Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) (13 page)

She went on to tell them of how thoughtful Tommy Cronin had been to her and his sisters, until Melissa Ivy had come into his life.

“Do you know what Tommy’s aspirations were, Ms. Lodge?”

“He was already studying banking and finance, like his father and grandfather, and he was ambitious, too, like both of them. He joked about running Deutsche Bank by the time he was thirty.

“He spoke German after spending a year in Cologne. He had an internship at the Deutsche Bank Washington office this past summer. He wanted a chance to work directly at the Deutsche Bank Frankfurt headquarters.” Her voice hitched, and her hand clutched the coffee cup.

Sherlock gave Marian a moment to collect herself. “The Cronins mentioned a Stony Hart.”

“Stony’s was Tommy’s other main friend, and the oldest of the three of them. As I told you, they’ve all been friends since childhood. I think Stony was Tommy’s very best friend. His dad, Wakefield Hart, was a big deal in investment banking, and that’s how Stony and Tommy met, through Tommy’s grandfather Palmer.

“I remember my sister, Barbara, telling me that Stony’s father, Wakefield, had hung on every word out of Palmer Cronin’s mouth when he was Chairman of the Fed. I don’t know what Palmer thought about the man when Hart had to resign his job at Fannie Mae along with most of their senior executives when they were caught cooking the books. Wouldn’t it be something if even one of those yahoos had the honesty to apologize for what they did?

“Anyway, it was something Tommy and Stony shared, dominant fathers who were bankers, burned by their own greed. I think they both wanted a chance to do better.”

Savich and Sherlock met Tommy’s two sisters, Marla and Joanie, on their way out. The girls seemed as blank and frightened as Marian Lodge said they were. It was not the time to talk with them. Savich arranged for an agent to stay with them, since they were also grandchildren of Palmer Cronin’s.

Their last view of Marian Lodge was of her holding the sisters against her, her cheek pressed against Joanie’s head.

They’d just pulled back into Rock Creek Court when Jimmy Maitland called to tell them Spooner had found the computer used to post the photo of Tommy’s body at the Lincoln Memorial.

The Hoover Building

Sunday afternoon

Agent Lucy Carlyle gave Savich and Sherlock a big smile as they walked into the CAU. “You’ll love this. Walter Hart—Stony—opened his apartment door, took one look at our creds stuck in his face, and turned white as Coop’s boxers. First thing out of his mouth was “I didn’t do anything illegal.”

Coop laughed. “Talk about an open book; his face was a lovely mixture of guilt and fear. I asked him what he did do, and he said,
Nothing, I didn’t do anything.
Who could forget a classic like that? I gave him my
nailed you
look, told him we had a warrant to seize his computers and routers and that he was coming with us to the Hoover Building. He hemmed and hawed until I told him we’d arrest him if we had to. I patted him down while Lucy slapped cuffs on him. He said his girlfriend, Janelle Eckles, was coming to see him, and could he at least call her? We said no.

“He was nearly in tears he was so scared. He kept babbling in the backseat about how everything he had on his computer was legal, or if it wasn’t, it should be, and why wouldn’t we tell him what he’d supposedly done? We ignored him, told him you’d be answering his questions. Made you and Sherlock sound as mean as The Hulk on a green day and his sidekick Cruella, who scared him even more.

“Good. You’ve got him all set up,” Savich said. “You got a background check yet?”

“So far, not much more than a Google search. His name is Walter Hart, goes by Stony. His apartment is right off Dupont Circle. He really is a computer nerd, had quite a setup in his apartment, several boxes and monitors. He graduated with honors last year from MIT, started work after that as a junior securities analyst at the UBS office here in D.C. Just started to make a name for himself, I would guess. Spooner says he’s got the IP address dead to rights. There’s no chance he’s wrong. It was the kid’s computer.”

Savich said, “At least we know now this wasn’t a domestic terrorist act committed by some disenfranchised victim of the banking scandal.”

“Nope,” Sherlock said. “What we’ve got is something very close to home. Where is Stony, Coop?”

“We stashed him inside the interview room, where he’s been sitting by himself. I took him to the men’s room a little while ago. Strangest thing, he acted scared, of me, yes, but it was more. He seemed terrified, as if his life was over and someone was going to come up to his urinal and pop him. For uploading that photo on YouTube or because he’d gotten caught? He asked me if he should get a lawyer, and I said he should talk to you about it. Then I left him alone to do his business, because, frankly, he was too scared to get it done. I marched him back to the interview room and left him snuffling into his shirtsleeve.”

Sherlock said, “You want to hear something interesting? It turns out Stony and Tommy Cronin and Peter Biaggini have known each other all their lives. We know that Stony and Tommy were best friends.”

Lucy went nearly bug-eyed. “You’ve got to be kidding. I mean, he uploaded a photo of his murdered
friend
? But that would make him—what? The murderer? At least an accomplice?”

Coop shook his head. “I don’t see him murdering Tommy Cronin.”

“Why?” Savich asked him.

Coop was thoughtful for a moment. “He doesn’t have the fire in the belly for it—he’s a nice kid, Savich, that’s the long and short of it.”

Lucy said, “But he was willing to upload the photo of a dead friend, which means if he didn’t kill Tommy, he has to know who did. That’s pretty slimy.”

“We’re about to see,” Savich said. “Why don’t you guys come in and stand against the wall looking grim while Sherlock and I speak with Stony. From what you say, he responds to that.”

Coop grinned. “I like the Gestapo look—arms crossed over the chest, eyes mean and slitted.”

Lucy poked him in the ribs. “Good thing you took him to the bathroom, Coop.”

Savich and Sherlock walked down the hallway to the interview room, Coop and Lucy behind them. They paused to listen at the door, then Savich unlocked it and went in. Savich could practically see waves of despair rolling off Stony Hart. Coop was right, whatever else this young man was, he wasn’t a murderer. But then what was he? Given what he’d done, it was hard to believe he was really Tommy Cronin’s best friend.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hart. Everyone calls you Stony, right?”

The young man’s eyes met theirs and froze like a deer in the headlights. He looked terrified down to his pocket protector, and painfully young, though Savich knew he’d turned twenty-three last week. His eyes slid to Coop and Lucy, standing with their backs against the door, ready to leap on him. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and managed a hoarse whisper, “Yes, I’m Stony. I already told those agents I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t call a lawyer because I’m not a criminal, and I understand I haven’t been arrested. It’s very important if I’m going to keep my job that I not be arrested.”

Savich said, “You’re not a criminal? I’m glad to hear it, because that means you’ll tell us the truth.” Savich leaned in close. “I always know when someone is lying to me, Stony, always, so save us all time and don’t try it. I want you to tell us what you meant when you told these agents you didn’t do anything illegal. What is it you did, exactly?”

“Look. You took all my computers, though I don’t see how you have the right. Sure, I have some file-sharing stuff—music and videos, mostly—and that might not be strictly legal, but they can sue me, can’t they? Some of it’s a little embarrassing, maybe. But I don’t have a clue why you brought me here like this”—he swallowed—“in handcuffs.” His eyes darted to where Lucy had left the handcuffs on the edge of the table.

Savich asked, “So is that why you use anonymizers? So you won’t be embarrassed?”

“Sure, I have the software to do that. It’s the best, I vetted it myself, even made adjustments to make it better. It’s best to have the option of keeping out of sight on the Internet. Sometimes I cruise underground sites in China, Iran, and no one ever knows who I am. Why do you care about my anonymizer? What do you think I’ve done?”

Savich backed off, let him wait. “Tell me first, how’d you get the nickname Stony?”

Stony flexed and unflexed his fingers. “What? You want to know that? My mom and dad said I kept looking at stones when I was a kid; I had kind of a compulsion that way, had to see what was under every rock. Now I’m an adult I see it has a different meaning, but I’m still Stony. My folks thought it was funny. My friends picked it up from my folks. Look, I tried to get past some firewalls, but nothing dangerous—” His face drained of what color was left. “No, I mean, nothing illegal. Just fooling around.”

Sherlock said, “Then why don’t you tell us why you used your anonymizer to upload the photo of your best friend’s dead body on YouTube.”

Stony sputtered, put his face in his hands, and shook his head back and forth. “What are you talking about? This is about Tommy? That photo? You think I did that? No, never, it was horrible.”

Savich leaned forward. “The thing is, Stony, the commercial proxy you used is secure enough, highly sophisticated with your tweaks, but not for someone committing a cybercrime linked to what might be an act of terrorism.”

“That would be impossible with my software, Agent Savich. You’d seriously have no way.”

“The NSA has access to more of those servers than you’ll ever know. We nailed you, Stony. We can prove the photo was sent from one of your computers.”

Stony Hart sat frozen, his eyes fixed, still shaking his head back and forth. “One of my computers? No, that’s not possible, it’s not.”

Sherlock said, “We know Tommy was dropped from a great height, and not at the Lincoln Memorial. Whoever took that picture probably carried him there and arranged him at Lincoln’s feet for a public display. Was it you?”

“No! I couldn’t do that; I wouldn’t.”

Now, that’s the truth,
Savich thought. “But you know who did? You posted that picture for someone else, didn’t you?”

Stony put his face in his hands and began to sob.

Savich sat forward, grabbed Stony’s bony wrist, hauled him close. “Stop crying; it only makes me mad. We’ve got you cold, Stony, so you might as well own up to the contemptible thing you did, posting that picture. Stop being a pitiful coward. If you don’t tell us exactly what you know, that makes you the murderer’s accomplice. You could spend the rest of your life in jail.”

Stony nearly rose straight out of his chair. “Listen, I couldn’t believe Tommy was dead, couldn’t believe someone would kill him and put him in the Lincoln Memorial. It was horrible. I’m not a monster, I’m not! I would never post that photo, not for anyone. You’ve got to believe me, I don’t know anything about it. I want my dad. I want a lawyer.”

Savich drummed his fingertips on the table. “I doubt Wakefield Hart or a lawyer can help you, unless you tell us what we want to know.”

“How do you know my dad’s name?”

“There’s no hiding anything from us,” Savich said, his eyes hard, “even what you did on your supposedly foolproof anonymizer software. It’s about time you realized that.”

“No, no, listen, I told you, I don’t know anything about it. And my dad, he’s smart, and he knows people, important people, people who could stop you from saying these things to me. Where is he?”

“Your dad might as well crawl on the ground and root up worms,” Sherlock said. “What are you trying to do, moron, make us madder with your silly mean-daddy threats?”

Savich turned to look at Lucy and Coop. “Stony’s right about his dad being smart. Did you guys know daddy—Wakefield Hart—makes his money by giving speeches now, blasting Palmer Cronin for ‘facilitating’ the banking crisis when he was the chairman of the Fed? Quite an accusation for Wakefield to make, especially since he was one of the major players in the screw-the-world game while it lasted. Are you proud of your dad, Stony?”

Wakefield Hart’s son stuck his chin in the air. “Hey, I am proud of him. Sure he made some mistakes, but it was business, and there were a lot of events no one anticipated.” Stony fell silent, stared at them.

Sherlock said, “Yeah, yeah, I see. How can it be wrong if everyone’s doing it, is that your dad’s defense? It helps if you’ve got no moral compass, and I’d say that’s a profound lesson for a son to learn at his daddy’s knee. I got the impression from the Cronin family that you’re not like that, and neither was Tommy. Are we wrong? Is that why you didn’t flinch at uploading a photo of your brutally murdered friend on YouTube? That you were involved in killing him?”

“You’ve got to believe me. I don’t know anything about it, I swear.”

“Then why did you try to hide behind an anonymizer?”

Sherlock stood, learned over the table, and got right in his face. “Why did you do it, Stony? What did Tommy ever do to you to make you hate him so much? To humiliate him even in death?”

Stony sat frozen.

“You’ve got to believe me. I wouldn’t do that. I loved Tommy. I can’t believe he’s dead, just can’t believe it. I mean, why? And you think I’d upload that horrible photo?” At their stone-cold faces, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slid out of his chair and landed in a heap on the interview room floor.

Savich and Coop hauled him up, sat him back down in the chair. Savich slapped his face until his eyelashes fluttered and he opened his eyes.

“Better now?” Sherlock asked him. She poured him a glass of water, and he studied it closely but didn’t drink.

“All right, Stony,” Sherlock said, “if you didn’t upload that photo from your computer, that means somebody else did. Where were you Friday night and Saturday morning?”

“I spent the night with my girlfriend, Janelle Eckles. We met three and a half weeks ago. She works at State.”

Savich said, “Who could have had access to your computers, or used your IP address?”

“Anyone, if they were in my apartment and knew how. Or someone could have hacked through my router, I guess.”

Sherlock asked, “And who could that be?”

“I know a lot of people—at work, from school, friends—though I’m better at it than most of them.”

Savich said, “Let’s begin with a friend. How about Peter Biaggini? Did he have an apartment key, know your passwords?”

“Peter doesn’t have a key, and yes, he may know some of my passwords. I’m not that careful with them.”

“Have you ever known Peter to be involved with anything illegal?”

Stony thought about this. “Only teenage stuff, a long time ago. When he was in the eighth grade, he wanted me to ruin another kid’s science project so he would win. I told him I wouldn’t do it, so he slashed my mom’s tires. It was her new car, a Prius, and she loved driving it around. He denied it, but I knew. When we were growing up, Peter made sure we all knew there’d be payback if we didn’t do what he wanted.”

“And now?”

“We’re grown up now; it’s not like that.”

“You deny you posted Tommy’s photo. Did anyone else ask you to post it for him? Like Peter?”

“No, no, I swear.” Stony shook his head. “It’s all so terrible,” he said, and he lowered his face into his hands again.

Savich said, “You may go, Stony.”

Stony’s face jerked up, hope blooming bright through the tearstains on his face. “Really? You’re not going to arrest me?”

“Not at the moment,” Sherlock said, her eyes on Dillon, “but we’ll be talking again. And if you’ve lied to us, you’re in more trouble than you know.”

Savich handed Stony a card. “If you find anything or think of anything that could help, call me. I’m sorry you lost your friend, Stony. We’re keeping your computers for the time being. I’m calling a guard to take you home.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Savich said, “I suggest you don’t speak with anyone else who might be involved in this, including Peter Biaggini, all right?”

“But how can anyone I know have done this? I mean, we’re all friends, especially Peter, now that Tommy’s gone. Well, sometimes Peter—well, he likes to run the herd, that’s what he calls his friends, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with this.” He paused, shook his head, and went silent.

Sherlock leaned in close to him. “What do you want to say, Stony? Is it about Peter?”

Stony’s face was white and set. “No. I don’t know how or why Tommy was murdered, why anyone used my computer to upload that photo. I didn’t mean anything in particular. Really.”

Stony looked up at the guard who came to escort him out of the Hoover Building, then he looked down at his sneakered feet and never looked up again; he was misery walking.

Coop said, “Whatever it is Stony’s not telling us, the kid’s going to live with this for a lifetime.”

Lucy said, “Why wouldn’t he tell us what he was thinking? Was it about Peter?”

Coop said, “Or maybe he’s protecting someone else. Someone close.”

Savich said, “We’ll speak to him again after he’s had time to think things over. Right now I want to speak to Peter Biaggini and his father. I’ve got this feeling we’ll get more out of them if they’re together.” Savich called Ben Raven, WPD, and asked him to send two uniforms to pick up Peter Biaggini and bring him to the FBI building in the oldest squad car he had. “Shake him up a little, too, this leader of the herd. I want him cuffed if he gives your officers any lip, and sitting behind the wire mesh, smelling that old car.”

Savich telephoned Mr. Biaggini from his office, asked him to come to the Hoover Building to speak to them about Tommy Cronin’s murder. Mr. Biaggini wasn’t happy, couldn’t understand why they would want to speak to him, but agreed. Yes, he would be there in an hour.

Not a minute later, Savich’s cell sang out “Sweet Home, Alabama.” When he punched off his cell, he said, “Stony’s dad is here. Mr. Wakefield Hart, in the flesh.”