Bombshell

He thought about a cup of hot black coffee. He thought about how he hated hospitals, even when they were warm and comforting. And his leg started aching like a rotted tooth, but he could stand that. He had no intention of letting Dr. Chesney poke around anymore.

Anna and her boss were still in animated conversation. He didn’t know where Dix and Ruth had gone to. He made the trek to the cafeteria, bought himself a cup of coffee and listened to techs, doctors, nurses, cafeteria personnel, and a score of visitors talk about the huge drug bust in Winkel’s Cave. He sat down and stretched out his leg and began to lightly rub it. He wondered idly if Salazar would survive surgery. At least he’d been alive when they’d wheeled him in.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Here he’d been driving across the country, enjoying seeing relatives and friends, excited about his new assignment with Savich in Washington.

Three days ago it had all changed. You never knew what life would dish up, like a gorgeous DEA agent named Anna who’d shot an alligator when she was nine. He called Savich to fill him in on what happened.

Anna joined him, and they went to the surgical waiting room on the third floor. They sat together, not speaking now, because Anna’s adrenaline levels were crashing, neither of them knowing if Salazar would live or die. Mac Brannon was sitting across from them, his cell phone attached to his ear.

Salazar had been in surgery for two hours. An OR nurse came out periodically to give them updates. Salazar was holding his own; he might make it. Then again, he might not were the unspoken words.

Griffin looked up to see Dr. Chesney staring at him, as grim-looking as his mother when he’d pissed her off by leaving no gas in her car. He’d hoped Dr. Chesney was home making snow angels in her front yard, but no, there she was, looking at him from the waiting room doorway, her toe tapping. He gave it up and smiled at her. What followed was five minutes of questioning in an empty patient room, Anna standing beside him. He’d asked her to leave, but that hadn’t worked. Dr. Chesney said, “Okay, let me see the leg. Drop your pants, Agent Hammersmith.”

Anna, curse her, was grinning as he pulled his pants down and sat himself again on the side of the bed. “Nice boxers,” she said. “I’ve always preferred commando, but black’s good, too.”

Dr. Chesney gently lifted the bandage from his wound, but it still hurt. “You’re lucky,” she said after poking around. “The stitches have held, despite all the grief you put them and yourself through. Take some more aspirin when you need it. Like right now.”

Anna brought him a cup of cold water from the fountain, and Dr. Chesney stood over him until he swallowed the aspirin.

She lightly touched her palm to his cheek. “No fever. Good. Take care of yourself, Agent Hammersmith,” and she walked briskly out. Not a moment later a code red came over the loudspeaker.

“It’s time for another update,” Griffin said, and limped to the nurses’ station, Anna behind him. Imagine a world-famous classical guitarist, a professor at Stanislaus, and, to top it off, a big-time drug dealer. He wondered how long it would take the media to flood Maestro, Virginia. They met the OR nurse in the hall. “He’s out of surgery, but his prognosis is uncertain. He’s still unconscious, so there’s no reason for you to remain. The surgeon told me to tell all your agents to go out and prevent snow accidents. As for you, Agent Hammersmith, he said you were luckier than you deserved, that if you’d ruined Dr. Chesney’s excellent work by crawling around in Winkel’s Cave, she’d stake you in the snow and leave you.”

There was another code red over the loudspeaker, and Griffin thought, Oh, no, not Salazar.

Washington, D.C.

Tuesday afternoon

Savich parked his Porsche a half-block down from Peter Biaggini’s apartment building on Willard Avenue, and they walked through the softly falling snow to its pristine lobby. They used the stairs and followed the long hallway to the last door on their left to find Mr. August Biaggini looking at the yellow FBI crime scene tape crisscrossing the open doorway. He stood unmoving, staring in, as if uncertain what to do.

Sherlock lightly laid her hand on his arm. When he turned, his face was curiously blank. She said, “Sir, I’m Agent Sherlock and this is Agent Savich. Let me say we are very sorry for the loss of your son.”

“Yes, I remember you. They won’t let me in. My wife is asking for Peter’s blue suit to bury him in, but they won’t let me in.”

The beautiful lilting voice they’d heard two days before was flat, as if he were moving and speaking simply out of habit, with no emotion at all.