Bombshell Part 40

"Let's see what Melissa knows," Savich said.

Melissa Ivy was rocking back and forth on the expensive burgundy leather sofa, her beautiful face slack, her eyes vague, unfocused. A female officer held a cup of no doubt very sweet tea in her hand, encouraging her to drink, then holding the cup to her mouth as she sipped, all the while speaking quietly to her, telling her to breathe.

Melissa was wrapped up in two afghans that looked to be hand-knitted, Sherlock thought, probably by Peter's mother. It was odd that she was sitting in a living room as modern as Wakefield Hart's house in Tunney Wells.

The female officer moved aside, and Savich sat beside Melissa, took her limp hand. "Melissa? Do you remember you called me? I'm Agent Savich. I need to speak with you, all right? I need your help."

There was no sign of life from Melissa, not a sound, not a blink, only her relentless rocking back and forth. It always surprised him at how quickly shock could leach the life out of a person. Even Melissa's hair looked dull under the cold light of the fluorescent lamps scattered around the living room.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa on Melissa's other side, slipped her hand beneath the brilliant blue afghan, and lightly stroked her forearm. "Someone killed Peter, Melissa. Do you know who it was?"

Melissa slowly turned her head to look at Sherlock, looked through her, really, Sherlock thought. "Did you see someone, Melissa? We want to catch the person who killed Peter. Can you help us?"

Melissa licked her lips, leaned toward Sherlock, and whispered, "I didn't know who you were until yesterday. Isn't that strange? And now you're stroking my arm because Peter's dead. Three days-Tommy and Peter are both dead. Stony, too. How can that be?"

"Talk to me, Melissa. Did you see anyone? Hear Peter speak to anyone?"

Her voice was so thin Sherlock imagined she could see through it. "I talked to Janelle, Stony's girlfriend. It was horrible she found Stony's body. Just like I found Peter."

"Yes, I know."

"I wanted her to know how sorry I was. She ... she couldn't stop crying. She was waiting for her parents to drive in from Delaware to take her home." She turned deadened eyes to Sherlock. "There isn't anyone for me to go home to."

"Do you want me to call your folks?"

"No, they're in Kentucky, and they really wouldn't want to come here. Do you know, I was thinking that Peter probably did drug me, even if he wasn't using me for an alibi. I didn't tell you, but I was real sore Sat.u.r.day morning, like he'd done things to me he shouldn't have. Peter was like that; he was cruel, he used people. Peter didn't love me, not like Tommy did."

Her voice fell into a pit. She lowered her face in her hands, but she didn't cry.

Sherlock met Dillon's eyes over Melissa's head. His eyes were cold and flat, but he didn't know what to say to this girl who'd gotten together with the wrong boy, a boy craven enough to give his girlfriend a roofie in her wine. In their first meeting with her, she'd lied through her perfect white teeth, but not now, she was too shocked, too strung out. She was only twenty years old, young enough to have believed even a week ago the world's doors would be flung open for her. She was beautiful enough, surely, to attract boys with money to help her with her bills and tuition. But she'd never counted on a Peter Biaggini, and now her world was in tatters. She would have nightmares for a very long time, maybe for the rest of her life.

Sherlock pulled Melissa into her arms and rocked her. Still, Melissa didn't weep, didn't move. Sherlock stroked her long, straight hair, then said against her cheek, "Why did you come over to Peter's apartment, Melissa?"

Silence, then a whisper: "He begged me to come over, said he needed me. I thought he wanted to apologize after our fight yesterday, wanted to make up. Now I'll never know what he wanted to say to me."

Sherlock said, "Let's go back a minute. You spent much of Sat.u.r.day with Peter because both you and he were upset about Tommy?"

"I think I was more upset than Peter was. He was quiet for a long time on Sat.u.r.day, like he had a lot on his mind, like he was really worried rather than sad, or maybe he was scared of something."

Sherlock said, "Did you ask him what was wrong? If he was scared and why?"

"He wouldn't tell me anything. I started crying, not about how cold he was being, but about Tommy. I told Peter Tommy had really been a nice guy, and Peter gave this ugly laugh and said I was wrong about that. He said Tommy was no saint.

"That was so weird, and I asked him why he'd say that, now that Tommy was dead, but he wouldn't tell me. Then he got this look on his face like he'd come to some decision, nodding and talking to himself. He acted nervous, jumpy, you know what I mean?"

"You don't know what he was nervous about?"

Melissa shook her head. "Since he was being such a jerk, I left. The snow had lightened up, so I hooked a ride on a motorcycle."

"Did you see Peter yesterday?"

She nodded. "He called me after you interviewed him and his dad. He sounded really pleased with himself, said how he rubbed your noses in it since we were together in Georgetown Friday night, at that gallery."

Savich said, "Do you know if he spoke to Stony yesterday?"

"I don't know." She raised her eyes to Savich's face. "Stony killed himself. Why did he kill himself? I don't understand it. All three of them are dead, just dead. Why?"

"We have to find out," Sherlock said. "Melissa, what exactly did you and Peter fight about last night before you went to the rave with Janelle?"

"I finally accused him of drugging my wine. He denied it, of course, grinned at me. Do you know he said I should have some more of that wine, since it made me so wild? He thought he had the right, you know? Because he was helping me pay some bills. He didn't have the right."

"No, he didn't," Sherlock said. "No one has that right."

Savich said, "You got here at what time, Melissa?"

She blinked at him, as if she couldn't quite understand what he'd said. She looked at Sherlock, who said, "Was it about nine o'clock when you knocked on his door?"

"Closer to nine-fifteen, maybe."

Sherlock said. "Now, Melissa, I want you to think about when you arrived here at the apartment building tonight. Did you see anyone you didn't recognize? Maybe someone running or walking very quickly here in the building or outside when you drove up?"

She paused to think, and that was good, Savich thought; she was focusing her brain. Finally, she shook her head. "No, I didn't see anybody."

Savich brought up hypnosis. Melissa said, "Do you think I could really remember more?"

"Yes," he said, "I do."

"Then I'll think about it, I promise, Agent Savich," she said, and turned back to stare down at her pink UGGs.

Maestro, Virginia

Monday evening

Rolling clouds scuttled over the black sky again, threatening snow before morning. It was only nine o'clock, but already the temperature had dived so low it was too cold to breathe comfortably without a wool scarf covering your mouth.

Griffin looked at Anna's taillights, a couple dozen feet ahead. It seemed they were the only two people on the winding roads in Maestro. He knew she didn't want to go back to her cottage, since she'd packed and locked her duffel in the trunk, but she hadn't found Monk and she'd looked in all his hiding places. They'd find Monk together. When she'd said it was her fault because she'd spooked the cat, acted like a madwoman, he got in her face and told her not to be an idiot. He took her seriously when she'd told him if anyone at the B&B said anything about pets, she'd draw her gun and shoot them.

She hadn't wanted to have dinner at the n.o.bles' house, but Griffin had known she needed the distraction, needed contact with the real world again. He'd talked about Dix's barbecued ribs and potato salad and Ruth's green salad she always made for show until he'd swear Anna was salivating.