Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) (18 page)

She wanted to say no—it hovered—but again, she proved she wasn’t stupid. She stuck up her chin. “Yes, he did, because he knew I couldn’t pay all my tuition last September and he offered to help me out. As I told you, Tommy was my friend. He knew I’d pay him back.”

Savich said, “When exactly did you stop seeing Tommy and start up with Peter Biaggini?”

“Weeks ago, really, right after Christmas.”

“And Peter then took over Tommy’s assistance with your bills?”

“No! Well—a little bit.”

Savich said, “You’ve been making healthy cash deposits since around the first of the year, right? All from Peter?”

She hadn’t expected that question and stumbled out a reply. “What of it? Peter’s a really nice guy—”

And you’re so beautiful you drop boys in their tracks at twenty feet, a perfect damsel in distress.
“Like Tommy?” Sherlock asked. “How many other boys have helped you out since you arrived in Washington, Ms. Ivy?”

“I know you’re federal officers, but you shouldn’t be able to look at my bank account. It’s not right. It’s none of your business how much money my friends lend me.”

“I agree,” Savich said, rising. “A cop would never do that without a warrant.”

She looked at him, realized she’d emptied her bucket without a whimper and looked furious. She jumped to her feet. “I didn’t have anything to do with Tommy’s awful murder, I didn’t! Peter said you’d come here and threaten me, but I couldn’t imagine why you would. Peter was with me, he really was. Yes, I remember now, we did make love. He didn’t snore; he never does. He didn’t have anything to do with Tommy’s death; he didn’t.”

Sherlock said, “Ms. Ivy, I really hope you’re not lying to us. But I’ve got to tell you, I do wonder if you’re telling us the whole truth about Friday night. I’d hate to see you in a federal penitentiary for a couple of years. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”

“I’m not lying; I’m not.”

Sherlock smiled. “I think you might do very well in TV someday if you guard your reputation, your looks. Oh, yes, if you’re not lying, then I suggest you be careful around Peter Biaggini. I would wager my Super Bowl ticket that if he drugged your wine he might have killed Tommy, too.” She shrugged. “I fear you could be a loose end, Ms. Ivy.”

“There’s no reason for Peter to kill Tommy. I mean, why would he? I left Tommy for him. He knows that. He won! I don’t know if he made fun of Tommy about it, I don’t, but why would he? They were friends forever!”

At last the truth,
Sherlock thought.

Savich said, “Ms. Ivy, a tech could be here in a half hour to draw your blood, and we could find out.”

She stared at Savich as though he’d grown an extra head. “Draw my blood? No! My mom would never allow that, never. Peter’s not bad, really, he’s—”

“Very generous, I know,” Sherlock said. She handed Melissa a card. “Wouldn’t you like to know what really happened on Friday night, Ms. Ivy? Perhaps you owe it to Tommy to try to find out the truth.”

Melissa stared at the card but said nothing more. Savich turned at the doorway. “Ms. Ivy, like Agent Sherlock, I caution you not to speak to Peter Biaggini. If you tell him you don’t remember spending the whole night with him, if you can’t really give him an alibi, you could be a danger to him.”

Sherlock’s last sight of Melissa Ivy was her chewing on her lower lip, her pink UGGs bright on the banged-up hardwood entrance hall.

Maurie’s Diner

Maestro, Virginia

Sunday evening

Griffin eyed Anna, the kick-butt waitress wearing a Maurie’s red apron, and decided her full name, Lilyanna, brought to a man’s mind a vision of a flowy-dressed Southern woman with long loose hair lifting romantically in a summer breeze while she served sweet tea on the front porch. Nope, this was a solid Anna with a Glock 22 stuck in her jeans. He realized he’d like to get into it with her, let her wrestle him down. Griffin shook his head. He was losing it. He watched her, always friendly to the customers, always a smile in place. She was moving closer to their booth.

He’d brought Delsey here for dinner after she’d awakened, showered all the hospital off her again, she’d told him, since once wasn’t enough, and managed to cover the sutures with a small bandage, a hank of hair covering it.

A ketchup-drenched french fry paused on the way to her mouth. “Hey, whatever are you thinking about, Griffin?” She smiled over at Anna, watched her wave a menu at them, then start over.

She saw her brother’s eyes follow. “Hmm. Maybe you don’t have to tell me. She’s something, isn’t she?”

“What? Who? What did you say, Delsey?”

“Anna. She’s very cool, isn’t she? And here she comes, and would you look at that, her eyes are locked right on you, like a laser. Hmmm again.”

Griffin eyed his spoonful of mushroom soup. “Shut up.”

“Have I been missing something since I got my brain addled?”

“No more than usual. Eat your salad.”

She forked up some lettuce with Maurie’s signature dressing. “So if you’re not checking out Anna, what are you thinking about? That DEA agent? I’ll tell you, Griffin, I can’t get over that. Every time I think about him, I get cold and want to cry. I wish I knew why he was in my apartment in the first place.”

Griffin was silent as a post and spooned up some more soup.

“Hi, Anna.” Delsey popped another french fry into her mouth. “Tell Maurie his fries are still the best, and the salad—I’ll eat the salad if you put a gun to my head.”

“I’ll tell him, but he knows it. He always eats two fries out of every order, for quality-control purposes, he tells me. And would you look at him, skinny as a fence post. Hey, Mr. FBI, how’s your soup?”

“It’s great.”

Anna looked down at the nearly full bowl. “Great, huh? You on a diet, Griffin? Nope, not even a shadow of flab on you. You’re not eating because you’re still worried about Delsey, aren’t you? Well, stop it. Look at her, she looks ready to salsa on Main Street.”

“Maybe tomorrow, Anna,” Delsey said, and Griffin saw his sister look from Anna back to him. “We were talking about that poor DEA agent. I overheard Griffin and Ruth talking about him at the hospital and why he was here in Maestro.” She drew a deep breath. “And I heard them talk about maybe Professor Salazar being the drug czar, or whatever you’d call it.”

Griffin said, “Do you ever remember seeing anyone hinky at Stanislaus, Delsey? Anyone who didn’t look right being there?”

“There are always so many people visiting Stanislaus—that’s why it’s such a great place. Musicians performing from out of state and their entourages, critics, writers, so yes, lots of strangers. I’d have to say Professor Salazar has more strangers than anyone cruising around him. I’ve asked who they were and was told they were visiting friends, from Europe, from New York, classical guitarists from all over the country here to worship at his Gucci-clad feet. All of them looked like they fit right in.”

Griffin said, “When I met Salazar at his house yesterday morning, he was wearing moccasins.”

“I’ll bet they were Gucci,” Delsey said.

“Dels, did you ever see any Hispanic guys hanging around him?”

Delsey shook her head. “No, and I already told you, I never saw the man who hit me before, only heard two men’s voices. Anna, have you ever noticed any young Hispanic guys in the diner before?”

Anna shook her head.

Griffin watched his sister’s forehead knit, a sure sign she was thinking. She leaned close. “What about Mrs. Carlene?”

Griffin went on alert. “Who’s Mrs. Carlene?”

Anna said, “She’s Professor Salazar’s secretary. She came with him when he arrived at Stanislaus this past September.”

Griffin said, “Mrs. Carlene sounds very Southern. How would a musician from Madrid hook up with a Mrs. Carlene?”

Delsey said, “I don’t know, never thought about it, really. I overheard her.”

Griffin would find out all about Mrs. Carlene. “So what did you overhear?”

“It was last November, and I’d left a theory class with Professor Coffman in Brackford Hall, and I heard Gloria Brichoux Stanford—she’s a famous violinist, retired—”

“I don’t live off the planet, Delsey. I’ve heard her play. Go on.”

“She was speaking with another professor, I don’t remember who it was, woodwinds, I think, and he was telling her that Mrs. Carlene guarded Dr. Salazar like a lioness with her only cub. I heard Ms. Stanford say she was so secretive she wouldn’t even let anyone hear her speak on the telephone. She said Mrs. Carlene noticed her standing close by and clammed right up, didn’t say another word, punched off her cell. I remember the woodwinds professor shook his head like who cares? I didn’t hear anything more. But I didn’t forget it, it was too weird.”

Delsey shook her head. “I can’t get over you believing Professor Salazar might be a drug kingpin. I can’t fathom it.” She paused for a moment. “What I mean is he’s got everything, more than everything, he’s at the very top, but to sell drugs to teenagers? I know you guys think the same thing.

“So enough. Anna, what do you think of my gorgeous brother?”

Anna cocked her head to one side, looked him over. “This baboon? I’ve got to say I like the guy; it’s probably the Jane Goodall in me. Now I’ve got to get back to work before Maurie comes out here yelling.”

Wolf Trap Road

Maestro, Virginia

Late Sunday

Griffin didn’t call ahead. He was content to wait for Anna in his car a half block from her cottage. He knew she helped close the diner at ten o’clock, Maurie usually trailing along after her with a happy buzz on if the day’s receipts were good.

He watched Anna pull her Kia into her driveway, climb out, and trudge to the cottage’s front door. She looked tired, he thought, one job too many between trudging around with food and worrying about her cover.

Before he raised his hand to knock, the door opened and there stood the DEA agent, her Glock pointed at his chest.

“Griffin! I’m glad it’s you and not some—well, I don’t need this.” She slid her Glock back in her purse, still on her shoulder. “Why are you here? Is Delsey all right? I didn’t see your car.”

“It was parked up the street. Delsey’s asleep. I asked Penny to keep watch. I’d like to talk to you some more, make some plans, if we can.”

Griffin followed her down the hallway to her kitchen. It was like the
Julia Child’s Kitchen
exhibit at the Smithsonian, with an antique stove that still looked ready to take on a roast, and what looked like an ancient dishwasher, with its door cracked open, ready for business.

He watched her pull down two big mugs from an ugly mud-brown wooden cabinet, and sat down as she made coffee.

“It’s decaf,” she said over her shoulder. “It won’t taste wonderful, but it might fool our brains into stayin’ alert a bit longer. Did Delsey tell you anything else useful?”

He watched her shove her hair behind her ear. “You already know about Mrs. Carlene, don’t you? Tell me about her.”

“She cleared our background check. I’ve met her, of course. She’s originally from Savannah, Georgia, but spent some ten years living in Madrid—her home away from home, I’ve heard her call it—and that’s where she met Salazar. Word is they once had a relationship, remained friends, and never really split up. She’s been schedulin’ his appearances and appointments for years now. Maybe it’s workin’ for Salazar for so long that makes her seem like she’s more involved with this business than she is. We’ll check again.”

Anna gave him a small smile as she poured coffee into his mug. “You like plain black?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He took a sip, watched her take a couple of bagels from the toaster and put them on a plate along with a fresh tub of cream cheese.

“Same bagels from this morning?”

“Yep. Toast them and you never know how ancient they are. Would you like one?”

He shook his head. He watched her smear cream cheese on the bagel. “If it’s not Mrs. Carlene and you don’t suspect Hayman, do you have any ideas who Salazar’s working with—other than the Maras, of course? He’s got to have someone close by. I didn’t see any men at his house at all Saturday morning, and no one but Delsey has seen any gang members that I know of.”

She shook her head, chewed. “I’ve never seen anyone around him I didn’t expect to see, other than his visitors.”

“Sounds odd, doesn’t it? Who does he work with in Madrid?”

“Their police sent us a compete dossier on him. You can borrow it if you like. When he’s in Madrid, he likes to spend most of his time with his mother, Maria Rosa, and her longtime friends, all of them older and male, in her lovely big home on the Paseo del Prado. Mother and son play for each other at a small flamenco club. As you know, she’s quite a classical pianist. Bottom line, we haven’t seen any of his mother’s associates here, only Salazar.”

“Has he visited El Salvador and his Uncle Mercado recently?”

“No. His last visit was when he was in his mid-twenties. Mercado was killed in a firefight with authorities some ten years ago. Another Lozano cousin took his place. How did you meet your boss?”

He smiled at her. “I worked with Savich and Sherlock in San Francisco a couple of weeks ago. Did you read about Judge Dredd getting shot?”

“The whole planet has. You were involved with that? You must have really impressed him to ask you to transfer to Washington to work for him after, what, a week of knowin’ you?”

Griffin nodded. “Everything worked out. I’ll tell you though, I had to think long and hard about the transfer. I really like San Francisco, enjoyed my life there. But Savich and his unit are usually in the eye of the storm, and, I gotta admit it, I like the rush, the challenge.”

“The danger, right?”

“Maybe there’s something else—I called lots of people, and all of them told me you can trust Savich; he’s always got your back.”

He began tapping his fingers on the tabletop. “In the morning I’m going to start talking with everyone who was at the party, including everyone from that catering company. No one will wonder why, since everyone knows we’re conducting a murder investigation.”

“If you can, talk to Salazar again. I’d like to know your impressions of where his mind is at now. Again, I think he’s got to be panicked. All of them must be.”

She took the last bite of the bagel, sighed, and sat back in her chair. “I was raised on bagels. My grandma made them for me the first time when I was maybe four years old. ‘Succor for the soul,’ she’d say when she spread cream cheese on one for me.”

“There were bagels in the South when your grandmother was a girl?”

She grinned at him. “I think the first bagel maker arrived in Louisiana with the carpetbaggers after the war. What’s your favorite eat?”

“I’m a guy. Give me burgers and hot dogs and a grill and I’m a happy camper.”

“Where’d you grow up, Griffin?”

“In Colorado, near Aspen. Yes, I’ve skied all my life, competed throughout high school and college.”

“Olympics?”

“Not in this lifetime. I enjoy skiing whenever I have the chance. I don’t guess you’ve ever done much skiing in Louisiana?”

“I always wanted to learn, usually for a solid three months after watchin’ the winter Olympics on TV.” She grinned. “I’m a water skier. Now, that’s fun.”

He took another drink of coffee. It was pretty bad. The night was quiet, the air still and calm. He looked at her, wanted to run his finger over her mouth. He wanted to taste her. But not now, worst luck. He said, “Maybe we could teach each other.”

“Yeah,” she said after a moment, her dark eyes on his face, “maybe we could.”