Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER)

by Catherine Coulter

  “And now?”

  “We’re grown up now; it’s not like that.”

  “You deny you posted Tommy’s photo. Did anyone else ask you to post it for him? Like Peter?”

  “No, no, I swear.” Stony shook his head. “It’s all so terrible,” he said, and he lowered his face into his hands again.

  Savich said, “You may go, Stony.”

  Stony’s face jerked up, hope blooming bright through the tearstains on his face. “Really? You’re not going to arrest me?”

  “Not at the moment,” Sherlock said, her eyes on Dillon, “but we’ll be talking again. And if you’ve lied to us, you’re in more trouble than you know.”

  Savich handed Stony a card. “If you find anything or think of anything that could help, call me. I’m sorry you lost your friend, Stony. We’re keeping your computers for the time being. I’m calling a guard to take you home.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Savich said, “I suggest you don’t speak with anyone else who might be involved in this, including Peter Biaggini, all right?”

  “But how can anyone I know have done this? I mean, we’re all friends, especially Peter, now that Tommy’s gone. Well, sometimes Peter—well, he likes to run the herd, that’s what he calls his friends, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with this.” He paused, shook his head, and went silent.

  Sherlock leaned in close to him. “What do you want to say, Stony? Is it about Peter?”

  Stony’s face was white and set. “No. I don’t know how or why Tommy was murdered, why anyone used my computer to upload that photo. I didn’t mean anything in particular. Really.”

  Stony looked up at the guard who came to escort him out of the Hoover Building, then he looked down at his sneakered feet and never looked up again; he was misery walking.

  Coop said, “Whatever it is Stony’s not telling us, the kid’s going to live with this for a lifetime.”

  Lucy said, “Why wouldn’t he tell us what he was thinking? Was it about Peter?”

  Coop said, “Or maybe he’s protecting someone else. Someone close.”

  Savich said, “We’ll speak to him again after he’s had time to think things over. Right now I want to speak to Peter Biaggini and his father. I’ve got this feeling we’ll get more out of them if they’re together.” Savich called Ben Raven, WPD, and asked him to send two uniforms to pick up Peter Biaggini and bring him to the FBI building in the oldest squad car he had. “Shake him up a little, too, this leader of the herd. I want him cuffed if he gives your officers any lip, and sitting behind the wire mesh, smelling that old car.”

  Savich telephoned Mr. Biaggini from his office, asked him to come to the Hoover Building to speak to them about Tommy Cronin’s murder. Mr. Biaggini wasn’t happy, couldn’t understand why they would want to speak to him, but agreed. Yes, he would be there in an hour.

  Not a minute later, Savich’s cell sang out “Sweet Home, Alabama.” When he punched off his cell, he said, “Stony’s dad is here. Mr. Wakefield Hart, in the flesh.”

  The first impression Sherlock had on seeing Wakefield Hart was that he had the look of gravitas down cold. He was a good dresser, too, and he looked confident, in charge of his world. He also looked royally pissed, and that gave her a warm glow.

  He walked straight through the unit to Savich’s office, ignored her, and planted a fist on Savich’s desk. “Where is my son? What have you done with him?”

  Sherlock noticed his voice was carefully modulated, a perfect blend of protectiveness and outrage. She wasn’t surprised, because he was a public speaker now, relying for his bread on his audiences believing he was speaking to them from a redeemed heart, no matter how much he’d mucked about in the viper pit with the rest of the bankers, the unrepentant ones. Sherlock always found it fascinating that no matter how heinous the crime, some people with a knack for it—televangelists, politicians, financiers, whoever—had but to humble themselves and admit their wrongdoings before their flock to be granted forgiveness. She supposed anyone taking responsibility for a bad decision was so rare that forgiveness poured in, beginning with the media.

  Savich didn’t rise or answer him. He merely motioned Mr. Hart to a seat beside Sherlock. Hart sat, but it was obvious what he wanted to do was tell Savich he was a bully and a moron and he was going to get him fired.

  Savich said in a deliberate, slow voice, “Though he denies it, Mr. Hart, your son may have uploaded the photo of Tommy Cronin’s body onto the Internet using an anonymizer. Do you know what that is?”

  “Not really, but I do know they have legitimate uses. And they’re untraceable, aren’t they? But who cares? Even if Stony uses them—”

  Savich simply spoke over him. “He wasn’t careful enough to keep us from finding him. When did he call you, Mr. Hart?”

  “He called me from the bathroom here. He was crying.” Hart senior was clearly disgusted. “He couldn’t tell me anything except that your agents had seized his computers and he could lose his job and his career if you arrested him.”

  Sherlock said, “Mr. Hart, we try very hard not to harm people’s lives when we bring them in to interview, even if they’re not entirely up front with us.”

  “I told him not to admit to anything illegal. But he wouldn’t lie, nor would he have any part of uploading Tommy’s photo, he—” Hart jumped to his feet and paced Savich’s office, a few short steps in each direction. “All right, very well. Let’s say he did upload the photo. Who cares? It’s not a crime. Perhaps he had reasons he can’t tell you about. I demand you release my son to me or I’ll speak to Director Mueller myself. Where is my son? What have you done with him?”

  “He’s on his way back to his apartment,” Savich said. “Sit down, Mr. Hart.” Savich’s voice was deeper, and clipped. Hart gave him a look and sat.

  “What will happen to my son because of this? Will his employers know? The press?”

  Savich said, “Mr. Hart, did you know Tommy Cronin?”

  “What? Of course. He was one of a small group of boys who’ve been friends since they were children. Tommy was in and out of my house for years.”

  “Tell us your impressions of Tommy Cronin, Mr. Hart.”

  Hart paused. “Tommy was a smart boy, a bit conceited, actually, because of who his grandfather was—understandable, I guess. A tragedy he was killed. Wait, what does this have to do with your persecution of my son?”

  “And what about Peter Biaggini?”

  No hesitation: “A right proper little shite.”

  Savich said, “How would you describe your son’s relationship with Peter Biaggini?”

  They saw it: Hart wanted to snarl and curse, not at them, but at Peter, but he got hold of himself. “What does— All right, Peter is a leader, always has been. My son is not. It sometimes seemed when they were growing up that if Peter had told him to eat oatmeal he’d have dived into a tub of the stuff and eaten his way out. And Stony hates oatmeal.”

  “Did you think Peter may have asked your son to upload that photo of Tommy?”

  Hart cursed under his breath. “That sniveling little—”

  Sherlock wondered who he was talking about, his son or Peter Biaggini. Hart plowed his fingers through his beautifully styled black hair with its glossy wings of silver at his temples. “I’m not surprised, but Stony would never do something so despicable unless he had a good reason. No, there’s no way he would. I mean, what reason could he have? Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s on Peter’s head. Maybe he uploaded the photo.” There was more he would have said. Both Savich and Sherlock saw it, but he held back.

  Savich said, “We’ll be talking to Stony again, and to Peter as well.”

  “Yes, you do that. It’s obvious my son had nothing to do with Tommy Cronin’s death.” Now he let contempt and anger flow out. “I’ve noticed on every TV station that Tommy has achieved sainthood—crackerjack student at Magdalene, brilliant mind, well liked by his peers, a bright future—well, that’s quite an appealing story, isn’t
it? What about my boy—is he going to be cast as the villain now?” His cell rang. Hart ignored it, but then he looked down. “Excuse me.” He rose and walked to the door of Savich’s office. They heard his impatient voice, then he punched off his cell and turned back to them. “That was my son. He is—distraught.” Hart turned on his heel and walked out of the CAU, not another word.

  Savich said, “I wonder what else Mr. Hart was going to say about Tommy Cronin.”

  Sherlock rose. “You know, it’s the oddest thing, but I got the impression that Mr. Hart was relieved about something.”

  “That we didn’t arrest his son?”

  “No, something else.”

  “We’ll never find out from Hart Senior. My money’s on Stony telling us.”

  Bud Bailey’s B&B

  Maestro, Virginia

  Sunday afternoon

  Griffin punched off his cell. “That was Savich. The DEA is stonewalling us. They say the dead man’s ID and what he was doing here in Maestro is part of an investigation that’s too sensitive to discuss. They told Savich to keep even that information under his hat.” He paused, shook his head. “Amazing, isn’t it? All of us are supposed to be working together.”

  Dix snorted. “It doesn’t make much sense to me, either, Griffin. I mean, their agent is dead; the drug dealers he was after know that we know. I’m the freaking law; why won’t they trust us?”

  Griffin said matter-of-factly, “The DEA couldn’t deny outright he was their agent; we already knew that, thanks to Savich. He didn’t have a shield or any ID, so we know he was undercover. If they’re holding us off and they’re not here in force, their operation is still in play. They’ve got to have at least one more undercover agent here in Maestro they don’t want to put at risk.”

  Dix said, “Makes sense. But who? No new faces in town or I’d have noticed.”

  Griffin suddenly knew exactly who the other undercover DEA agent was. “Dix, could you leave a deputy here to guard Delsey? I’ve got to speak to someone, and I don’t want to wake her up and haul her with me. She needs to rest.”

  Dix gave him a long look. “You want to discuss anything with me, Griffin? Like who this person is you need to speak to, for example?”

  “Not yet. I’ll tell you as soon as I’m sure.”

  “You’re FBI; why should I be surprised? You’re mad at the DEA one minute, and the next minute you’re as tight-lipped with me as all the Federales.” Dix would have busted more chops, but he saw something in Griffin Hammersmith’s face and realized he was really serious about this. So be it, he’d give Griffin a few hours to sniff out what he needed to.

  After Griffin saw Deputy Penny Loomis settled down in the charming early-American living room of Bud Bailey’s only two-bedroom suite, he headed for Wolf Trap Road, his cell’s GPS and its sweet female voice guiding his way.

  The bright sun had melted most of the ice and was pockmarking the snow, leaving slush wherever humans drove and walked. Griffin found the small, detached 1950s cottage ten minutes later, set back from the street in the middle of a beautiful snow-filled yard. The sun glistened off the oak and maple trees, and clumps of snow occasionally thudded to the ground.

  It was picture-postcard perfect.

  The only sign of human habitation was the small dark blue Kia Rio, fresh tire tracks in the driveway and the double set of footsteps on the snow-covered sidewalk to the front door.

  Griffin rang the doorbell as he breathed in the cold air. He felt anger rise in his gut as he waited, wondering what would happen when the door opened.

  “Who is it?” Her voice was calm and serious, with no hint of fear or grief or rage, though he knew she had to be feeling all three.

  “Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI. I’d like to speak to you.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then a dead bolt slid back, a chain unhooked, and a lock unclicked. As the door opened, he heard a violin solo playing in the background.

  She was wearing thick white socks, no shoes. Her dark hair was hooked behind her ears, her face clean of makeup. If he weren’t so mad, he’d take another look at her mouth, but since his gut was churning, he looked her straight in the eye instead. “You’re being careful. That’s smart, given what happened to your partner. And to my sister.”

  She stiffened all over, but she didn’t blink, didn’t look away from his face. She was good.

  Griffin saw she had a Glock pressed against her leg, and he wondered if she’d had it clipped to her waistband beneath her blue and gray oversized Stanislaus sweatshirt before pulling it out at his unexpected knock at her door.

  “Glock 22, I see. Forty-caliber, no doubt, standard-issue service weapon. Couldn’t you get your daddy’s .44 Magnum qualified for duty, Anna? By the way, is that your real name?”

  Her chin went up. “It’s my mom’s .44. What’s this all about, Agent Hammersmith?”

  He walked toward her, forcing her to take a step back or hold still and shoot him. She stepped back. He turned and closed the door, clicked the dead bolt. He saw her eyes were shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept well, and she was pale. It made him madder, and his voice came out stone cold. “If I hadn’t realized it had to be someone Delsey knew, I might believe you, Anna, but I do know. You’re an undercover DEA agent, like the man who died.”

  She didn’t change expression, didn’t say a word.

  “Anna—excuse me, Agent Castle—my sister could easily have been killed Friday night, no thanks to you and your operation. Your own agent died at her place. It’s past time you leveled with me.”

  She met his eyes directly, didn’t falter. “I’m a music student at Stanislaus and a part-time waitress payin’ my own way. What do you want from me? Why are you even here?”

  He stepped right up to her face. “This is my sister we’re talking about, and I’ll do anything I need to in order to protect her. I thought Delsey was your friend, that you cared for her. But you don’t have any friends, do you? You’re only an operative trying to get information.

  “Whatever you’re after is the DEA’s business, I accept that. But Delsey is mine. You were onto something, weren’t you, and that’s why your partner was killed. What was it? What happened? What was your partner doing in Delsey’s apartment? And the big question—what does Delsey have to do with any of this?”

  She was shaking her head back and forth, but now he saw her eyes were sheened with tears. Or maybe rage over what had happened to Delsey. Still, she repeated, her mouth hard, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, and I want you to leave, Agent Hammersmith. Now.”

  He took her shoulders in his hands and shook her. He let her see his own anger now. “Tell me the truth. I know you care about your murdered agent, but think of what could still happen to Delsey. Your partner’s killers now know she identified him and they could start to worry she might have seen them, too. They wouldn’t want a possible witness breathing, would they? Talk to me. Don’t you owe Delsey that much? She could have been killed because of you.”

  “Agent Hammersmith, you have no right to question me,” Anna said. “You’re guessing at somethin’ you shouldn’t, do you hear me?”

  “Guilty as charged. Here I have the gall to interfere with a federal investigation. So why not take that up with your DEA boss? We could work together, help each other if you’d level with me. Otherwise, Sheriff Noble and the FBI might blow your whole investigation without even meaning to. Does that give you a different slant on things now, Agent Castle?”

  She cursed him, nice full-bodied curses, then whirled around, and said over her shoulder, “Stay here, I mean it. I need to make a call.”

  He watched her walk on stockinged feet down the hallway and into another room, heard her speaking on her cell, though he couldn’t make out the words. Five minutes passed; he timed it. When she came back, she walked right up to him, and her look was both angry and resigned. “You win. I spoke to my boss in Washington, Mac Brannon. He’s calling Mr. Maitland, bringing the FBI in with
us. You’re right, I’m DEA, Special Agent Lilyanna Remie Parrish. You’ve embarrassed me, made me look incompetent to my boss. How did you know?”

  She was so close he could feel her warm breath on his face. And her mouth was too close. He stepped back. “You obviously didn’t realize you were sending out clues.”

  “I sent out clues? I’m very good. I never send out clues. What clues?”

  He smiled down at her and counted off on his fingers. “You knew quite a bit about guns, you knew about fingerprints, and the biggie—you disappeared all day Saturday. It takes a cop to know a cop, don’t you agree?”

  “That’s not much at all, not a single real clue at all. All a guess.”

  Griffin shook his head, pointed to her Glock. “Smart of you to be really careful. You went out this morning. Where did you go?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I’m psychic.” At her startled look, he said, “Would you believe I saw the double footsteps to and from your front door to your car?”

  She said, “I went to Bridy’s Market for some bagels and cream cheese.”

  He walked past her into a small living room that looked like a clone of his grandparents’ lake cottage, old and faded and a bit saggy, neither place updated since the day the front doors opened circa 1950. There was an ancient chintz sofa across from two overstuffed flowery chairs, scattered rag rugs over a banged-up oak floor, and an old fireplace belching a bit of smoke and little heat.

  Music soared, and he recognized Itzhak Perlman. “Turn off the music, please. We need to get a lot of things straight.”

  There was suddenly a loud yowl. Griffin whirled around to see a fat black tail disappear under the sofa. He turned to her, an eyebrow arched.