Bombshell

Another quote from Hart’s speech, and a question he had fielded many times. Not defensive, not all that remorseful, either, but look at the new man, the new wise man with a plan of action. Savich thought he did it well.

“If you’re right, Mr. Hart, about Tommy’s murder being revenge against Palmer Cronin, then how do you explain the photo uploaded on Stony’s computer? Why did Stony kill himself?”

They watched Hart deflate, no other word for it, his son’s suicide once again front and center in his mind. He said, his voice hoarse with pain, “An innocent boy was brutally killed, and my poor son killed himself. I can’t explain any of it, but I know it had to be revenge on Cronin, had to be. Peter Biaggini didn’t do it. It was someone you don’t even have on your radar.”

“Mr. Hart, why do you have cameras in this room?”

“What—oh, the cameras. When I bought the house the former owner had an elaborate security system installed because he had an expensive art collection. I thought it interesting, and so I kept it. Easier than ripping it out.

“I need to be with my wife now, Agents. Regina will show you out.”

Savich was aware of Hart’s bleak eyes following them as Regina led them from the living room.

Maestro, Virginia

Monday afternoon

Anna was surprised when Dr. Elliot Hayman walked into Maurie’s Diner well after the lunch crowd would normally have thinned. It was still crowded today here at gossip central, what with all the buzz about the shooting at the B&B last night. She’d heard many hairy tales about what had happened, but few that remotely resembled reality. And Delsey didn’t star in any of them, a lucky thing indeed.

He sent her a warm smile, maybe too warm, she never really knew with Dr. Hayman, and he waved. It had been at least a month since she’d seen him in here, too pedestrian for him, too blue collar, she’d always assumed. Why today? He walked straight to a back table where three female Stanislaus graduate students Anna had already been serving were gossiping, not about the shooting but about Gabrielle DuBois. “I wonder if she’ll go after Dr. Hayman now that Professor Salazar’s cooled off,” and, “Well, she’s French, isn’t she?”

Musicians, cops, waitresses, Anna thought, listening to them. Jealousy and gossip were always the same. She followed Dr. Hayman to the table, where the three women gladly welcomed him to join them. Anna gave him a big smile after he’d settled in. “I believe you like sweet tea, don’t you, Dr. Hayman?”

He smiled back at her, that too-warm smile, and nodded. “Yes, thank you. I’m told Ms. Freestone didn’t attend classes this morning. Is she not feeling well?”

“I’m not sure, Dr. Hayman, but I know she would have been there if she could.”

“Do you know where she is now, Anna?”

“Can’t say, Dr. Hayman.”

“Our campus police chief told me there was another break-in and a shooting at the B&B. He said he couldn’t find out more because Sheriff Noble was keeping a tight lid on it. Have you heard anything about it, Anna?”

“People have been talking about it, but like you said, the sheriff isn’t letting out any of the details.” It was a relief to all of them that the gang member had tried to kill Delsey in the middle of the night when no one was around. And luckily the forensic team and the ME and his team weren’t from Maestro and not around to be grilled over scrambled eggs.

Anna poured Dr. Hayman’s sweet tea, took more orders, and delivered them to the kitchen window—most medium-rare hamburgers, Maurie’s specialty, and orders of his stiff-as-soldiers-at-attention french fries. It didn’t feel right to her that Dr. Hayman was in here today asking questions about Delsey and the shooting. A local shooting was unusual, it was exciting fodder for the gossip mill, but for Dr. Hayman?

He wasn’t drinking his tea. She was also aware he was watching her. Did he disbelieve her? Did he think she was holding something back, since she and Delsey were best friends? No matter. She had no choice, she had to keep working and lying through her teeth.

She delivered late lunches, refilled glasses, and smiled and said cheery things and passed more orders through the kitchen window to Maurie, who was sweating in a thick, fat-filled heat, whistling softly as he flipped hamburger patties and barked at Mickey Cross for another order of tuna salad. Mickey was an aging Desert Storm vet who never paid Maurie much mind, having survived an Iraqi prison.

And she had a growing premonition that trouble was going to walk through the door at any minute.