Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER)

by Catherine Coulter

  “Nah, this is all my idea.”

  Dix walked out onto the porch and watched the taxi slowly pull away, the driver leaning his head out the window to see all he could. Griffin was limping only slightly, not putting all that much weight on the cane.

  Dix said, “Saw you coming. You’re not looking bad.”

  “Nope. I’m good to go.”

  Dix said. “I told Anna you’d wake up and come here, fire steaming out of your ears, ready to crawl up our butts for leaving you.”

  Now, there was a visual. Griffin grinned at him. “Have you got the cuffs on Salazar?”

  “Well, not yet. Come on in, you’ll see for yourself. Can you make these three steps?”

  When he finally negotiated the three steep steps, he had to stop a moment, knowing Dix was looking at him and wondering if he should say anything or keep quiet. Dix kept quiet.

  Griffin stepped into the hallway of Rafael Salazar’s house for the first time since Saturday morning, when he’d come to see a bunch of women cleaning up from the party Friday night. Only three days ago.

  “Come in here, Griffin,” Dix said.

  Griffin made his way into the large living room and stopped dead in his tracks.

  The room was trashed. Sofas, chairs, and coffee tables were ripped apart and hurled by angry hands to the floor, paintings ripped from the walls and slashed with a sharp knife. Devastation and destruction. Griffin said, “Don’t tell me you guys did this?”

  Dix gave him a ghost of a smile. “Nah. You should see his music room, all those beautiful antique guitars, the Steinway, all the music and books, smashed, ripped up.”

  “Where’s Salazar?”

  “No sign of him.”

  Griffin hadn’t once thought Salazar wouldn’t be here. “He ran?”

  “It’s difficult to tell, since his bedroom is as trashed as the rest of the house. His closet, too. Even the suitcases were torn open.”

  Ruth and Anna walked into the room. Ruth said, “Hi, Griffin. Can’t say I’m surprised to see you. You got any ideas what the people who did this were looking for?”

  Anna was speaking to two of Dix’s deputies behind her. She turned to him and couldn’t help the big smile from blooming. He looked to be fine, maybe a little stiff, maybe a little pain, but she knew he’d manage. “His car’s still in the garage, tires and spare slashed, seats ripped open, and glove box yanked out.”

  Griffin looked at each of them. “What do you guys think?”

  Anna said, “I called Mrs. Carlene, Salazar’s secretary. She told me he’s late for a class and his cell phone isn’t working. I’m thinking it’s a falling-out of thieves and whoever did this believed Salazar was holding back something, so they took him and went to work to find whatever it was he wouldn’t hand over.”

  Dix said, “Maybe some of Salazar’s clients, some gang members, turned on him for some reason? Or is there a partner we don’t know about who thought Salazar was double-crossing him?” He dashed his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. “He could be anywhere by now.”

  Anna said, “Or maybe he’s dead.”

  Dix picked up the twisted remnants of a flute. “We’ll know soon enough. I gotta say, I didn’t expect this when we drove up.”

  “I expected Salazar to meet us at the front door, smoking one of those nasty cigarillos of his, all supercilious ennui, and wave us in,” Anna said.

  Griffin turned to her as she was speaking, but she was staring down at her scuffed boots, the same ones he’d seen her wearing last night when she’d applied pressure to his leg while he’d tried not to groan. He said, “Suppose it wasn’t a coincidence Salazar disappeared the same night we were attacked, Anna? It was a spectacular distraction. Made it easy for him.”

  “If that’s so,” Ruth said, “everything we’re seeing here could be a ruse, too, to cover his flight. He didn’t give us the chance to serve him, or to question him.”

  Anna was shaking her head. “I saw his music room, the destruction of his beautiful guitars. He wouldn’t do that. No, someone else did this.”

  Dix said, “Either way, Salazar is finished here. I doubt even his adoring students are going to clean this up for him.”

  Griffin said, “Has anyone spoken to Dr. Hayman?”

  Dix said, “After we searched I phoned him, asked him if he’d seen his brother. He said he hadn’t and that he was worried, since they were to have had coffee together this morning, and demanded to know what was going on. I told him only that his brother wasn’t here and his house was trashed. He was understandably very upset, but he said he couldn’t imagine who would do this. I told him we would find his brother and left it at that.” Dix paused a moment, then added, “I’m as sure as I can be that he knows nothing about any of this or his twin’s criminal activities.”

  Griffin was shaking his head. “Two brothers, admittedly not raised together, but how could one not know what the other is?”

  The Hoover Building

  Washington, D.C.

  Late Tuesday morning

  Savich made it back from the Harts’ to the Hoover Building in forty minutes. Traffic hadn’t slowed yet, though snow started to fall like a thin white veil as he drove. The forecasters had threatened more in a couple of hours, and he was glad to beat the worst of it. Ollie met him when he stepped into the CAU.

  “Did you question Mr. Sleeson?”

  Ollie nodded. “A retired gent with a beard down to his navel, really pissed, since he’d reported his precious SUV stolen on Sunday evening and hadn’t heard a word until I called him.

  “Unfortunately, he wasn’t any help, didn’t see who took it, didn’t hear a thing. You should know Delsey’s hopping mad, says she’s being kept prisoner in your house and it’s not fair. She’d have come with me to Maryland to talk with Mr. Sleeson if I’d let her. But not to worry. Coop had her under control when I left. Oh, yes, she tried to call her brother to complain, but couldn’t reach him. She might call you, but I think Coop will talk her out of it, get her going with his jokes.”

  “Thanks, Ollie. What else we got?”

  “Melissa Ivy has arrived. She’s in the interview room with Mr. Maitland.”

  “Good. I’m glad he was available. If he asks, tell him I’m in my office. I’ve got something important to take care of.”

  Savich went into his office and studied MAX’s screen. He smiled and called Dix.

  Dix answered on the third ring.

  “Noble here.”

  “Dix, Savich. I think we’re in business. Here’s what MAX found. There’s a thousand-acre parcel of hilly, undeveloped, essentially worthless land outside of Maestro. It was sold by a Mr. Weaver last summer for more than it was worth to a land trust. Not unusual so far, but MAX found the trust had no other domestic holdings, and was owned by an SFB Industries, which appears to be a front company owned by yet another corporation, American Colonial Trust, incorporated in the Cayman Islands. Things get murky here, but MAX found a welter of front companies owned by AZT. One of them is yet another finance company that’s under investigation for ties to the Lozano crime family, Salazar’s family.”

  Savich could practically see Dix’s manic grin. “Bingo, Savich. If it was Weaver’s, I know the parcel and so do you. There’s a limestone cave on it. Remember Winkel’s Cave and our hairy adventures?”

  Not pleasant memories, Savich thought. “Winkel’s Cave—there’s both a front and a back entrance on Lone Tree Hill. And the cave’s big, certainly big enough to house drugs and gang members.”

  Dix said, “We knew they had to go somewhere, but this is the perfect hideout. There’s nothing out that way, only an unused road in ruins and rough terrain. This is it, Savich, this has got to be it. I want you to buy MAX a beer.”

  Savich paused. “You guys be careful, Dix. These MS-13 gang members, they’re dangerous.”

  “I know,” Dix said. “Yes, I know. We will.”

  Savich was about to leave his office when Judy Garland sang out “Some
where over the Rainbow.” He looked down at caller ID. Bo Horsley. He didn’t have time, he didn’t—no choice. He said, “Hi, Bo. You calling to tell me more about the Jewel of the Lion exhibit?”

  “The exhibit says it all without me heaping on praise. I wanted to tell you I’ve got you and Sherlock a lovely town house in Chelsea to stay in while you’re here. Friends of mine are heading for Paris for a couple of weeks—why not Tahiti, I wanted to ask them, since it’s February, but hey, their choice. You guys can come, right?”

  Savich said, “We haven’t had a chance to talk about it yet. We’re still trying to dig our way out of this mess down here—you said we were up to our necks in alligators, and you’re right, that’s the perfect way to put it.”

  “Well, let me add another draw. Not only am I trying to get my nephew Nicholas Drummond here—you remember, he’s the youngest muckety-muck at Scotland Yard? One of his colleagues, Detective Inspector Elaine York, is here in New York as the minder for the Crown Jewels, especially the Koh-i-Noor, since it’s the centerpiece of the entire exhibit. She’s one smart cookie, fun, and I think you’ll really like her. Best of all, she’s a vegetarian, Savich, a kindred spirit. Anyhow—”

  Savich looked up to see Mr. Maitland waving at him. He said quickly, “All good inducements, Bo, and thanks for setting up a house for us. I’ll get back to you, okay?”

  “You got it, boyo. Good hunting.”

  Savich left his office and walked toward the interview room where Peter and Stony had sat at the table with him only two days before. Mr. Maitland met him outside the door. “She’s a beautiful girl,” he said first thing, “with a story to tell. Hope you get the truth out of her, Savich. You know her better than I do.”

  Savich nodded, walked into the interview room, and closed the door behind him. Lucy Carlyle stood back against the wall, watching over her.

  Mr. Maitland was right, Savich thought. Melissa Ivy indeed looked beautiful this morning, the deadening shock in her eyes from a few hours before a thing of the past. Her face was no longer pale, her eyes no longer vague, and her long blond hair was glossy, falling sleek and wavy around her face. She wore eye shadow, a lovely shade of pale green that matched her sweater.

  “Ms. Ivy,” he said, nodded to Lucy, and sat down.

  “Agent Savich.”

  “I see you’re feeling better today. Glad you could come in so quickly after you called this morning. Director Maitland tells me you’re certain now you saw someone at Peter Biaggini’s apartment last night, though you told us then you hadn’t seen anyone. Tell me why this is.”

  She sat forward, clasping her hands in front of her. Even her manicure was fresh, her nails a soft pink. “I’m sorry, but last night, after I found Peter and then you came, I couldn’t think. All I could see was Peter and how horrible his head looked and so much blood everywhere. My mind wasn’t working.”

  That was the unvarnished truth. “I understand you remember someone now. Before you tell me, Ms. Ivy, I have some questions for you myself. Had you ever seen the gun that killed Peter before, the one on the floor? Had Peter, Stony, anyone, had it in their apartment, or mentioned a gun like that in your presence?”

  She shook her head, sending her hair swaying beside her face. “No, none of them had a gun. All they liked to talk about was computers, or economics or banking, computer games, sometimes, but never about guns.”

  “Did any of the three mention a camera at the Hart residence, a surveillance system, recordings of any kind?”

  “The Harts have that? You mean they watch you with hidden cameras?” At his nod, she said, “That’s creepy. I visited there a few times.” And he could see her thinking, wondering if she’d ever done anything she shouldn’t have while at the Hart house. “I don’t think any of them knew, maybe even Stony. At least he never mentioned it.”

  “Now tell me what you remember at Peter’s apartment last night.”

  He watched her swallow once, clasp her hands in front of her on the table. “When I arrived at Peter’s apartment building, I automatically went over to get Peter’s mail. He always forgot, and so he gave me a key and asked me to open his box and bring me his mail whenever I was over. I was standing by the row of mailboxes, sorting through some mail, when I heard someone coming down the stairs. I turned my head and saw this person all bundled up, out of breath from running down the stairs, I remember thinking, and then he walked out the front door. He didn’t look at me, maybe he didn’t even see me, he was in too much of a hurry. I watched him stop right outside the glass doors, like he was pulling himself together, and then he walked away. I lost sight of him. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, and I forgot him until I was in bed last night.”

  “Can you describe him?” Savich said.

  “He was wearing a long coat that was too large for him, I think. It was dark, maybe dark brown. I’m sorry, but I didn’t really pay attention.”

  “Was he tall? Short?”

  Melissa gave Savich a helpless look and shook her head.

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No, sir.”

  Savich pulled a photo of Wakefield Hart out of his pocket. “Was this the man?”

  “No, sir, that’s Mr. Hart. Mr. Maitland already showed me his picture, and I told him it couldn’t have been Mr. Hart. I’ve met him several times. I would have said hello to him. Mr. Maitland showed me a whole series of photos, but I didn’t recognize any of the men on them, except for Mr. Hart and Mr. Biaggini.”

  So Mr. Maitland had shown her photos of all the principals Savich sat back, watched her a moment. He rose. “Excuse me, Ms. Ivy.” He motioned for Lucy to follow him outside.

  “Tell me what you think, Lucy.”

  “She’s drop-dead gorgeous, she’s fluent and reasonable, and I don’t know if I believe a word she said. If she’d seen this man in the coat, wouldn’t she have told you that last night? Could shock have really made her not remember? It’s a pretty big deal, Dillon, seeing this man. On the other hand, why should she lie? This is about her boyfriend’s killer. Wouldn’t she want him caught?”

  “Good question.”

  Bob Dylan’s whiny nasal voice sang “Like a Rolling Stone” from Savich’s cell. Savich excused himself. “Sherlock, what’s up? Did you dig up some bloody clothes?”

  “Nope, Dillon. The only thing we found was a skeleton of a dead parrot wrapped in blankets. Tom picked up a trace of blood with Luminol inside the washer under the back of the lid, but not enough to identify whose blood it is. It’s not looking good in the yard. Three techs are in the woods, looking around. Seems to me if someone dug in the woods, it’d be pretty obvious. Oh, and Wakefield Hart’s lawyer is here, accusing us of harassing a grieving family. He had them bring the girls down, and they’re sobbing in their mother’s arms, all huddled in the living room to show us what cruel jerks we are.”

  “I don’t suppose Tom found any video disks from the webcams in the living room?”

  “Not yet, but we found another camera, well hidden in the study.”

  Savich didn’t hold out much hope. “Once the techs clear the woods, cut Tom and the forensic team loose. I need you back here to speak to Melissa Ivy. She’s saying now she remembers seeing a man running down the stairs before she went up to Peter’s apartment.”

  “How could she have forgotten that fine tidbit, even as upset as she was? I’ll be there as soon as I can, Dillon.”

  Savich walked back into the interview room to see Melissa Ivy staring down at her clasped hands, no expression on her beautiful face. She looked up at him, gave him a tentative smile.

  He said, “This is Mr. Griggs. I’d like you to work with him to give me a picture of the man you saw.”

  She blinked long lashes and looked distressed. “But, Agent Savich, I only saw the man for a moment, really, and not all that clearly, and I—”

  “You said you saw him long enough to be certain it wasn’t Wakefield Hart. Please try for us. Mr. Griggs is good at this. Jesse, this
is Ms. Ivy. I’ll come back when you’re done.”

  Savich left Jesse Griggs, their best sketch artist, alone with Melissa, and stepped out of the interview room. Lucy, Dane, and Ollie were clustered together, all talking nonstop. He raised his hand. “Someone please call me when Jesse is finished with his sketch, all right? Excuse me a moment.”

  He walked into his office, closed the door, sat down, and tried to clear his brain. Since they’d been called to the Lincoln Memorial, they’d spent their time reacting, first to Tommy’s murder, then to Stony’s suicide, and finally to Peter’s murder. They’d been pulled one way, then another; it was time to stop playing catch-up, time to focus in. He went back to the beginning, to Saturday morning, with the call from Ben Raven, let each scene unfold slowly in his mind. He didn’t analyze them, only let them flow over him to get impressions, to let his gut ring in.

  It all had to be of a piece, had to be. One overriding motive that had resulted in both Tommy’s and Peter’s murders. But what? The gun in Peter’s apartment pointed a neon arrow right to Wakefield Hart. But any of the boys could have taken that gun from the Harts’ attic. It might already have been in Peter’s apartment last night, though he doubted that. The murderer had come to kill, not talk. And now Melissa Ivy was saying the man she’d seen in Peter’s apartment lobby wasn’t Mr. Hart?

  Stop. Back up. The one thing Savich was sure of was that Tommy’s murderer was a man. A woman could have shoved Tommy Cronin out of a two-story window, perhaps, a fall that had broken so many of his bones, but he couldn’t imagine a woman hauling him to the Lincoln Memorial, stripping him naked, and displaying him at Lincoln’s feet. That took a good deal of strength. Two people, then? He shook his head at the utter debasement of the act.

  He pictured each of the men he’d met in the past three days, not all that many, really, and had one of them been Tommy’s killer? Or was he still off the mark, despite all the evidence against Hart? It could have been an acquaintance, a student at Magdalene who hated Palmer Cronin enough, perhaps on his own father’s or mother’s behalf, to strike out in rage at his grandson. He saw Palmer Cronin’s aged grieving face, then August Biaggini’s face when his son had treated him with such contempt on Sunday afternoon, and finally, Wakefield Hart’s face, set and angry, ready to do battle for his son that same afternoon.