Bombshell

Savich agreed. “The DEA has been checking property records, deeds, leases, even going door to door, Griffin. I put MAX to work on it yesterday. I’ll see what we’ve got, check with Dix to see if he can help us narrow the search.”

•   •   •

WHEN GRIFFIN RANG off the phone with Delsey a few minutes later, he looked over at Anna’s nicely made cot, and then up at the clock. He felt a little pulse of pain when he put weight on his leg, but it wasn’t bad. He limped to the bathroom. He was pulling on his wrecked pants from last night’s firefight when Nurse Morsi came in, a tray of instruments in her hand. She stared at him zipping up his trousers. She sputtered, then said, “Agent Hammersmith, you get back in bed this instant. Dr. Chesney wants to check your leg before you leave, and I need—”

Griffin said over her, “If you could give me some aspirin for the road, I’d appreciate it. And maybe help me get my boots on.”

Tunney Wells, Virginia

Tuesday morning

Savich hadn’t called ahead because he’d thought it better to surprise Wakefield Hart than to give him time to prepare for them with a lawyer at his side and, most important, get rid of evidence. He wanted to see Hart’s face when he told him about Peter Biaggini’s murder. How good an actor was he? He and Sherlock nodded to the agents and the CSI team holding back, with their vehicles parked a good half-block from the Harts’ house, pulled into the driveway, and walked to the front door.

“We’re here to see Mr. and Mrs. Hart, Regina.”

She looked them up and down silently, nodded, and led them through the tall entryway with its modern glass-block partitions and sculptures to the glass living room.

Savich’s eyes passed from the artfully recessed webcam in the molding above them and down to Wakefield and Carolyn Hart. They were sitting side by side on the stark white sofa, a Meissen coffeepot and cups arranged beside a creamer and sugar bowl on a tray on the glass coffee table in front of them. It appeared they hadn’t touched any of it. They weren’t looking at each other; both were silent, as if sitting alone, their faces vacant with grief. Both looked up when Savich and Sherlock stepped into the living room. Savich saw a flicker of alarm in Wakefield Hart’s dark eyes, but Mrs. Hart’s eyes were unfocused, disinterested. Savich wondered how many sedatives she’d taken this morning, and if this was how she dealt with life in general. They hadn’t met her formally, but he didn’t want to take time for introductions. He said from the doorway, “We came to tell you that Peter Biaggini was murdered last night.”

Hart didn’t shrink back, didn’t feign confusion or ignorance. He rose straight up, his face tight, his eyes hard. “That worthless piece of scum is dead? He took our boy away from us, drove him to kill himself. Who did it? Who else did he hurt?”

What to make of this? But not unexpected, Savich thought. No, not at all unexpected. As for Mrs. Hart, she didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She seemed frozen, apart from all of them, except for her pale eyes. They were fastened on her husband’s red face.

Savich said, “I need to know where you were last night, Mr. Hart.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Mrs. Hart said in a loud, clear voice, “Wakefield was here with me. He did not go anywhere. We had friends over to help with Stony’s funeral arrangements. The wake is on Wednesday night, the funeral on Thursday at noon at the First Presbyterian Church of Tunney Wells. We had to wait because Wakefield’s parents are flying in from Montana.” Her voice broke and she turned her head away, holding herself stiff, her arms wrapped around herself, rocking, silent again.

Hart said, “When our friends left, neither of us felt like going anywhere. I know what I said was harsh. We are both truly sorry for Peter’s parents, both nice people who will suffer for this. But what they loosed on the earth in Peter is—was—an abomination. Peter didn’t love anyone, particularly them. He felt nothing but contempt for his father and indifference for his mother. He thought she was useless. I heard him say once that her only expertise was opening cans, in that dismissive, arrogant voice he had.”

Mrs. Hart slowly rose. She tried to stand ramrod straight, though she swayed a bit, as if unsteady from too many drugs. Her face, Sherlock saw, was leached of color, but hard and set, as if she was trying to mask her pain from them.

Sherlock had seen several photos of Mrs. Hart and thought her a handsome woman, probably quite spectacular-looking when she’d been younger, a woman who seemed at home in her moneyed world and knew how to conduct herself on all its occasions. Now, Sherlock thought, she looked as though she’d been knocked sideways, loose from all the familiar moorings. Her hair was dull and limp, and still, deep lines scored the flesh around her mouth. The pants and sweater she was wearing looked too big for her. She looked as if death had touched her on the shoulder, caressed her cheek, then passed over her to take her only son, Stony, and her own soul with it.