Bombshell

She had to be a strong woman, Sherlock imagined, to have spent her life with a husband like Wakefield Hart. What did she think of him, this man who’d been up to his ears in joyous greed, and then profited again from the banking collapse by attacking the very people he’d once shared his bed with? Like Palmer Cronin. Did she not care? Whatever she thought of Wakefield Hart, whatever she’d suffered, she had stood up as tall as she could, and given her husband an alibi.

Sherlock said, “I’m sure we are all sorry for the Biagginis, Mr. Hart. What they will want from the FBI is to find his murderer. There are three young people dead by violence now. Tommy Cronin brutally murdered and left at the Lincoln Memorial, your son’s suicide, and now Peter. We don’t know yet who killed Tommy, Mr. Hart, but you have the motive to have killed Peter, you have told us so yourself. You could easily have slipped out of here last night and driven to Peter’s apartment.”

Savich picked it up. “When he answered your knock, did he see his death in your eyes? I’m betting you had the gun pointed at him and he ran into his bedroom, only there was no lock. And when you caught him, you shot him twice in the head. Did you imagine what it would be like, Mr. Hart, to have Peter’s brain matter and blood splattered over you? Did his blood soak into your clothes, feel sticky and wet against your skin?”

Wakefield Hart raised his fisted hand and screamed at them, “I did not kill that puking little bastard! I never left home last night! Listen to my wife, she’s not lying. Ask our friends, we were here.”

Savich said. “You own a gun, do you not, Mr. Hart? Your father’s Bren Ten, a gun he gave you?”

“My father did give me a gun when I turned sixteen, but I haven’t seen that old Bren Ten in years. It may be in the attic somewhere, I don’t know.”

“It isn’t in your attic, Mr. Hart. We have it. It was the gun used to kill Peter last night.”

Hart reared back, opened his mouth, closed it, and seamed his lips. He looked confused, Savich thought, perhaps bewildered, but why? Then he looked down, as if studying the tassels on his Italian loafers. He shook his head, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. When he finally looked again at Savich, he’d wiped all expression from his face.

Savich waited, but Hart said nothing.

Sherlock stepped forward. “Mr. Hart, this is a warrant to search your house without restriction. Our forensic team is already waiting outside.” Sherlock handed him the warrant, watching his face.

Mrs. Hart looked toward her husband, whirled back around, and shouted, “You’re saying my husband killed Peter with that ancient, ugly weapon? That’s a horrible thing to say; it’s ridiculous. He was here with me, all evening and all night! I have told you so. He did not leave. He did not kill Peter. He’s right, neither of us have seen that gun in decades. It could have been stolen years ago, do you hear me? We haven’t seen it! Are you accusing me of lying?”

Sherlock said. “Not yet, ma’am.”

Savich had already texted the CSI team outside, and Tom Leads showed his face in the glass living room. Mrs. Hart yelled at him, “Our daughters are upstairs in their rooms. Will you at least leave them alone to grieve for their brother? Or are you going to tell them you believe their father killed someone?”

Tom Leads, father of six, said, “No, ma’am, we will respect your daughters’ privacy. However, it might be better for you to arrange for them to go elsewhere. If you wish to go up to them, it’s quite all right.”

Savich saw Mrs. Hart look at her husband and slowly shake her head. “I must stay here. You will be respectful,” she added fiercely, and Tom nodded.

Savich’s cell rang. He walked into the hallway, saw Regina was there, her eyes red from crying. Naturally, she’d been listening.

He heard Hart yelling through the door at Sherlock, “My wife has sworn to you I was here last night. I’m calling my lawyer, to put an end to this harassment. We’re going to bury our son on Thursday. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Yes, Mr. Hart, it means a lot to me,” Sherlock said. “It breaks my heart. For your family’s sake, you should have waited to kill Peter until after you buried Stony.”

That drew Hart up, but only for a moment. Savich heard him mutter something, but couldn’t make out the words because he was trying to listen to Ollie on his cell. “While we were out interviewing your neighbors about the alarm last night, Delsey spotted an SUV cruising your neighborhood in Georgetown. She’s got eagle eyes, Savich, and she tagged the car. The SUV was reported stolen right out of a garage in Mount Perse, Maryland. We’ll go check that out. As you know, Coop is staying with Delsey. You know he’ll keep her safe.”