Bombshell

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?”