Bombshell

  They’d taken Sean to spend the day with his grandmother, so he was out of harm’s way, his short-term future bright with the promise of a half a dozen chocolate-chip cookies. Savich looked up when one forensic team leader, Tommy Voss, called out, “Agent Savich, could you come over here, please? Bring Agent Sherlock.”

  They followed Tommy into a laundry room behind a large, painfully modern kitchen with stainless-steel appliances so highly polished they looked brand-new. The laundry was large and utilitarian, lined with shelves filled with detergents, softeners, cleaning liquids, and stain removers, no doubt for Regina’s use.

  Tommy pointed to piles of freshly washed and folded clothes. “We’ll start out with pictures of everything in here before we start looking for blood on those clothes. As you know, even washing can’t get out all the blood. Nothing can. We’ll go over the interior of the washer and drier with Luminol. If anyone washed bloody clothes in this washer, we’ll find a trace. I’ll tell you, I’ve got a feeling about this.”

  Savich did, too. “We’ll have to hope he didn’t burn the clothes or dump them.”

  Tommy said, “We’ll check the clothes hampers, spray all the sinks and showers, see if anyone washed blood off themselves last night. If you really think he was stupid enough to bury the clothes in the backyard, or even farther out in the woods, we can get that bloodhound, Bitsy, from the Washington Field Office out here. She can find anything.”

  “Good, Tommy. I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Wait a minute, guys; this was just my opening prelude. Now let’s get to it. Come take a look at this.”

  Tommy led them through another door to a large storage area with more shelves and bins holding luggage, ski paraphernalia, and golf equipment. He opened a smaller door, flipped a light switch, and ushered them in.

  “Would you take a look at this.”

  They were in the control room for what once had been the complex and highly sophisticated surveillance system. Now it was a jumbled mess of ripped-out wires and connections, all the system guts strewn on the tiled floor.

  Sherlock said, “Torn to shreds by very angry hands, not neatly uninstalled. Look, there’s no dust where the computer sat. This was done recently.”

  Savich said, “Systems like this one are typically motion-activated and store their audio and video on rewritable DVDs. I don’t see any.”

  “They’re all gone,” Tommy said, “and I’ve looked. Maybe they’re hidden in the house; if so, we’ll find them. If they’ve been tossed, well—” He shrugged.

  Savich knew in his gut the disks weren’t here in the house. What was on them?

  He and Sherlock returned to the living room, where the Harts stood silent and still at opposite ends of the room. Because Mrs. Hart had finally realized her husband was a murderer? He said, “Mr. Hart, where else in this house do you have cameras installed for your surveillance system?”

  “What? You still think I spy on people who visit my house? That’s insulting, Agent. I told you when you were here before, the cameras are simply left over from the past owner. When will your people be out of here?”

  Savich said, “You seem to have torn the control center out pretty recently. The room is a shambles. What brought on such rage to push you to destroy your own system, Mr. Hart? What did you do with the recordings? Where are the disks?”

  Hart’s face suffused with color. “I destroyed nothing! I know nothing about any recordings, any disks! My lawyer advised me not to talk to you until he arrives, so the last thing I’ll say is this. As I told you, the cameras were simply here. They do not work. There are no recordings. I have never recorded anything. Indeed, I have not been in the control room for a very long time. There was no reason for me to go there.”

  Savich didn’t believe him for a minute. He knew Hart had ripped out the surveillance system. What had happened to enrage him so much to do it? His son had killed himself, that’s what. The disks, he thought; it had to do with what was on the missing disks.

  He’d thought to arrest Hart then and there, but he realized something wasn’t right about the Bren Ten they’d found by Peter’s body. Why would he have left the gun there? He might as well have painted a target on his back with a big red arrow pointing to it.

  He said, “We’ll wait for your lawyer, then, Mr. Hart.”

  Maestro, Virginia

  Tuesday morning

  It had to be fate, Griffin thought, when he saw one of Maestro’s half-dozen taxis pull in front of the hospital doors as he limped out on his cane. An elderly man helped a woman out of the back, then leaned in to give the driver some cash.

  The driver eyed Griffin. “You look kinda pasty, son. You sure you’re not going the wrong way? Out instead of in?”

  “I’m definitely out,” Griffin said, and climbed carefully into the backseat. He hoped the aspirin Dr. Chesney had finally given him would kick in soon. He laid the cane over his legs. He gave the driver Salazar’s address on Golden Meadow Terrace.

  They pulled up to Salazar’s house ten minutes later to join four other cars overflowing the driveway. “Fancy address,” the driver said. “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Griffin said.

  “Hey, that’s the sheriff’s Range Rover. I sure hope he wasn’t the one who dragged you out of the hospital.”

  “Nah, this is all my idea.”

  Dix walked out onto the porch and watched the taxi slowly pull away, the driver leaning his head out the window to see all he could. Griffin was limping only slightly, not putting all that much weight on the cane.

  Dix said, “Saw you coming. You’re not looking bad.”

  “Nope. I’m good to go.”

  Dix said. “I told Anna you’d wake up and come here, fire steaming out of your ears, ready to crawl up our butts for leaving you.”

  Now, there was a visual. Griffin grinned at him. “Have you got the cuffs on Salazar?”

  “Well, not yet. Come on in, you’ll see for yourself. Can you make these three steps?”

  When he finally negotiated the three steep steps, he had to stop a moment, knowing Dix was looking at him and wondering if he should say anything or keep quiet. Dix kept quiet.

  Griffin stepped into the hallway of Rafael Salazar’s house for the first time since Saturday morning, when he’d come to see a bunch of women cleaning up from the party Friday night. Only three days ago.

  “Come in here, Griffin,” Dix said.

  Griffin made his way into the large living room and stopped dead in his tracks.

  The room was trashed. Sofas, chairs, and coffee tables were ripped apart and hurled by angry hands to the floor, paintings ripped from the walls and slashed with a sharp knife. Devastation and destruction. Griffin said, “Don’t tell me you guys did this?”

  Dix gave him a ghost of a smile. “Nah. You should see his music room, all those beautiful antique guitars, the Steinway, all the music and books, smashed, ripped up.”

  “Where’s Salazar?”

  “No sign of him.”

  Griffin hadn’t once thought Salazar wouldn’t be here. “He ran?”

  “It’s difficult to tell, since his bedroom is as trashed as the rest of the house. His closet, too. Even the suitcases were torn open.”

  Ruth and Anna walked into the room. Ruth said, “Hi, Griffin. Can’t say I’m surprised to see you. You got any ideas what the people who did this were looking for?”

  Anna was speaking to two of Dix’s deputies behind her. She turned to him and couldn’t help the big smile from blooming. He looked to be fine, maybe a little stiff, maybe a little pain, but she knew he’d manage. “His car’s still in the garage, tires and spare slashed, seats ripped open, and glove box yanked out.”

  Griffin looked at each of them. “What do you guys think?”

  Anna said, “I called Mrs. Carlene, Salazar’s secretary. She told
me he’s late for a class and his cell phone isn’t working. I’m thinking it’s a falling-out of thieves and whoever did this believed Salazar was holding back something, so they took him and went to work to find whatever it was he wouldn’t hand over.”

  Dix said, “Maybe some of Salazar’s clients, some gang members, turned on him for some reason? Or is there a partner we don’t know about who thought Salazar was double-crossing him?” He dashed his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. “He could be anywhere by now.”

  Anna said, “Or maybe he’s dead.”

  Dix picked up the twisted remnants of a flute. “We’ll know soon enough. I gotta say, I didn’t expect this when we drove up.”

  “I expected Salazar to meet us at the front door, smoking one of those nasty cigarillos of his, all supercilious ennui, and wave us in,” Anna said.

  Griffin turned to her as she was speaking, but she was staring down at her scuffed boots, the same ones he’d seen her wearing last night when she’d applied pressure to his leg while he’d tried not to groan. He said, “Suppose it wasn’t a coincidence Salazar disappeared the same night we were attacked, Anna? It was a spectacular distraction. Made it easy for him.”

  “If that’s so,” Ruth said, “everything we’re seeing here could be a ruse, too, to cover his flight. He didn’t give us the chance to serve him, or to question him.”

  Anna was shaking her head. “I saw his music room, the destruction of his beautiful guitars. He wouldn’t do that. No, someone else did this.”

  Dix said, “Either way, Salazar is finished here. I doubt even his adoring students are going to clean this up for him.”

  Griffin said, “Has anyone spoken to Dr. Hayman?”

  Dix said, “After we searched I phoned him, asked him if he’d seen his brother. He said he hadn’t and that he was worried, since they were to have had coffee together this morning, and demanded to know what was going on. I told him only that his brother wasn’t here and his house was trashed. He was understandably very upset, but he said he couldn’t imagine who would do this. I told him we would find his brother and left it at that.” Dix paused a moment, then added, “I’m as sure as I can be that he knows nothing about any of this or his twin’s criminal activities.”

  Griffin was shaking his head. “Two brothers, admittedly not raised together, but how could one not know what the other is?”

  The Hoover Building

  Washington, D.C.

  Late Tuesday morning

  Savich made it back from the Harts’ to the Hoover Building in forty minutes. Traffic hadn’t slowed yet, though snow started to fall like a thin white veil as he drove. The forecasters had threatened more in a couple of hours, and he was glad to beat the worst of it. Ollie met him when he stepped into the CAU.

  “Did you question Mr. Sleeson?”

  Ollie nodded. “A retired gent with a beard down to his navel, really pissed, since he’d reported his precious SUV stolen on Sunday evening and hadn’t heard a word until I called him.

  “Unfortunately, he wasn’t any help, didn’t see who took it, didn’t hear a thing. You should know Delsey’s hopping mad, says she’s being kept prisoner in your house and it’s not fair. She’d have come with me to Maryland to talk with Mr. Sleeson if I’d let her. But not to worry. Coop had her under control when I left. Oh, yes, she tried to call her brother to complain, but couldn’t reach him. She might call you, but I think Coop will talk her out of it, get her going with his jokes.”

  “Thanks, Ollie. What else we got?”

  “Melissa Ivy has arrived. She’s in the interview room with Mr. Maitland.”

  “Good. I’m glad he was available. If he asks, tell him I’m in my office. I’ve got something important to take care of.”

  Savich went into his office and studied MAX’s screen. He smiled and called Dix.

  Dix answered on the third ring.

  “Noble here.”

  “Dix, Savich. I think we’re in business. Here’s what MAX found. There’s a thousand-acre parcel of hilly, undeveloped, essentially worthless land outside of Maestro. It was sold by a Mr. Weaver last summer for more than it was worth to a land trust. Not unusual so far, but MAX found the trust had no other domestic holdings, and was owned by an SFB Industries, which appears to be a front company owned by yet another corporation, American Colonial Trust, incorporated in the Cayman Islands. Things get murky here, but MAX found a welter of front companies owned by AZT. One of them is yet another finance company that’s under investigation for ties to the Lozano crime family, Salazar’s family.”

  Savich could practically see Dix’s manic grin. “Bingo, Savich. If it was Weaver’s, I know the parcel and so do you. There’s a limestone cave on it. Remember Winkel’s Cave and our hairy adventures?”

  Not pleasant memories, Savich thought. “Winkel’s Cave—there’s both a front and a back entrance on Lone Tree Hill. And the cave’s big, certainly big enough to house drugs and gang members.”

  Dix said, “We knew they had to go somewhere, but this is the perfect hideout. There’s nothing out that way, only an unused road in ruins and rough terrain. This is it, Savich, this has got to be it. I want you to buy MAX a beer.”

  Savich paused. “You guys be careful, Dix. These MS-13 gang members, they’re dangerous.”

  “I know,” Dix said. “Yes, I know. We will.”

  Savich was about to leave his office when Judy Garland sang out “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” He looked down at caller ID. Bo Horsley. He didn’t have time, he didn’t—no choice. He said, “Hi, Bo. You calling to tell me more about the Jewel of the Lion exhibit?”

  “The exhibit says it all without me heaping on praise. I wanted to tell you I’ve got you and Sherlock a lovely town house in Chelsea to stay in while you’re here. Friends of mine are heading for Paris for a couple of weeks—why not Tahiti, I wanted to ask them, since it’s February, but hey, their choice. You guys can come, right?”

  Savich said, “We haven’t had a chance to talk about it yet. We’re still trying to dig our way out of this mess down here—you said we were up to our necks in alligators, and you’re right, that’s the perfect way to put it.”

  “Well, let me add another draw. Not only am I trying to get my nephew Nicholas Drummond here—you remember, he’s the youngest muckety-muck at Scotland Yard? One of his colleagues, Detective Inspector Elaine York, is here in New York as the minder for the Crown Jewels, especially the Koh-i-Noor, since it’s the centerpiece of the entire exhibit. She’s one smart cookie, fun, and I think you’ll really like her. Best of all, she’s a vegetarian, Savich, a kindred spirit. Anyhow—”

  Savich looked up to see Mr. Maitland waving at him. He said quickly, “All good inducements, Bo, and thanks for setting up a house for us. I’ll get back to you, okay?”

  “You got it, boyo. Good hunting.”

  Savich left his office and walked toward the interview room where Peter and Stony had sat at the table with him only two days before. Mr. Maitland met him outside the door. “She’s a beautiful girl,” he said first thing, “with a story to tell. Hope you get the truth out of her, Savich. You know her better than I do.”

  Savich nodded, walked into the interview room, and closed the door behind him. Lucy Carlyle stood back against the wall, watching over her.

  Mr. Maitland was right, Savich thought. Melissa Ivy indeed looked beautiful this morning, the deadening shock in her eyes from a few hours before a thing of the past. Her face was no longer pale, her eyes no longer vague, and her long blond hair was glossy, falling sleek and wavy around her face. She wore eye shadow, a lovely shade of pale green that matched her sweater.

  “Ms. Ivy,” he said, nodded to Lucy, and sat down.

  “Agent Savich.”

  “I see you’re feeling better today. Glad you could come in so quickly after you called this morning. Director Maitland tells me you??
?re certain now you saw someone at Peter Biaggini’s apartment last night, though you told us then you hadn’t seen anyone. Tell me why this is.”

  She sat forward, clasping her hands in front of her. Even her manicure was fresh, her nails a soft pink. “I’m sorry, but last night, after I found Peter and then you came, I couldn’t think. All I could see was Peter and how horrible his head looked and so much blood everywhere. My mind wasn’t working.”

  That was the unvarnished truth. “I understand you remember someone now. Before you tell me, Ms. Ivy, I have some questions for you myself. Had you ever seen the gun that killed Peter before, the one on the floor? Had Peter, Stony, anyone, had it in their apartment, or mentioned a gun like that in your presence?”

  She shook her head, sending her hair swaying beside her face. “No, none of them had a gun. All they liked to talk about was computers, or economics or banking, computer games, sometimes, but never about guns.”

  “Did any of the three mention a camera at the Hart residence, a surveillance system, recordings of any kind?”

  “The Harts have that? You mean they watch you with hidden cameras?” At his nod, she said, “That’s creepy. I visited there a few times.” And he could see her thinking, wondering if she’d ever done anything she shouldn’t have while at the Hart house. “I don’t think any of them knew, maybe even Stony. At least he never mentioned it.”

  “Now tell me what you remember at Peter’s apartment last night.”

  He watched her swallow once, clasp her hands in front of her on the table. “When I arrived at Peter’s apartment building, I automatically went over to get Peter’s mail. He always forgot, and so he gave me a key and asked me to open his box and bring me his mail whenever I was over. I was standing by the row of mailboxes, sorting through some mail, when I heard someone coming down the stairs. I turned my head and saw this person all bundled up, out of breath from running down the stairs, I remember thinking, and then he walked out the front door. He didn’t look at me, maybe he didn’t even see me, he was in too much of a hurry. I watched him stop right outside the glass doors, like he was pulling himself together, and then he walked away. I lost sight of him. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, and I forgot him until I was in bed last night.”