Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) (27 page)

Savich walked back into the interview room to see Melissa Ivy staring down at her clasped hands, no expression on her beautiful face. She looked up at him, gave him a tentative smile.

He said, “This is Mr. Griggs. I’d like you to work with him to give me a picture of the man you saw.”

She blinked long lashes and looked distressed. “But, Agent Savich, I only saw the man for a moment, really, and not all that clearly, and I—”

“You said you saw him long enough to be certain it wasn’t Wakefield Hart. Please try for us. Mr. Griggs is good at this. Jesse, this is Ms. Ivy. I’ll come back when you’re done.”

Savich left Jesse Griggs, their best sketch artist, alone with Melissa, and stepped out of the interview room. Lucy, Dane, and Ollie were clustered together, all talking nonstop. He raised his hand. “Someone please call me when Jesse is finished with his sketch, all right? Excuse me a moment.”

He walked into his office, closed the door, sat down, and tried to clear his brain. Since they’d been called to the Lincoln Memorial, they’d spent their time reacting, first to Tommy’s murder, then to Stony’s suicide, and finally to Peter’s murder. They’d been pulled one way, then another; it was time to stop playing catch-up, time to focus in. He went back to the beginning, to Saturday morning, with the call from Ben Raven, let each scene unfold slowly in his mind. He didn’t analyze them, only let them flow over him to get impressions, to let his gut ring in.

It all had to be of a piece, had to be. One overriding motive that had resulted in both Tommy’s and Peter’s murders. But what? The gun in Peter’s apartment pointed a neon arrow right to Wakefield Hart. But any of the boys could have taken that gun from the Harts’ attic. It might already have been in Peter’s apartment last night, though he doubted that. The murderer had come to kill, not talk. And now Melissa Ivy was saying the man she’d seen in Peter’s apartment lobby wasn’t Mr. Hart?

Stop. Back up.
The one thing Savich was sure of was that Tommy’s murderer was a man. A woman could have shoved Tommy Cronin out of a two-story window, perhaps, a fall that had broken so many of his bones, but he couldn’t imagine a woman hauling him to the Lincoln Memorial, stripping him naked, and displaying him at Lincoln’s feet. That took a good deal of strength. Two people, then? He shook his head at the utter debasement of the act.

He pictured each of the men he’d met in the past three days, not all that many, really, and had one of them been Tommy’s killer? Or was he still off the mark, despite all the evidence against Hart? It could have been an acquaintance, a student at Magdalene who hated Palmer Cronin enough, perhaps on his own father’s or mother’s behalf, to strike out in rage at his grandson. He saw Palmer Cronin’s aged grieving face, then August Biaggini’s face when his son had treated him with such contempt on Sunday afternoon, and finally, Wakefield Hart’s face, set and angry, ready to do battle for his son that same afternoon.

He let his mind return to the victims, picture them in death. Tommy Cronin’s dead, bone-white face, Stony’s peaceful face, then, finally, Peter Biaggini’s, covered in blood.

Savich saw Stony’s face clearly in his mind, saw the bewilderment, the horror when they’d accused him of uploading Tommy’s photo. No, Stony hadn’t done that, but he knew who had, and it had shaken his world. A user of people wouldn’t have cared so much. Was he the innocent victim in all this?

His thoughts drifted and time passed until he realized he was circling back on himself, torturing and distorting his own thoughts to make them fit the facts. He still had too few of them, and he would have to find more.

His cell played Bob Dylan again.

“Dillon? Delsey here.”

He went immediately on alert.

“No, no, everything’s okay here. Remember my pilot, Agent Davis Sullivan, who flew me in from Maestro? He’s here, and I’d like to go to the Bonhomie Club with him tonight.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be too smart, Delsey.”

“Maybe Davis and I could come to the CAU and talk about this with you?”

Savich smiled into the phone. “Tell you what, invite Davis over for dinner tonight. Tell him I’ve got an idea I want to talk over with him.”

He punched off, leaving Delsey midsentence trying to wrangle more out of him. His phone buzzed a message. From Bo Horsley.
Heard about kid’s murder. Call me when get it finished.

Jesse stuck his head in. “All done, Savich. Wait till you see the sketch.”

Maestro, Virginia

Tuesday morning

Thank heaven Rob and Rafe were in school, Ruth thought, as a dozen DEA agents in Kevlar vests piled into her house with her husband, Anna, and Griffin to talk strategy. There were eight men and four women among them, all talking, all pumped, downing cups of coffee at a manic clip from two huge urns and lacing up their hiking boots. Their MP-5 assault rifles were a daunting sight piled by the front wall, black satchels next to them holding additional magazines. She looked over at the piles of headlamps and flashlights everyone would need.

They were going to war. In a cave. She felt a spurt of fear for Dix, quashed it fast. If anyone could handle himself, it was her husband. She looked over at him, speaking to Mac Brannon, who was in charge of the operation. Anna had told her that her boss, Mr. Brannon, was a hardnose, but not unfair, and thankfully he didn’t seem to be a do-it-my-way-or-else type thus far, but who knew? He was creeping up on fifty, tall and fit, with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a rock-solid stubborn jaw. He seemed absolutely in control.

Griffin was speaking in a low voice to Anna, who looked very unlike the waitress at Maurie’s Diner this morning. Her long hair was braided in a single tail, wound around a couple of times and fastened at the base of her neck. She was wearing black, like her fellow agents. She looked honed to the bone and tough, a major league butt-kicker among a herd of butt-kickers in Ruth’s living room. Griffin looked relaxed enough, Ruth could see, and showed no signs of being in pain since he’d taken some aspirin a short time before. She knew Anna didn’t want him to go, but she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut now that she’d figured out he’d be in on the op if he had to crawl, which he wouldn’t have to do, thankfully. He looked as pumped as all the other agents, and ready, despite the cane. If Mac Brannon also eyed that cane askance, he didn’t say anything.

“People, listen up.”

Everyone quieted, turned again to Mac Brannon.

“If our intelligence is right, today we’re going to hit one of the biggest drug distribution operations in Virginia. And we’re going to take a bite out of MS-13. I’ve discussed strategy with Dix and Ruth, who know the cave well. We’ve also got three spelunkers with us—raise your hands, guys—thank you. So if you get into trouble, ask them for help.

“We’re fortunate that Ruth and Dix have been through both entrances of Winkel’s Cave, front and back. We’ll be splitting up, and when both teams are in position, we’ll go in together. They’ll have no way out.”

“Anna, you’re Team One leader. Claus will be your guide inside the cave. Ruth expects the front entrance to be barred, probably chained. Claus will be bringing a hydraulic rescue tool he borrowed from the fire department along to cut through any locks or chains you might find. If you can’t get through, you’ll still have the exit covered for us, but this is unlikely, since the gang would want both exits available to them.

“I’ll be Team Two leader. Dix and Ruth will fill us in on what to expect when we reach the rear entrance of the cave. We don’t know how many gang members will be inside, don’t know if Salazar will be there. Remember, they attacked Griffin and Anna with automatic weapons last night, and grenades. You will be fighting in an alien environment, one that will require discipline and concentration. I want no casualties, so keep focused. Let’s suit up and get it done.”

Three minutes later they were climbing into the SUVs assigned to them and heading out onto the road.

The Hoover Building

Tuesday noon

Jesse Griggs handed Savich the sketch he’d made of the man Melissa saw in Peter Biaggini’s apartment lobby.

Savich looked at the sketch, then at Melissa Ivy. She met his eyes, her eyes as blue and limpid as a paradise lagoon. He said, “You’re sure this is the man, Ms. Ivy?”

“It’s close. But I told you, I barely saw him, so—” She shrugged.

“He looks,” Jesse said slowly, “a lot like the news anchor on the CBS six o’clock news.”

Savich’s expression didn’t change. Jesse was right. He felt a spurt of anger, then calmed. What game was she playing with them?

He leaned over the table, his hands flat, and said not six inches from her face, “You realize, Ms. Ivy, that if you’re lying about any of this and keep it up, you will go to prison for obstruction of justice? By the time you get out of jail, you’ll be too old for TV. You understand me?”

Melissa pressed herself against the back of her chair, to get as far away from him as she could. She looked terrified.

Good.
She couldn’t play them well if she was terrified. “I’m waiting, Ms. Ivy,” Savich said. “Your choice.”

She rose straight up in her chair. “All right! But I didn’t lie. I came here to help you. I didn’t realize I was describing Scott Pelley’s face on TV. I watch the news show every night, and I got confused. I told you, I didn’t see the man well. I’m not lying about seeing him, though, swear it.” She lowered her face in her hands and burst into tears.

Savich straightened, nodded to Lucy. She sat beside Melissa, lightly rubbed her fingers over her arm. “Come on, Melissa. You’ll make your eyes all puffy and your mascara will smear. Who knows what kind of photos or footage you’ll be in today, and you won’t look very good. That wouldn’t do, now, would it? Come on, now, get yourself together, and trust me on this: telling the truth is the only way to go or you’ll spend tonight in jail.”

Slowly, Melissa Ivy raised her face to Savich, looking, he thought, like she was ready to enter the Miss America pageant. Her mascara was perfect, and her unshed tears sparkled like diamonds. She looked gorgeous. She leaned toward him, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “I didn’t make it up, Agent Savich. I did see someone. But I did make up some of the sketch, I guess.”

“Why?”

He saw her thinking madly, her brain squirreling around, and wondered if she would treat him to another fiction. Finally, she raised her chin and looked him square in the eyes. “I didn’t get all made up like this for you, Agent Savich. I thought since I’m a witness I might be interviewed by the press. I loved Tommy and Peter, and I’ve lost both of them. Their funerals are tomorrow. I thought there might be a chance for me to, you know, get some coverage in the news, get myself known at some of the news stations as a promising young student.”

She was fast, he’d give her that, and not a bad actress.

“That’s very resilient of you, Ms. Ivy, especially considering neither Tommy nor Peter is around now to tide you over with money until you graduate. I imagine you’ll be down to hocking the earrings Tommy gave you for Christmas soon, won’t you?”

She stared at him, pinned, biting her bottom lip. He saw her lipstick there was gone, not that it mattered.

“You should be glad you didn’t do a good job with faking that sketch. If you had told the media you’d helped us with a sketch of the murderer, you might have risked your own life. This way, you’ve just wasted only a bit of our time.”

He watched the myriad emotions chase across her face. Primarily, he saw, she was appalled she’d gotten herself in this fix. He watched her and waited.

She looked everywhere but at him. Finally, she lowered her face and whispered, “You’re right, Agent Savich, it’s not a secret I don’t have any money. I’m doing what I’m good at, trying to keep going somehow. And I’m afraid.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t told us, Ms. Ivy? Something you know?”

“No, nothing like that. But everyone I know is dying, and no one knows why.”

He said, “You have a right to be scared, Melissa, but not to be stupid. Instead of trying to scam us, you can help us.”

“How?”

“I’m going to search Peter’s apartment today, and I’d like your help in searching yours.”