Bombshell Part 22

The first impression Sherlock had on seeing Wakefield Hart was that he had the look of gravitas down cold. He was a good dresser, too, and he looked confident, in charge of his world. He also looked royally p.i.s.sed, and that gave her a warm glow.

He walked straight through the unit to Savich's office, ignored her, and planted a fist on Savich's desk. "Where is my son? What have you done with him?"

Sherlock noticed his voice was carefully modulated, a perfect blend of protectiveness and outrage. She wasn't surprised, because he was a public speaker now, relying for his bread on his audiences believing he was speaking to them from a redeemed heart, no matter how much he'd mucked about in the viper pit with the rest of the bankers, the unrepentant ones. Sherlock always found it fascinating that no matter how heinous the crime, some people with a knack for it-televangelists, politicians, financiers, whoever-had but to humble themselves and admit their wrongdoings before their flock to be granted forgiveness. She supposed anyone taking responsibility for a bad decision was so rare that forgiveness poured in, beginning with the media.

Savich didn't rise or answer him. He merely motioned Mr. Hart to a seat beside Sherlock. Hart sat, but it was obvious what he wanted to do was tell Savich he was a bully and a moron and he was going to get him fired.

Savich said in a deliberate, slow voice, "Though he denies it, Mr. Hart, your son may have uploaded the photo of Tommy Cronin's body onto the Internet using an anonymizer. Do you know what that is?"

"Not really, but I do know they have legitimate uses. And they're untraceable, aren't they? But who cares? Even if Stony uses them-"

Savich simply spoke over him. "He wasn't careful enough to keep us from finding him. When did he call you, Mr. Hart?"

"He called me from the bathroom here. He was crying." Hart senior was clearly disgusted. "He couldn't tell me anything except that your agents had seized his computers and he could lose his job and his career if you arrested him."

Sherlock said, "Mr. Hart, we try very hard not to harm people's lives when we bring them in to interview, even if they're not entirely up front with us."

"I told him not to admit to anything illegal. But he wouldn't lie, nor would he have any part of uploading Tommy's photo, he-" Hart jumped to his feet and paced Savich's office, a few short steps in each direction. "All right, very well. Let's say he did upload the photo. Who cares? It's not a crime. Perhaps he had reasons he can't tell you about. I demand you release my son to me or I'll speak to Director Mueller myself. Where is my son? What have you done with him?"

"He's on his way back to his apartment," Savich said. "Sit down, Mr. Hart." Savich's voice was deeper, and clipped. Hart gave him a look and sat.

"What will happen to my son because of this? Will his employers know? The press?"

Savich said, "Mr. Hart, did you know Tommy Cronin?"

"What? Of course. He was one of a small group of boys who've been friends since they were children. Tommy was in and out of my house for years."

"Tell us your impressions of Tommy Cronin, Mr. Hart."

Hart paused. "Tommy was a smart boy, a bit conceited, actually, because of who his grandfather was-understandable, I guess. A tragedy he was killed. Wait, what does this have to do with your persecution of my son?"

"And what about Peter Biaggini?"

No hesitation: "A right proper little s.h.i.te."

Savich said, "How would you describe your son's relationship with Peter Biaggini?"

They saw it: Hart wanted to snarl and curse, not at them, but at Peter, but he got hold of himself. "What does- All right, Peter is a leader, always has been. My son is not. It sometimes seemed when they were growing up that if Peter had told him to eat oatmeal he'd have dived into a tub of the stuff and eaten his way out. And Stony hates oatmeal."

"Did you think Peter may have asked your son to upload that photo of Tommy?"

Hart cursed under his breath. "That sniveling little-"

Sherlock wondered who he was talking about, his son or Peter Biaggini. Hart plowed his fingers through his beautifully styled black hair with its glossy wings of silver at his temples. "I'm not surprised, but Stony would never do something so despicable unless he had a good reason. No, there's no way he would. I mean, what reason could he have? Maybe you're right. Maybe it's on Peter's head. Maybe he uploaded the photo." There was more he would have said. Both Savich and Sherlock saw it, but he held back.

Savich said, "We'll be talking to Stony again, and to Peter as well."

"Yes, you do that. It's obvious my son had nothing to do with Tommy Cronin's death." Now he let contempt and anger flow out. "I've noticed on every TV station that Tommy has achieved sainthood-crackerjack student at Magdalene, brilliant mind, well liked by his peers, a bright future-well, that's quite an appealing story, isn't it? What about my boy-is he going to be cast as the villain now?" His cell rang. Hart ignored it, but then he looked down. "Excuse me." He rose and walked to the door of Savich's office. They heard his impatient voice, then he punched off his cell and turned back to them. "That was my son. He is-distraught." Hart turned on his heel and walked out of the CAU, not another word.

Savich said, "I wonder what else Mr. Hart was going to say about Tommy Cronin."

Sherlock rose. "You know, it's the oddest thing, but I got the impression that Mr. Hart was relieved about something."

"That we didn't arrest his son?"

"No, something else."

"We'll never find out from Hart Senior. My money's on Stony telling us."

Bud Bailey's B&B

Maestro, Virginia

Sunday afternoon

Griffin punched off his cell. "That was Savich. The DEA is stonewalling us. They say the dead man's ID and what he was doing here in Maestro is part of an investigation that's too sensitive to discuss. They told Savich to keep even that information under his hat." He paused, shook his head. "Amazing, isn't it? All of us are supposed to be working together."

Dix snorted. "It doesn't make much sense to me, either, Griffin. I mean, their agent is dead; the drug dealers he was after know that we know. I'm the freaking law; why won't they trust us?"

Griffin said matter-of-factly, "The DEA couldn't deny outright he was their agent; we already knew that, thanks to Savich. He didn't have a shield or any ID, so we know he was undercover. If they're holding us off and they're not here in force, their operation is still in play. They've got to have at least one more undercover agent here in Maestro they don't want to put at risk."

Dix said, "Makes sense. But who? No new faces in town or I'd have noticed."

Griffin suddenly knew exactly who the other undercover DEA agent was. "Dix, could you leave a deputy here to guard Delsey? I've got to speak to someone, and I don't want to wake her up and haul her with me. She needs to rest."

Dix gave him a long look. "You want to discuss anything with me, Griffin? Like who this person is you need to speak to, for example?"

"Not yet. I'll tell you as soon as I'm sure."

"You're FBI; why should I be surprised? You're mad at the DEA one minute, and the next minute you're as tight-lipped with me as all the Federales." Dix would have busted more chops, but he saw something in Griffin Hammersmith's face and realized he was really serious about this. So be it, he'd give Griffin a few hours to sniff out what he needed to.

After Griffin saw Deputy Penny Loomis settled down in the charming early-American living room of Bud Bailey's only two-bedroom suite, he headed for Wolf Trap Road, his cell's GPS and its sweet female voice guiding his way.

The bright sun had melted most of the ice and was pockmarking the snow, leaving slush wherever humans drove and walked. Griffin found the small, detached 1950s cottage ten minutes later, set back from the street in the middle of a beautiful snow-filled yard. The sun glistened off the oak and maple trees, and clumps of snow occasionally thudded to the ground.

It was picture-postcard perfect.

The only sign of human habitation was the small dark blue Kia Rio, fresh tire tracks in the driveway and the double set of footsteps on the snow-covered sidewalk to the front door.