Peter Biaggini’s cell buzzed a text message. For a moment, it seemed he would answer, but he only touched the phone, then let his fingers drop away. “How would I know? It was weird, though, what happened. A year later, Tommy’s dad dies in his kick-ass red Ferrari. Who could see that coming? But I’ll tell you, good old Aunt Marian kept going, like neither of Tommy’s parents had ever really been all that important. I mean, the house kept going, everyone kept hanging out there, and Tommy got all into himself since he saw himself as the new boss man of the house. Aunt Marian smiled behind her hand, let him strut around and act all serious about the electric bill.”
Mr. Biaggini looked both embarrassed and pained. He cleared his throat, bringing Savich and Sherlock’s attention back to him. “It was a dreadful time. Barbara Cronin was a lovely woman, an excellent mother to Tommy and his sisters. I was shocked and frankly surprised she would kill herself. I knew of no reason for her to do such a thing.”
“She was shacking up with the guy who remodeled the kitchen,” Peter Biaggini said, slouching down farther in his chair. “All the kids knew about it; we thought it was funny.”
Sherlock said, “Did Tommy think it was funny?”
“No, he’d leave whenever anyone said anything.” He said to his father, “Come on, Dad, don’t go all righteous and disapproving. Since all the kids knew it, surely you and Mom did, too.”
“There is always gossip,” Mr. Biaggini said, his body as stiff as his voice, “but if one has any sense and maturity at all, one discounts it. I do not believe and never believed Tommy’s mother was unfaithful to his father. What does any of this have to do with Tommy’s murder?”
Peter rolled his eyes and began tapping his fingers again. Another message came in on his cell and he began quickly pressing keys. Savich reached over, took the cell from his hand, and tossed it to Coop, who turned it off and slipped it into his pocket. Peter Biaggini froze. He started to say something but thought better of it.
Savich knew Barbara Cronin wasn’t the point here, but her suicide bothered him, Sherlock, too, and so he said to Mr. Biaggini, “Indulge me. Now, something must have triggered her suicide. Do you remember anything out of the ordinary happening at the time, sir?”
Mr. Biaggini shook his head. “I was very busy with my business around that time, with expansion, new franchises going up throughout Maryland and Virginia. My wife and I hadn’t seen the Cronins in some time.”
Peter gave an ugly laugh. “Yeah, you had to get all the rich old ladies more beauty products, right, Dad?”
Savich was pleased when Mr. Biaggini slowly rose to his feet, spread his hands on the tabletop, and leaned toward his son. “You mock me for the fine house you’ve lived in all your life? You mock that your mother and I care for you, that we have provided for you, given you the best education possible?”
But not a new car? Savich knew Peter drove a five-year-old Honda, which meant Mr. Biaggini did have some limits, probably because of his son’s DUIs.
Peter looked his father up and down. “Yeah, thanks for the Cheerios, Dad. But you didn’t give me my education. I worked for it. I would have been valedictorian at Columbia High School if that jerk Noah Horton hadn’t kissed up to all his teachers. And I could have gotten scholarships to college if you hadn’t coughed up the tuition for Magdalene. I even earned that job with Caruthers and Milton on my own.” Again, he shrugged, looked at Sherlock, then back to his father. “Have you ever thought you should have spent more time with us, Dad, rather than making hair spray?”
Mr. Biaggini had heard this before, too many times, Sherlock thought. He stared at his son, his hands working, but he did nothing, said nothing more, his look stoic. The story of Peter’s life growing up? A brief show of indignation, then nothing? Sherlock wanted to leap over the interview table and plant her fist in Peter Biaggini’s sneering mouth. She said, her voice as sharp as glass shards, “Tell us, Peter, about how you and Stony Hart tried to anonymously upload that photo of Tommy’s dead body at the Lincoln Memorial on YouTube? That photo we tracked to Stony’s computer?”
The lizard disappeared. Peter Biaggini snapped to, straightened and swallowed, one hand clenched into a fist. For the first time, he looked scared. “Wh-what?”
Scared now, Peter? Or do you not know anything about it?
Unfortunately, his protective father jumped in. Mr. Biaggini’s face was red as he shouted at Sherlock, “What are you talking about? What do you mean my son and Stony were involved? Surely not that photo that ended up on YouTube—that’s ridiculous. What sort of ploy is this?”
Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “Mr. Biaggini, we know the YouTube photo was posted from Stony’s computer, and we know Peter has a lifelong habit of driving the bus for his friends, that if they don’t do what he wants, he sets them straight. Stony told us about Peter’s slashing Stony’s mom’s tires on her new Prius. How old were you then, Peter? Twelve? Do you happen to remember what order of yours Stony refused to carry out?”
Mr. Biaggini surged to his feet. “You will stop this now! Do you hear me, stop this or I will have my lawyers in here to stop it for you.”
“I didn’t slash his bitch mother’s tires.”
Sherlock kept her eyes locked on Peter Biaggini’s face. “Sure you did, and you really enjoyed doing it. Tell us about the death photo you got Stony to upload.”
“Sorry, I don’t know anything about a photo. If Stony did that, I don’t know anything about that, either. I’ve got to say, I’m surprised. Even though Stony’s a computer whiz, he’s a wuss; say boo to him and he withers like a weed. He never wanted to do anything that was the least bit risky. Until now. I can’t believe he did that, and I can’t believe he got caught, either.”
Sherlock said, “Mr. Biaggini, you’ve seen the photo, haven’t you?”
Mr. Biaggini said, “Even the rebels in Rwanda have seen that horrible photo, but it has nothing at all to do with my son. He has no reason to lie to you. Regardless, uploading such a thing on the Internet is despicable. Peter would not have been a part of it.”
That was all he was going to say? Then Sherlock looked at his eyes; Biaggini didn’t believe what he’d just said. He looked devastated, but not surprised, because he knew his son.
Peter shot his father a look of pure disgust, but underlying that look was something else entirely. Had he seen the look of doubt in his father’s face? Had he seen the devastation that the recognition of that doubt had cost him? Did he care?
Peter’s voice climbed an octave. “He’s right, I told you the truth. Stony’s a dodging little nothing. His only talent is the computer. He’s a liar; he’s always looking out for number one. That story about his mom’s Prius, I mean, how lame is that?”
Sherlock smiled at Peter Biaggini. “Why do you think he would lie, Peter?”
Peter was nearly panting now, words spewing fast and hard. “I see now, you scared him so bad he had to make something up, and he did. No one would believe it for a second. I mean, about the only thing Stony does well is hack NASA. And he did it without any help from me. I never even saw Tommy’s photo!”
“Peter—”
Peter didn’t look at his father. He leaned forward, his eyes dark and hard. “You want a scapegoat and you don’t have squat, so you singled me out. I don’t know what Stony did or didn’t do, but I do know he couldn’t have uploaded Tommy’s photo.”
He flung himself back in the chair, crossed his arms over his chest.
Savich’s eyebrow went up. “And why is that?”
“Stony doesn’t make mistakes on computers. If he didn’t want you to know he’d posted something, you’d have never found out about it.”
Time to test the waters. Savich said, “Sorry, Peter, Stony did make a mistake, and we caught him with the help of the NSA. Even Stony can’t deny Tommy’s photo was posted from his computer.”
Sherlock picked it up fast. “Why don’t you te
ll us about what drove you to do this, Peter? What did Tommy do to you to make you hate him so much?”
August Biaggini roared to his feet again. He slammed his fist on the table. “You will stop this now! My son couldn’t have done this, for the simple reason that it’s monstrous. Sure, he was the leader of his group of friends, there always is one. Everyone knows that. Peter had no motive to kill Tommy Cronin. No motive!
“Listen, about Stony. I told you he always sought the easiest path and that’s why he blames Peter, to save himself. What’s perjury to him now? It’s obvious Stony is the guilty one here.”
“And what would his motive be, Mr. Biaggini?” Sherlock asked him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know of a single motive to attach to any of Tommy’s friends. No, Peter, don’t say anything more, you don’t have to defend yourself any further.”
Mr. Biaggini sat down, leaned over the table, his eyes locked on Savich’s face. “The next time we see you, Agent, we’re bringing a lawyer. We’re leaving now.”
Savich said, “So we’re clear before you leave, if you choose to, Mr. Biaggini, we never said Stony accused Peter of any involvement in posting that photo. We raised that question with you. Stony denies any knowledge of the photo, just as Peter does.”
“Then how can you accuse my son of these crimes? Of being a liar? You people should all be fired.”
“You may not have deserved to hear that, sir, but we’re trying to find a murderer. Now, we won’t keep either of you from leaving, but if Peter is willing to stay and answer a few more questions, it will save both of you a great deal of time and trouble later.”
“It’s all right, Dad,” Peter said, suddenly cocky again. “I’ll answer a few questions. What is it you want to know?” And he sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Do you know where Tommy was Friday night, Peter?”
“No. I hadn’t seen him in a while. He was usually studying late, or sleeping.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Nearly a week ago, maybe last Monday. We had some pizza, then he said he had to study, and we split up.”
“Did you notice if he was disturbed about something? Did he mention anything he was involved with?”
“Sorry, Agent. Tommy seemed just fine to me. I told you, he was a serious go-getter since his father died, working hard at school, looking to fill his grandfather’s shoes, I guess.”
Savich said, “Now tell us where you were on Friday night, Peter.”
Peter Biaggini raised his hand before his father could interrupt. He grinned, and Savich knew for sure that Peter had agreed to stay because he wanted to be asked that very question. He was preening now, no other word for it, and it wasn’t a sham. He looked directly at Savich as he said, “I was at the Raleigh Gallery in Georgetown at a showing of modern American paintings, part of an assignment for my art history class.
“Oh, yeah, Tommy’s former girlfriend, Melissa Ivy, was there with me.” He smirked at them. “So much for Stony’s photo. There’s no way I could have taken a photo of Tommy dead. I wasn’t anywhere close to the Lincoln Memorial Friday night.”
“Where did you go after you left the gallery?” Sherlock asked.
“Mel and I went to her apartment and tangled the sheets all night. So I couldn’t have killed Tommy. As for that stupid photo, who cares? No crime there anyway, now, is there?” He turned to his father. “See, Dad, no reason to get an ulcer. Can I leave now, Agents?”
Savich stood. “You may leave, but we will see you again soon.”
As he walked to the door and opened it for them, Sherlock said, “Peter, don’t leave Washington.”
“I love Washington. Why would I leave?”
They heard Mr. Biaggini’s harsh breathing as they walked again, and then his low, angry voice. “Why didn’t you tell them right away where you were Friday night? Why drag this lunacy out?”
They heard Peter speak but couldn’t make out his words.
They watched from the CAU doorway as Peter whistled his way along the wide corridor to the elevator. He turned right before he got on, and gave them a little finger wave. Mr. Biaggini followed behind him, his head down. He never looked at them.
“That kid should have been left on a Greek mountainside at birth,” Coop said.
“I want to meet Melissa Ivy,” Sherlock said.
“Peter’s got to believe she’ll lock in his alibi,” Coop said.
Sherlock said, “I’m willing to bet my Pink Panther socks she’ll swear they not only spent the night together, she’ll also swear she made him breakfast Saturday morning, didn’t just toss him a box of cornflakes, either. Melissa will tell us she made him scrambled eggs, with blueberry pancakes on the side.”
“After she broke up with Tommy,” Lucy said, “she sure hooked up with Peter Biaggini real fast.”
Savich said, “Mr. Biaggini isn’t a thing like my father.”
Ward Place, N.W.
Close to George Washington campus
Early Sunday evening
It was near dinnertime when Savich parked his Porsche a half-block from Melissa Ivy’s 1970s three-story red-brick apartment building.
“Place looks tired,” Sherlock said. “Probably not a lot of upkeep, since it’s mostly students. Look at how they’ve trashed that little yard. What were they doing, throwing rocks at snowmen?”
The lobby was narrow and pedestrian, with a linoleum floor and a triple row of black mailboxes. They walked to the third floor, down a bare-floored wooden hallway that creaked. The lighting, though, was bright, even glaring. They stopped at apartment 3B.
Melissa Ivy answered their knock fast, as if she’d been standing by the door, her eyes plastered to the keyhole.
Gorgeous was Savich’s first thought, staring at the small Venus standing in front of them, biting her bottom lip and twisting her hands, even as she tried to look grown-up and confident.
After Melissa looked at their creds and they introduced themselves, she led them into a small living room, its white walls covered with oversized prints of media legends going back to Edward R. Murrow and a young Barbara Walters, all dozen or so in stark black and white. You didn’t even notice the Goodwill furniture until you sat down on her living room sofa and were immediately aware that the springs were too close to the surface.
Melissa was wearing tight jeans, a short pink crop top that left her white midriff bare, even though it was thirty-three degrees outside, and pink UGGs on her small feet. Her figure was well nigh perfect. Her hair was long, blond, and straight as a stick, falling to the middle of her back. Savich imagined the camera would love her heart-shaped face, with its impossibly high cheekbones.
He said without preamble, “Ms. Ivy, you’re twenty years old, a sophomore at George Washington, majoring in communications. Is that correct?”
She nodded, still chewing on her bottom lip.
Savich waved at the photos on the walls. “So you want to be a newscaster?”
She beamed, nodding. “It’s always been a dream of mine to be an anchor on a major network. I’d really like to be on FOX News. They have the highest ratings, you know.”
Sherlock smiled at her. “Who knows who’ll have the ratings when you’re ready to anchor a desk? It might be something not even on TV yet, like Amazon World News or something.”
Melissa blinked—beautiful long lashes—and nodded thoughtfully toward Sherlock, as if grateful for this insight from an older woman.
Savich said, “We’d like to record our conversation. Is that all right with you, Ms. Ivy?”
She straightened like a shot, looked alarmed, her eyes darting to his cell phone, then to his face.
“It’s for your protection, Ms. Ivy.”
“I didn’t do anything bad. Do I need a lawyer?”
She sounded for all the world like a teen
ager busted for pot. Savich assured her she didn’t, identified the three of them, gave the date and time, then said, “Ms. Ivy, where were you Friday evening?”
As if by rote, which it undoubtedly was, since he was sure Peter had called her, Melissa told them she was with Peter Biaggini. “It hadn’t started snowing yet, but everyone knew the storm was coming, and so Mr. Raleigh closed the gallery at ten o’clock, and that’s when we left. Peter and I had a late dinner at Pocco’s near Dupont Circle, then he drove me home when the storm was just beginning.”
“Then what happened, Ms. Ivy?” Sherlock asked her.
Melissa’s very pretty gray eyes lowered to her hands, and her voice fell to a whisper. “Please don’t tell my parents, but Peter didn’t leave until late Saturday morning. We—we were eating a late breakfast when we heard about Tommy on TV. Peter was very upset; I mean, we were both upset. Tommy and I—well, maybe you know we dated for a while, and he was one of Peter’s best friends.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss. I’m sure you want to find out who murdered Tommy Cronin as much as anyone.”
“Oh, yes, of course. It’s horrible, the way Tommy died.”
“We know you were Tommy’s girlfriend until, what, three weeks ago?”
“Certainly I dated Tommy, but—” She raised blurred eyes to Sherlock’s face. “Of course I was upset—devastated, really. Tommy was a really nice person, even if our relationship didn’t work out. But you know Peter had known Tommy nearly all his life.”
“Since Peter knew you were upset, did he stay to comfort you?”
“No, he couldn’t stay. He said he had things to see to. When he left I cried and cried.”
“What did you have for breakfast, Ms. Ivy?” Sherlock asked her.
“Breakfast?”
“Yes, before you found out about Tommy, when you were still smiling.”
“I-I scrambled some eggs—Peter loves scrambled eggs. He had three of them, but he told me only one yolk, and wheat toast with two pats of butter on the side.”