Having two sons the same age, Dix held to his patience. Limelight like this didn’t come along every day for a teenage boy. “Billy, Deputy Claus is down on the road. You hook up with him and he’ll take you home. If I have more questions, I’ll come see you, all right? We’ve got to take care of him now. Go home.” Billy knew when an adult meant it, and so he hung it up. He and Jonah carried their snowboards down the hill, Billy talking a mile a minute about how the dead guy’s fingers curled around his hand when he fell on him—I heard the finger bones snap—Dix knew it was a story that would glitter with epic detail by nightfall.
The bright yellow crime scene tape his deputies had placed marked off the man’s body. At least there was no more snow in the forecast. Processing the scene with snow pelting down on them would have been a nightmare.
When the Loudoun County forensic team was finally through, the ME’s van slogging through the hard-packed snow to the road at the base of Breaker’s Hill, Ruth turned to her husband. “If animals hadn’t disturbed the site, if Billy hadn’t fallen in the woods, maybe not even Bertie would have found him.”
True enough, Dix thought. He’d brought the portable fingerprinter and wondered what the chances were the man’s prints would be in AFIS. He replied, “It’s still too cold. Let’s get ourselves out of this weather.
“Now that we have his body, we’ll find out who he was. Maybe then we’ll know why he was here in Maestro, and what he was doing in Delsey’s bathtub.”
Ruth looked up into the brilliant sun. It was odd, still feeling so cold with the sun so bright overhead. She counted the steps to Dix’s Range Rover.
Dr. Hayman’s House
Deer Ridge Lane
Maestro, Virginia
Sunday morning
Griffin pulled his Camry into Dr. Hayman’s driveway, the first tire tracks of the day. He’d read that Stanislaus had provided Dr. Hayman with a director’s residence for the duration of his contract, an old shingled bungalow set in the middle of an expansive tree-filled lawn. He saw the information wasn’t exactly accurate. Calling it a bungalow was a misnomer. The original house had been enlarged and modernized. After his initial take on Dr. Hayman, Griffin thought the new version of the house suited Hayman pretty well. Two more perks he’d read about—a gardener and a housekeeper. No cook? Griffin grinned as he walked up the six front steps to press the doorbell.
Dr. Hayman answered the door himself. He looked the part of a Euro-aristocrat even on Sunday, Griffin thought, all duded up in GQ-casual running-suit elegance, down to expensive sneakers that, Griffin thought, hadn’t ever slammed their soles on a roadtop. Was he trying to emulate Professor Salazar after all?
“You are late, Agent Hammersmith.”
Griffin said, “I was held up unexpectedly at Breaker’s Hill. A couple of kids with their snowboards strapped to the roof of their car skidded into a snowdrift, and I helped get them out.”
“You should have called me.”
Maybe so, but more fun to see you go all haughty and pissed off. Griffin nodded and stepped forward, forcing Dr. Hayman to take a quick step back.
There was no bungalow coziness on the inside, either. Inside was all aggressive and ultramodern. It struck Griffin between the eyes. All high style and dash, but no particular charm. He said, “Did you redecorate?”
“Yes, I had to. Though they kept the house nicely on the outside, the inside was a disgrace. I’m told an eighty-year-old spinster with a dozen cats originally lived here. When she died, she donated the house to Stanislaus.
“What I have done suits me now. I must admit to being pleasantly surprised by the workmanship here in Maestro. Come into the living room, Agent Hammersmith.”
Hayman waved him into a large square room with wide windows that gave onto the front yard. He pointed to a deep burgundy sofa and moved to stand beside the fireplace. He crossed his arms over his chest, then crossed his feet. Too bad Griffin wasn’t a photographer; this was a pose for posterity, and again, it reminded him of Professor Salazar, only Dr. Hayman did it better, with more natural grace.
“How is Delsey?”
“She is better.”
“I will look forward to seeing her back with us. Now, what can I do for you, Agent Hammersmith? I’m afraid I’ve already told you everything I know that might be helpful. As I think we all told you, Delsey left the party without telling anyone.” He looked down at his watch. Who was he expecting?
“Tell me what special ingredients you put in the margaritas Delsey drank Friday night.”
If Hayman thought that an odd question, he didn’t show it, and answered readily, “It was a very fine tequila—Patrón Silver—that should not have made her ill. Naturally, I used an excellent Cointreau, lime juice, and a bit of additional triple sec.”
“What was your special ingredient?”
“Nothing more than a dash of Tabasco sauce.”
Not very original at all. “She was sick enough to leave. How many drinks did she have?”
“I did not count. Three, I believe. Although the Patrón Silver is an excellent tequila, it is potent.”
Probably enough alcohol to flatten an elephant. “Do you think someone could have added something to her drinks, Dr. Hayman? Something to make her ill?”
“There is no reason for anyone to do that, Agent.”
“And what about your brother, Dr. Salazar? Whatever your own intentions toward Delsey, I got the impression the man is far more a hedonist than an ascetic. He uses his students, particularly the women, treats them like his own personal servants.”
“A hedonist? Because he enjoys life and takes advantage of what life offers to him? Well, yes, he does take advantage and that isn’t something I admire, but still, Rafael is a fine musician, no matter his small character flaws. He is both admired and respected. Have you ever seen him perform onstage?”
“I didn’t ask you about his musical abilities, Dr. Hayman,” Griffin said. “You don’t seem to care for him much, and since he is your brother, you certainly know him. You are the director here, responsible for the behavior of faculty at an academic institution. Why would you bring someone with such flaws in his personal life, someone who is something of a predator, to Stanislaus? Why would you take that risk?”
“Perhaps he has not behaved quite as I expected. At any rate, whatever his habits, his questionable behavior, this will be his last semester here.”
“Why do both of you appear to want to get close to my sister? Is there some sort of competition between you?”
“I am not at all like Rafael, and I do not compete with him.”
“Did he pressure you into inviting him to Stanislaus for the year? Or did someone else?”
“He is my brother, Agent Hammersmith. I was not pressured, but perhaps it is true that I listened too kindly to our mother. She is never reticent about what she feels and wants. But Maria Rosa is a lovely lady who perhaps cares too much for Rafael. Perhaps she has indulged him too much over the years. After my parents divorced when we were boys, she took Rafael with her to Spain, her homeland, where she married a rich Spanish industrialist, Carlo Salazar, now happily passed on.”
“Why did she leave you behind?”
“It was my father’s condition for a divorce, and so I grew up in New Jersey. If you wish to know more about Rafael or Maria Rosa’s family, you can ask my brother. I expect him shortly.”
He called his mother by her first name? Well, Griffin supposed it could be natural, given he didn’t grow up with her.
“And why is Professor Salazar coming here this fine morning?”
“His lifestyle does not relieve him of his responsibilities here at Stanislaus. He is a colleague, Agent. We are to discuss the scheduling of his students’ recitals for the coming semester.”
Griffin pulled out his smartphone, scrolled to a photo of the dead man on Breaker’s Hill, and held it up. “Have you ever seen this man before, Dr. Hayman?”
Hayman studied the photo. “No, I can’t say that I
have. Is this man involved with what happened to Delsey?”
“Perhaps,” Griffin said. “We also know the man who struck Delsey was a young Hispanic. Were there any Hispanic men at the party?”
Hayman blinked. “There are perhaps a dozen Hispanic musicians at Stanislaus, though I don’t recall seeing any of them at the party. Surely it was not one of them. They are all accomplished musicians, here to study and improve themselves, not rob houses. And perhaps that is what it was—a simple robbery, after all.”
“Dr. Hayman, there is nothing at all simple about what happened to Delsey.”
They heard the front doorbell ring.
“It is my brother, I believe.”
Griffin said, “Do you have a music room, sir? Could you take me there, then send Professor Salazar in to see me?”
Hayman shrugged and walked out of the living room, Griffin on his heels. He opened a door on his right, motioned to Griffin. Griffin stepped into a small room filled with books, a huge grand piano, and a wall of shoulder-high mirrors set against it, all with ornate antique frames.
“I will ask Rafael if he wishes to speak to you,” Hayman said and walked out. Griffin heard his footfalls toward the front door. Would Salazar agree to speak to him?
The music room was good-sized, with nothing out of place. Sheet music sat atop a small desk, neat and tidy. The concert-size Steinway was bare. And what about all those mirrors, some so old the glass was distorted and shadowed? Did Hayman stare at himself while he played the piano? Why? To perfect some special demeanor for his audiences?
He moved to the door, opened it a crack and listened. He heard voices, but they were speaking too quietly for him to make out what they were saying. Too bad.
Professor Rafael Salazar strolled into the small study, walked to the piano, and leaned against it—no, he lounged against it. He was wearing gray cashmere today, and looked very sharp indeed.
He said, “Agent Hammersmith, I understand you are concerned for your sister, but I have been more than generous with my time with you already. I have learned nothing more since we last spoke. I have a great deal to accomplish today, even on Sunday, and I ask that if you or the sheriff wish to speak with me again, you make an appointment through my office. From what my brother tells me, you have already formed an opinion of me. A hedonist, sir?”
Griffin smiled at him. “Tell me, Professor Salazar, do you dislike your brother as much as he appears to dislike you?”
Salazar blinked at him, then smiled with genuine amusement. It changed him, made him seem real, but only for an instant. “Dislike my brother? He is a brilliant pianist, naturally, but he carries the burden of being a bourgeois—after all, he was raised here in the United States—who could expect him to simply appreciate some of the splendid diversions life offers? Ah, like a certain measure of hedonism.”
“Unlike in Spain?”
“Very possibly. In Europe, the artist and his needs are better appreciated and valued, his needs for diversions understood and accepted.”
“Is that what your mother, Maria Rosa, does? Understand you? She taught you to enjoy life’s diversions?”
Salazar’s mouth seamed. “My mother is a woman of infinite good taste and judgment. She certainly understands me. I will say, too, she has the good judgment to never interfere in my personal life, Agent. My brother should never have spoken of her to you. I do not understand why you wish to discuss such things.”
“I ask because you appear to have no shortage of perceived self-worth, and I wondered how it was nurtured in you.”
“You mock me, Agent? The truth is I have been blessed, but I also work incredibly hard. My life is not all pleasurable amusement, you know.” Salazar shrugged. “So why pretend I am like everyone else when I am clearly not? As much as I’ve enjoyed this chat, Agent Hammersmith, if there is nothing truly pressing, I will ask you to excuse me.”
Griffin showed Salazar the photo of the dead man, and after the expected demur, asked him, “Do you know any Hispanic males who might have hurt Delsey?”
Of all things, Salazar hummed. “Hurt her? Why? No, I’m afraid no name springs to mind.”
“Why do you think Delsey was attacked in her apartment?”
“I do not know. It maddens and taunts me.”
When Griffin left Dr. Hayman’s lovely bungalow he looked back to see Professor Salazar and Dr. Hayman standing together in the open doorway; they appeared to be arguing. His interviews with the two men had been informative, but not particularly helpful. He found them strangely alien; he’d met many kinds of people, but none as self-absorbed as these two. Could he believe what either of them had said? And why this fascination with his sister?
Maestro, Virginia
Sunday afternoon
When Dix pulled his SUV into his driveway early that afternoon, he heard Brewster—his four-pound toy poodle—barking his head off. He opened the front door and quickly grabbed him up and held him away from him when he walked into the house so Brewster wouldn’t pee on him in his excitement. As it was, he, Ruth, and the boys were supporting the dry cleaner.
“Yeah, yeah, fluffball, I’m home, and yes, I’ll take you outside, but you’re not going to like it.”
“No need,” Ruth said, coming out to see him, a big spoon in her hand. “Rafe took him out a few minutes ago, laughing his head off when Brewster sank into the snow over his head. Turned into a game. Soup’s on.” She pushed through a half-dozen licks from Brewster when she tried to kiss her husband. “I invited Griffin to stop over to get something to eat and take some of your yummy chili—if there’s any left—back to Delsey. She’s probably really tired of hospital food. He says she’s seen the photo, Dix, and confirms it’s the same man.”
She took Brewster, let him lick her some more, and shouted to her boys, who were watching a recording of the football play-off game from last night in the living room. She made them promise to wash essence of Brewster off their hands before lunch.
“I’m glad the photos have been of some use,” Dix said as he took off his thick jacket and leaned over to pull off his boots. “We’ve been showing them around town, and we’ve heard everything from his being a salesman from Henderson to a basketball scout visiting the high school. The guy was friendly, like Delsey and Anna told us, visited with everyone, but no one knew his name.”
“Maybe Dillon’s facial-recognition program could help,” Ruth said.
“Maybe. Is it halftime yet? I missed the game last night, too, you know.”
“Nope, in a few minutes, depending on the number of time-outs the coaches take. We can watch the game if you like while we chow down on your chili and corn bread, made from—who was it? Oh, yes, your granddad’s favorite recipe. And I made the mandatory salad I expect everyone to eat.”
As they set up trays to take to the living room, Ruth said, “I spoke to Dillon, told him what was going on here. He’s tied up with his own case, that Tommy Cronin murder. He asked me to stay here and save your bacon and figure this all out for you.”
Dix laughed. “What a nice guy. That’s quite a case he’s got. Why murder a twenty-year-old and set him up on the world stage like that?” But Dix didn’t expect an answer. His eyes were locked on the TV and the game.
“What do you mean?”
Thankfully, there was a time-out, and she got his attention. “If it was payback, it’s like killing the messenger. I mean, why kill the boy when he wasn’t responsible for any of the mess himself? He’s not his grandfather.”
Ruth said slowly, “Unless it was some kind of message. ‘You all hurt me, so I’m taking one of yours’?”
“If that’s so, it’s a stranger world than I thought,” Dix said.
Chevy Chase, Maryland
Sunday morning
FBI Special Agent Ted Atkinson, a former college football tackle with a neck the size of Sherlock’s waist, met Savich and Sherlock at the oversized oak front door of the Cronin estate. “I’m glad to see you guys. It’s quiet as a tomb around h
ere.” He cracked his knuckles. “What a terrible business.”
“Amen to that,” Sherlock said.
“Some of the media were here when I arrived early this morning.” He waved past the postcard-beautiful lawn with snow blanketing the maple and oak trees toward the three TV vans hunkered down at the distant curb. “Those gates you drove through have helped keep the vultures out, but they’re still sitting out there. Why? Do they think someone will welcome them in, tell them how they feel, offer them a latte? I take a stroll around the perimeter every once in a while, show them how big and mean I look. Did they hassle you?”
“Not really,” Sherlock said. “We smiled at them and gave them a little wave. I thought one of the guys was going to try to sneak through the gate, but better heads prevailed at the last minute. I do believe, though, he had some comments about Dillon’s antecedents.”
“Give me the nod and I’ll go speak to him.” Atkinson gave a ferocious grin. “Come on in before you freeze to death. It’s beautiful with the sun shining on all the snow, but it’s still cold enough to see your breath.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cronin are in the living room, have been for the past three hours, huddled together, not talking much. Enduring, I’d guess you’d say. It’s been a terrible blow for those poor old folks.” Atkinson shut the front door behind them, paused for a moment, then locked it and shrugged as if to say, You never know, now, do you?
“This old place dates back to 1910,” Atkinson said. “Can you imagine the heating bills?”
They stepped through a large Art Deco entrance hall with signature black and white floor tiles. A kidney-shaped Art Deco table that looked to be an Émile-Jacques Ruhlmann original sat against one long wall. Savich’s mom loved Ruhlmann, had bought a small table designed by the man himself.
Centered on the wall over the table hung a painting of a small barefoot girl in pink shorts running on a beach, hanging for dear life on to a kite string, the tail of a vivid red dragon nearly slapping her face as it whipped and whirled about in the wind. You could feel the young girl’s excitement and the absolute perfection of that single moment, feel the beating wind stinging your face, tearing your eyes. You could smell the brine. Savich stared at the painting, couldn’t help himself. It was one of his grandmother’s, titled The Child.
Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) Page 9