Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) (17 page)

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 teenager 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.”

Sherlock said. “So no pancakes?”

“Oh, no,” Melissa said. “I’ve got to watch my figure.”

“You said Peter spent the night?”

Her mouth opened, then snapped closed.

Savich said, “Peter told us how he tore up the sheets Friday night with you.”

They watched Melissa dart a look at Savich’s cell recording every word and thought she would scream. But she held herself perfectly still instead and drew several deep breaths. She said finally, “I know you probably won’t believe me, but I’m not lying. I really don’t remember.”

Sherlock said, “The way Peter tells it, he might never forget Friday. But you say you don’t remember?”

“I had too much to drink. I don’t usually drink more than a glass or two of wine, I really don’t, I swear.”

“Was that when you came back to your apartment Friday night?” Savich asked her.

She gave him that marvelous blink again, very effective, the way her lashes swept over her eyes. “Well, we had some wine at dinner, too. Peter brought a lovely chardonnay with him from Frog’s Leap Vineyards in Napa Valley. He made a big deal out of it, told me it was the best he’d found, that he’d been saving it for me, for us together.”

“Did the wine taste good to you?” Sherlock asked her.

“I thought it tasted only so-so, but Peter was so excited, I lied and told him I really liked it, and he poured more into my glass. I guess the second and third glasses were too much for me.

“It was weird, though. Even if I ever happened to drink more than I should, I’ve never had a hangover. But when I woke up Saturday morning, I did. My head really hurt. Peter brought me a cup of coffee and some aspirin, told me how sorry he was that his wine had made me feel bad. Please don’t tell my parents.”

“But you felt well enough to fix Peter breakfast? One yolk?”

Melissa smiled. “The aspirin helped.”

And Sherlock wondered: Had Peter drugged her wine? She considered asking Melissa’s permission for a blood test, but decided not to risk it as long as Melissa was answering their questions. Instead, Sherlock asked, “Did Peter call you this afternoon after we spoke with him at the Hoover Building, Ms. Ivy?”

Melissa nodded, and Sherlock was pleased she didn’t lie. “He was very angry, said he was glad we were together that night. I can’t believe you really suspect Peter of killing poor Tommy.”

“We haven’t charged him with any crime at all, Ms. Ivy,” Sherlock said. “We’re simply establishing where Tommy and all his friends were on Friday night.”

“Tell us about your visit with Tommy to his grandparents’ on Thanksgiving,” Savich said.

“Oh goodness, was that ever something. Do you know they had a chef prepare the dinner? It was amazing.”

Savich, who knew she’d been raised in Kentucky by two barely middle-class parents, also knew she’d probably been blown away that day. There was something else, too—it was envy, and it was clear in her young voice.

“But he didn’t take you back to their home on Christmas Eve?”

“By that time we weren’t nearly as good friends anymore.”

Now, why was that?
Sherlock said, “Tommy’s grandparents spoke of you, Ms. Ivy.”

Sherlock paused, stared closely to see Melissa’s thoughts were written clearly on her beautiful face.
Of course they’d talk about me, I’m beautiful and not a stuck-up debutante like they expected.

“They were very nice to me,” Melissa said, “and Thanksgiving was very nice, too, but it was only one afternoon. Why would they talk about me to you?”

Savich cut in. “They told us you were using Tommy, Ms. Ivy, to gain entrance into their world, that you’d searched him out because you knew who he was. They even saw you writing in your notebook. They thought you were a social climber who was seeing Tommy because you knew Mr. Cronin was famous and had money and a lot of very important friends.”

“Not anymore he doesn’t, not for a long time now,” came out of Melissa’s mouth before she could stop herself, but it was too late, her words hung stark and mean in the silent air. She said, “Oh, I really didn’t mean that. Really, Tommy and I were only dating, we were friends, and they were nice to me. I wonder if they misunderstood, saw more to it than that because they’re older. I mean, how could they have seen the notebook when I didn’t have one?” And her lashes swept down again to excellent effect. When she raised her head again, she looked trusting, honest, guileless.

“They saw you and Tommy kissing, Ms. Ivy,” Sherlock said, speaking in perfect rhythm with Dillon, “more than a friendly kiss, an all-out French deal, and it bothered them. I know that sounds prudish, but the Cronins are of a different generation.”

She watched Melissa’s lovely mouth quiver, then firm up. “So I kissed Tommy. It was a thank-you kiss, really, nothing more. I thought they liked me.” The wistfulness in her voice was well done.

“But you knew they didn’t like you because they told Tommy they didn’t want him to bring you to their house Christmas Eve,” Sherlock said. “Did it bother you to find out they were merely being polite to a girl they believed was an opportunistic gold digger?”

“They should have liked me, because I’m not an opportunist. I’m a good student, I study hard, and I have lots of friends, too, more than that evil, crooked old man!”

Savich said, “So what did you and Tommy do on Christmas Eve?”

“We had our own private Christmas. Tommy said he’d drop by his aunt’s house in Potomac Village on Christmas Day, then he’d come right back to me, and he did.”

Sherlock picked it up. “Did Tommy give you those lovely pearl earrings?”

Melissa’s fingers touched one exquisite pearl drop. She wanted to say no, but realized it wouldn’t be smart, saw it in Sherlock’s eyes. Melissa cleared her throat. “Yes. They’re beautiful, aren’t they? I’m wearing them today to honor Tommy. There’s nothing more I can do, is there? It’s all so horrible.”

“Why did you break up with Tommy?” Savich asked.

Melissa looked down at her UGGs, then shrugged. “We just sort of drifted apart, but I still really liked him.”

“You call it drifting in only three weeks?”

“Well, yes, sort of, I guess.”

Sherlock said, “All right. Did you do most of the drifting or did Tommy?”

“Well, I suppose I was the one to break it off.”

“Was Tommy upset about this?” Sherlock asked her.

“No, I don’t think so, not really.”

“Was Tommy upset when you hooked up with Peter, one of his best friends?” Sherlock asked her.

“He never said he was. I think he was ready to date someone else, too.” She was lying on that one, Sherlock thought, but let it go for the moment.

“I find that odd, Ms. Ivy,” Savich said. “He took you to meet his grandparents on Thanksgiving and he wanted you to be with his family on Christmas. It doesn’t sound to me like he wanted to drift at all, like the furthest thing from his mind was to date another girl. It sounds like Tommy was very serious in his feelings for you; maybe he was in love with you.”

“No, Tommy didn’t love me. I mean, we only dated, and he was very sweet, but—”

“Was Peter upset that you’d been with one of his friends, Ms. Ivy?” Savich asked.

“Oh, no, Peter always knew Tommy and I were only friends.” She stared straight at Savich as she spoke, and he could feel the pull to believe her.

“But you didn’t hook up with Peter until after you broke up with Tommy?” Savich asked.

“No, of course not.” Big nose on that one. Sherlock leaned toward her, sympathy brimming. “I’ll bet you were very concerned that your turning to Peter might affect their friendship.”

“Yes, of course, but I don’t think it did. I mean, they’ve known each other forever.”

Savich asked abruptly, “Where are you from, Ms. Ivy?”

“From Cincinnati—well, from a suburb on the Kentucky side.”

“Are your parents paying your tuition at George Washington? Are they paying for your apartment?”

“No. My dad lost his job and all his money after the banking crash. He and my mom lost their house last year. I have to work, Agent Savich, to pay my tuition at GW.” He saw she finally realized where he was going, and added quickly, “I waitress over in Foggy Bottom. A lot of lobbyists and politicians. I get really big tips.”

Savich said, “Ms. Ivy, your income from your part-time waitressing brings in about half what it costs to pay the rent on your apartment. Then there’s your tuition, food, those new UGGs on your feet. Did Tommy help you out with rent money, with your bills?”