right?”
Peter Biaggini shrugged. “Tommy was lame as a kid, and he never really changed, but he was part of our group, right?”
Sherlock said, “So you’re saying you’re not upset that Tommy was murdered?”
Peter Biaggini turned dark eyes to her, very close to the color of Sean’s eyes, she thought, and it scared her that she’d noticed that. Could the malignancy that brimmed in Peter Biaggini possibly be lurking in Sean? Did a parent ever really know what would develop in her young child’s mind? Could a parent ever do more than guess and hope that her child would grow up to be honorable?
Peter’s fingers stopped their tapping, and he leaned toward Sherlock. “Of course I am upset. Even if you didn’t admire a person you grew up with, it would still leave a hole, don’t you think? A very deep hole. I’ll miss him.” They kept staring at each other, and Savich wondered, What is Sherlock seeing in him?
Savich asked, “Peter, you knew Tommy’s father? His mother?”
Savich watched a sneer mar his mouth again. It made him look common and mean. “Of course I did. Both of them liked to show off their money, but I’ve got to say they always treated Tommy’s friends well, took us all to Redskins games, sailing on the Potomac, clamming and big bonfires on the beach. When Tommy’s mom killed herself, I remember Mr. Cronin brought in Tommy’s Aunt Marian and everything continued on as it always had—barbecues and parties, whatever his dad and aunt could come up with—only with a change in moms.”
Savich said, “It sounds to me like you don’t think Mr. Cronin missed his wife that much.”
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