Griffin heard her speak to Deputy Warner, then the clip of her boots down the corridor.
“So what do you have, Ruth?”
“Mrs. Maude Simpson, who rents out rooms in Henderson, identified our dead guy when one of Dix’s deputies canvassing the motels and B&Bs showed it to her. He was registered as Ernest Weathers, checked in six days ago, but Mrs. Simpson hadn’t seen him or his car since Friday, said maybe he was away visiting a cousin of his at Stanislaus for the weekend. She thought he had a local job, but didn’t know where, which would have been nice to know. All his things were still in his room, so Mrs. Simpson thought he’d be back. She said Mr. Weathers was polite but they hadn’t had the chance to socialize or visit. If there was a relative at Stanislaus, we still haven’t found the name. She said Mr. Weathers didn’t brag on the cousin being at such a prestigious school or mention the name or an instrument, which Mrs. Simpson found odd. He stayed to himself when he wasn’t working, and he came and went at odd hours, since he catered parties. He drove a tan Ford Focus, and she hadn’t seen it since Friday, and no, she hadn’t taken down the plate.”
“So what’s wrong with this picture?” Griffin asked, knowing a setup when he heard it.
Ruth gave him a maniacal grin. “Funny you should ask. Let me back up: the fingerprints we took off the dead man are indeed in the AFIS system, but access to the ID is classified. I called Dillon and asked for help. He made some phone calls and found out it was the DEA who put in the block. Dillon told me it’s going to take someone with muscle to pry the man’s identity out of the DEA. He said Mr. Maitland was going to speak to his counterpart, Mac Brannon, explain the situation, drop the name Ernest Weathers, and see what he had to say. Dillon laughed, said if the guy’s real name is Ernest Weathers, he’d eat Sean’s soggy Cheerios. He’ll get back to us as soon as he finds out what’s going on.”
Griffin said, “Well, now, where does that leave us? Our dead guy was working undercover. Undercover, Ruth? That couldn’t have been about some rural gun dealer breaking some rules. What was it? Arms shipments, drugs? Here in Maestro?”
“Got to be, don’t you think? I’ve talked with Dix about this. There’s gang activity spreading all over the country now, you know that, Griffin,” Ruth said, “though I wouldn’t have imagined it in Maestro, either. Maybe that’s why they picked this route to move whatever the DEA is after.
“Did you read about the DEA and the metro cops taking down fourteen gang members in Nashville last year? Almost the entire local gang. They were members of a violent El Salvadoran mara, La Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13.”
“Sure,” Griffin said. “MS-13 is big, maybe ten thousand members now in the U.S., in cities from Los Angeles to New York. They’re scary dudes, over-the-top violent.”
“That’s right. They love their tattoos and their code of absolute loyalty to the gang. Anyone acting against them is dealt with quickly and with extreme violence, as you said. The Sinolas Cartel recruited them in the drug wars south of the border. Most of them grew up with violence as a part of their lives.”
“So you and Dix think someone working with them, or some other gang, is shipping drugs, or guns, through rural Virginia?” Griffin asked.
“Well, the I-95 is one of the main corridors in the east for running drugs and guns up from South America to Miami, and the number of weapons and drugs coming east from the southwest increases by the day. The DEA has been working to infiltrate the gangs, and they’ve stepped up their surveillance along the interstate. The gangs, unfortunately, have almost limitless motivation because of the huge amounts of money they can make shipping drugs for sale up to the U.S., and the guns and money are going back south. It’s a nightmare.”
“So you’re thinking that Maestro, Virginia, might be a perfect route, or even a place to stash or distribute, to avoid that attention?”
Ruth nodded. “Maybe. Only an hour away from I-95 and you’re in a different world. We don’t know what attracted the DEA, but why else would an agent—Weathers—be here undercover if not to find out how they’re coordinating things locally?
“I’m thinking there’s got to be somebody who can help them disguise the operation, someone who fits right in and doesn’t look like a gang member, someone who knows his way around.”
“Maybe someone at Stanislaus, since there are new faces there all the time, so no one would notice?”
“Hopefully we’ll find out, if the DEA comes clean with us,” Ruth said.
Griffin said, “Okay, let’s say whoever’s in charge found out about Weathers and had him killed. That would mean Weathers only lasted six days. I wonder what happened to trigger them, how they outed the agent’s real identity.”
“Don’t know yet. We searched Mr. Weathers’s room, found nondescript clothes—three pairs of jeans, three sweaters, underwear, and a pair of size-twelve boots, and absolutely nothing else. Gotta admit, I find that odd.”
Griffin nodded. “Yes, I do, too.”
Ruth said, “Maybe his murderer went to his apartment, scooped up his laptop and his papers. If so, his murderer now knows details of the DEA operation here. Did he have stuff stashed in the tan Ford? Even if Dix’s deputies find the Ford, I can’t see it’ll be much good unless he was struck down in his car and it’s part of the crime scene. I wouldn’t be surprised if the DEA already has the tan Ford.”
Griffin said, “Ruth, it’s hard to believe Maestro is the epicenter of a gun and/or drug stash. Where? Somewhere on the Stanislaus campus? In a secret room off the auditorium? Has Dix heard any rumors at all?”
“No, but we’re a small, tight community here that keeps to itself, a gun dealer’s wet dream, when you think about it.”
“Since Delsey’s a student at Stanislaus,” Griffin said slowly, “she could have accidentally stumbled over something she shouldn’t have, more likely there than in town. But Delsey actually never met Weathers. She probably saw him at Salazar’s party Friday night, but so what? Why place the agent’s body in her bathtub and haul it away? What kind of warning is that?”
Ruth said, “Maybe they thought she was DEA, too, but if they killed her to make a statement, the DEA would come back in assault helicopters. They wouldn’t want that to happen.”
Delsey opened the bathroom door. She looked shell-shocked. “If I hadn’t seen that the man was Latino, then you’d never have guessed it might be this MS-13 gang, right?”
Ruth said, “Not really, Delsey, even MS-13 members come in all races now. It fits, though. Finding out the man in your tub was DEA, though, that should blow things open.”
Delsey said, “You’re thinking the dealers believed I was working with Mr. Weathers?”
Griffin said, “I don’t know. I mean, we can come up with all sorts of scenarios.” Delsey smiled at Ruth and watched Griffin frown as he paced, thinking, that wonderful brain of his focused entirely on the problem. He turned. “And none of them really tie everything together. Mr. Weathers wasn’t tortured, he took a knife in the chest, so they weren’t interested or didn’t have the time to try to make him talk about what the DEA knows.”
“Who was the other man whose voice I heard?” Delsey asked.
Griffin said, “No clue. But I promise, Dels, whatever the DEA knows, they’re going to tell us.” He stopped, stared at her. “That small bandage is lots better, but you’re looking a bit on the peaked side. How about we get you to the B&B and tuck you in?”
Delsey waved that away. “What did you learn from Dr. Hayman?”
“Not a whole lot. Professor Salazar dropped by as well. The two of them are different in a lot of ways. But they both want you, sis, and that I find very curious.”
Potomac Village
Potomac, Maryland
Sunday afternoon
The countryside was pristine white, tree branches bowed low from the weight of snow, houses domed under six-foot-deep white hats. Savich was thankful the roads were clear and he could rocket his Porsche toward Potomac, Maryland, his light bar flashing on the
roof. There were no harried commuters on the road this beautiful Sunday morning, and the few cars in their way pulled over to let the Porsche speed by.
Savich felt it to his gut—if they didn’t move fast, something else bad was going to happen. Then he thought it might not matter if they moved at the speed of light, something bad was still going to happen. He hated the feeling of helplessness, of inevitability.
Sherlock settled sunglasses on her nose to cut the glare. “I wonder what all the pulled-over drivers are thinking about a red Porsche cop car.”
“They probably think we’re yuppie idiots who paid someone to steal the flasher for us. We’ll fit in better once we get to Potomac Village. Did you know the place is one of the best-educated small towns in America? Lots of money, too, and not far from Washington.
“I forgot to tell you, I got a voice mail from Bo Horsley. You remember him, don’t you? Partnered with my dad on a lot of cases in the New York field office? He was the SAC until he retired a couple of months ago and opened his own security business.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
Savich shook his head. “Something about the Jewel of the Lion exhibit in New York City in a couple of weeks. You know, that exhibit at the Met. I haven’t had time to call him back since we’ve been moving so quickly on this case. It didn’t sound all that urgent, so I’ll get to him when we come up for air.”
The Porsche slowed as they left the highway and cruised to the intersection of Falls Road and River Road.
“Nice place.” Sherlock nodded toward the clusters of upscale shops and businesses.
Savich turned the Porsche onto Rock Creek Court, checked his GPS, and after another half-block, turned into the driveway of a two-story white Colonial with black window frames. Lush, snow-heavy pine and oak trees dotted the sloping grounds. Like its neighbors, Marian Lodge’s house had a big front yard, a sturdy white fence on two sides, and a three-car garage. It looked welcoming and particularly charming with the Christmas lights still up, turned on, and shining brightly under the midday sun.
Marian Lodge was expecting them. When she opened the front door, they heard the sounds of the Titanic movie theme song playing faintly in the background.
Sherlock had seen Marian Lodge’s photo, but the woman in the flesh was far more striking. She was nearly as tall as Dillon, built like an Amazon, her dark hair pulled back with a careless hand and fastened with a clip. She wore black yoga pants and an oversized white shirt that hung off one shoulder, showing a black bra strap. She was barefoot.
“Come in, come in—don’t want all the heat to whoosh out of here.”
Marian Lodge waved them into the entrance hall and quickly closed the black front door. After introductions, Ms. Lodge checked their creds and waved them straight ahead into the living room.
The house’s pure Colonial exterior gave way to American country inside, with big overstuffed furniture, cozy and without pretense. It looked lived-in and welcoming. Half the back living room wall was glass, a deep backyard beyond that sloped down to a frozen creek. Like the front, the back was filled with motionless white trees and dozens of hibernating rosebushes you could barely make out in all the snow.
Marian Lodge faced them, her arms crossed over her chest. “My nieces are upstairs watching Titanic for about the tenth time. At least it’s a distraction. I’ll bring them down later if you wish to speak to them, though I hope you don’t. They would be of little help. Come into the kitchen. We’ll have coffee at the table.”
It was a worn wooden table, with scars and scratches, a family table that had seen gossip, arguments, laughter. Tommy Cronin had eaten at that table, Sherlock thought, maybe spread his books out, yelled at his sisters—she shook it off, anger at what had happened to him wouldn’t help.
Her coffee was good, though not as good as Dillon’s. Sherlock listened as Dillon expressed their condolences.
Lodge said abruptly, “Yes, everyone is very sorry. Who wouldn’t be? Tommy was only twenty years old, and now he’s dead, killed by some maniac who could only find Palmer Cronin’s face to connect to the anonymous banks that screwed him over. So he took his revenge, not by killing Palmer, since he’s an old man, his life nearly over, so why not make him suffer to his dying day by taking his only grandson?
“And so he did. He brutally murdered Tommy for the world to see. I’ll bet he walked away smiling, the monster, and now he’s enjoying all the media outrage at him. If Tommy had at least been one of the bankers who’d worked with Palmer, I’d bet there would be some chortling behind people’s hands, some jokes that he probably deserved it.
“But not with Tommy. They can’t chortle, since it was Tommy.”
She started to say more, but she seemed tired of talking. She sat with her head down, staring into the coffee and letting its hot scent waft up into her face. A lone tear streaked down her cheek, but she didn’t make a sound. Sherlock stretched out her hand and lightly placed it on her forearm. “We don’t yet know if Tommy’s murder was an act of revenge, but we will find out, I promise you that.”
Her head came up fast. She dashed away the tear. “Not if I catch this monster before you do. I’d disembowel him and hang him naked by his ankles from the front gate at Palmer Cronin’s house, with a sign around his neck—I WISH I’D KILLED YOU—see what the media thinks of that.”
Whoa. How raw was that pain?
Sherlock said smoothly, “In that case, Ms. Lodge, we’d best keep any information we have from you. I certainly don’t want to have to arrest you for murder.”
Lodge gave a bitter laugh. “Tommy’s girlfriend, Melissa Ivy, called me yesterday, bawling her eyes out, wanting to come over. Real tears? Maybe, since she saw Tommy as her meal ticket. She told me, stuttering through her tears, that she had to talk to someone and I was closest to Tommy. I told her I didn’t want to see her. I told her she was a user, a little social climber, and that’s what I’d told Tommy about her.” She paused, frowned at a fingernail and began picking at it. “When she heard that she hung up on me. Dreadful girl.
“I did tell Tommy what I thought of her shortly before Christmas, when he wanted me to be on his side and against his grandparents. But I agreed with them. He was really angry at me, yelled I was just like the old relics—that’s what he called his grandparents when they made him angry, which was nearly every time he saw them. I remember he walked out, drove back to Magdalene, he told me, but I’ll bet he went to see Melissa.
“He didn’t come to his grandparents’ house on Christmas Eve. He stopped by here on Christmas Day, but he stayed only ten minutes, long enough to give presents to his sisters and give me a nasty look. He ignored the presents I got him and left, told me he was going to spend Christmas with someone he loved and who understood him.”
Marian Lodge raised pain-filled eyes. “I never saw him again. The entire month before he died was filled with his anger toward me.”
She was breathing hard by the time she got that all out. Sherlock and Savich waited to see if she would say anything more, but she didn’t. She picked up her coffee mug and sipped, staring out the back kitchen windows at the white backyard with the sun glistening down on the white trees. She said, “I had Christmas lights in the backyard trees, too. I took them down early this morning, couldn’t bear to look at them any longer.”
Savich said, “You said you disapproved of Melissa Ivy as much as the Cronins.”
“Yes, it surprised me to agree with them, my step-in-laws, I guess you’d call them now that I’m their granddaughters’ legal guardian. After Barbara’s—my sister—funeral, I saw what a mess her kids were, saw their father was next to useless, and I moved here to take care of them. I remember it was a couple of weeks after that before the Cronins finally let me know, all benign and condescending, that I could call them Palmer and Avilla.
“Well, they’re not condescending now. With Tommy’s murder they’re even more devastated than they were when their own son, my sister’s husband, Palmer Junior, died in that
bloody ridiculous Ferrari of his last year.”
“I take it you didn’t care for your brother-in-law, Ms. Lodge?” Sherlock asked her, studying her mobile face and thinking that Marion Lodge would always lose at poker.
“I called him JP—Junior Palmer. As you can imagine, he really didn’t like that. He’d say he wasn’t like his father. But the fact is Junior and Senior Palmer were like two peas in a pod, completely consumed by their careers. Only JP was deep in the financial muck his father was supposed to be regulating, a king of the junk bond world. I know he was always talking to his father, sawing away not to change anything, not to question the wonderful boom, to keep everything on track. As I said, father and son were very much alike, so why would Palmer Senior change anything?
“Junior didn’t like me any more than I liked him. He didn’t want me around until Barbara died. Then he swallowed his bile, and when I offered he was glad to have me move in to take care of the kids.”
Savich said, “Your sister, Barbara, committed suicide, didn’t she, Ms. Lodge? What was it, two and a half years ago?”
Marian raised a face fierce with warrior rage. “If it was suicide! The coroner called it that, and Barbara’s shrink agreed she was suicidal. But what else would he say when they were feeding her so many drugs, both JP and that damned shrink?”
Talk about a fountain of black suspicion—this woman was Niagara Falls. Sherlock said slowly, “You believe your brother-in-law was responsible for your sister’s death? He fed her drugs that drove her to kill herself?”
“I can’t prove it, but he might as well have. He kept me from seeing her, helping her. She didn’t have a lover in the wings, or any friends to speak to, because JP liked her under his thumb, the ultimate hausfrau. But none of that is important now; both of them are gone and buried. But so is Tommy, isn’t he? He’s dead, too.” She slammed her hand on the kitchen table, her mug teetering before it righted itself again. “He was twenty years old! How can any of us live with that? How can his sisters not have nightmares for the rest of their lives after seeing his dead face on YouTube? How can the Cronins survive this?”
Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) Page 11