Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) (11 page)

He was twenty years old and in love, for heaven’s sake,
Sherlock thought, and wondered how the Avilla Cronin she’d read about had become so rigid and judgmental. She could only imagine the intense and never-ending scrutiny that had colored their every interaction because of Mr. Cronin’s position over the years, particularly after the world’s economies had almost imploded.

Mrs. Cronin said, “I imagine she broke off with him when she realized we’d seen through her. If only I’d been able to see Tommy again, before he—” She swallowed. “Tommy was such a bright boy, a very high GPA, higher even than yours, Palmer, or his father’s, at Magdalene. He’d laugh when we asked him what he was doing besides studying. He didn’t have all that much time to socialize, he told us; he had to study too hard.”

Mr. Cronin said, “So you see, don’t you, Agent Savich, that Tommy simply didn’t have the time to stir up a lot of enmity from anyone. I’m sure some students were jealous of him because of his grades, but surely not because of his connections. After all, most of the students at Magdalene come from families of position and wealth.”

“He tended to be a loner,” Mrs. Cronin said, “not very big on parties or drinking. That’s not to say he wasn’t popular, because he was, maybe not in high school, but he was admired and rewarded at Magdalene for his fine mind and his hard work.

“We always found him levelheaded, and respectful to us. The only time he gave us cause for worry was when he brought that Melissa Ivy girl here with her notebook, and her fingers flying on her phone.” She fanned her thin veined hands in front of her. “What else is there to say about him? He gave Palmer the lovely cashmere sweater for Christmas.” Avilla Cronin’s fingers lightly stroked her husband’s arm, feeling the soft material. She blinked and licked her lips, so white they disappeared into her parchment face.

Sherlock said, “If we could discuss some of Tommy’s other friends, perhaps. Of course we will be speaking about that with Tommy’s aunt, Marian Lodge, and Tommy’s two sisters as well.”

Cronin’s old mouth seamed and twisted. “Marian—she will mourn the boy with us as if she were his mother, though she showed no such courtesy to my own son, Palmer Junior, when he died. But that is a family matter.” He fell silent for a moment. “Avilla and I couldn’t take the children, simply couldn’t, so we stepped back when she sought their guardianship.

“You asked about other friends. One of the boys Tommy brought here regularly was Peter Biaggini—I remember I didn’t care for him. He was a handsome boy, but too polite, a bootlicker, that’s what you called him, Avilla. Nor did I like the way he tried to dominate Tommy, treated him as if Tommy were his acolyte or his boy Friday. Why Tommy put up with that, I can’t say.

“There was Stony Hart—his real name is Walter. His father, Wakefield Hart, was at one time a colleague of mine, one of the senior accounting officers at Fannie Mae during the accounting irregularities that led to the whole senior staff resigning some eight years ago. When he was forced to resign that position, he reinvented himself as a financial consultant and a public speaker. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He earns most of his money now denouncing his erstwhile colleagues, calling for decentralization and regulations, and warning of financial Armageddon. We no longer speak.

“His son, Stony, though, has always seemed a fine boy, though he, too, seemed too much under Peter Biaggini’s thumb. Actually, all of them were. Stony—Walter—is another smart young man who attended MIT, one of those very logical people who used to write software programs for fun, and now— I really don’t know what he is doing now.” Mr. Cronin stopped talking, as if it were simply too much effort to continue.

Avilla said abruptly, “When will we be able to bury Tommy?”

Savich said, “We will notify you as soon as we know.”

Henderson County Hospital

Sunday morning

When Griffin left the elevator on the hospital’s third floor, he stopped to speak with Maestro Deputy Tuck Warner, stationed outside Delsey’s room. There’d been a lot of people wanting to see Delsey, Tuck told him. He’d let Henry Stoltzen in again since Delsey had called out when she’d heard his voice. Anna was still with Delsey. He said Anna’s name with a good deal of affection. Griffin didn’t know if Deputy Warner was married, but if he was, Griffin hoped he curbed his enthusiasm at home.

Warner said, “We all know Anna. She’s not snooty like some of the students at Stanislaus. She’s always nice, always ready with some fresh coffee and a big smile when you sit down at the diner. She even invited some of us to one of the concerts at Stanislaus last fall, to hear her play a violin solo.”

Anna was sitting beside Delsey’s bed, her head down, her long hair falling along her face, looking over some papers on her lap. All her winter gear was on the floor beside her chair. She was wearing jeans and a blue turtleneck, boots on her feet. He heard Delsey in the bathroom taking a shower. She was set on leaving the hospital once she was cleaned up. Griffin knew she’d walk over him to get out of here.

“Hello again, Ms. Castle.”

Her head jerked up, and she shuffled the papers she was reading and slipped them back inside a notebook. He held out his hand to her, showing her the photo of the dead man’s body on his cell. He saw something in her eyes, something hard, maybe a flash of anger, and then it was gone. “I understand you never knew his name, Ms. Castle?”

She looked up at him, her eyes clear, and when she spoke, her words came out so slowly as to be nearly frozen. “No, he never mentioned his name. I didn’t want to be rude and ask. As I told Agent Noble, what I remember about him is that he usually sat alone in the back, and he was always a good tipper.”

“Do you remember any of your conversations with him?”

“We only spoke about everyday things as I took his order. He was friendly.”

“You never asked him what he was doing in Maestro?”

“From your incredulous voice, Agent Hammersmith, I gather you think I’m best buds with every customer. Actually, I assumed at the time he was a local. There are bunches of locals I can identify but can’t tell you anythin’ about.”

Griffin knew from her first reaction to the photo there was something more, something she hadn’t wanted him to see—he was good at reading people. Why wouldn’t the woman level with him? Wouldn’t his sister’s best friend want to get this crime solved?

Griffin slipped his cell back into his jacket pocket. “We should know who he is when we hear from AFIS.”

“If AFIS has his fingerprints.”

Griffin stilled. “What do you know about AFIS?”

“I watch TV.”
You schmuck
was clearly written on her face.

They both turned when Ruth appeared in the doorway, looking hyped.

“What’s happened, Ruth?”

Ruth looked over at Anna, and back at Griffin.

Griffin said, “Would you excuse me, Ms. Castle? We have some FBI business to conduct. I’ll ask Delsey to give you a call later.”

Anna gave each of them a long look, shrugged, and gathered up her winter gear. “You do that, Agent Hammersmith.” She looked toward the bathroom, heard the shower and Delsey singing, her voice like an angel’s, high and clear. She said, “Delsey wrote that song. It’s about a rich guy who gambled with the devil and won.”

Griffin heard her speak to Deputy Warner, then the clip of her boots down the corridor.

“So what do you have, Ruth?”

“Mrs. Maude Simpson, who rents out rooms in Henderson, identified our dead guy when one of Dix’s deputies canvassing the motels and B&Bs showed it to her. He was registered as Ernest Weathers, checked in six days ago, but Mrs. Simpson hadn’t seen him or his car since Friday, said maybe he was away visiting a cousin of his at Stanislaus for the weekend. She thought he had a local job, but didn’t know where, which would have been nice to know. All his things were still in his room, so Mrs. Simpson thought he’d be back. She said Mr. Weathers was polite but they hadn’t had the chance to socialize or visit. If there was a relative at Stanislaus, we still haven’t found the name. She said Mr. Weathers didn’t brag on the cousin being at such a prestigious school or mention the name or an instrument, which Mrs. Simpson found odd. He stayed to himself when he wasn’t working, and he came and went at odd hours, since he catered parties. He drove a tan Ford Focus, and she hadn’t seen it since Friday, and no, she hadn’t taken down the plate.”

“So what’s wrong with this picture?” Griffin asked, knowing a setup when he heard it.

Ruth gave him a maniacal grin. “Funny you should ask. Let me back up: the fingerprints we took off the dead man are indeed in the AFIS system, but access to the ID is classified. I called Dillon and asked for help. He made some phone calls and found out it was the DEA who put in the block. Dillon told me it’s going to take someone with muscle to pry the man’s identity out of the DEA. He said Mr. Maitland was going to speak to his counterpart, Mac Brannon, explain the situation, drop the name Ernest Weathers, and see what he had to say. Dillon laughed, said if the guy’s real name is Ernest Weathers, he’d eat Sean’s soggy Cheerios. He’ll get back to us as soon as he finds out what’s going on.”

Griffin said, “Well, now, where does that leave us? Our dead guy was working undercover. Undercover, Ruth? That couldn’t have been about some rural gun dealer breaking some rules. What was it? Arms shipments, drugs? Here in Maestro?”

“Got to be, don’t you think? I’ve talked with Dix about this. There’s gang activity spreading all over the country now, you know that, Griffin,” Ruth said, “though I wouldn’t have imagined it in Maestro, either. Maybe that’s why they picked this route to move whatever the DEA is after.

“Did you read about the DEA and the metro cops taking down fourteen gang members in Nashville last year? Almost the entire local gang. They were members of a violent El Salvadoran
mara
, La Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13.”

“Sure,” Griffin said. “MS-13 is big, maybe ten thousand members now in the U.S., in cities from Los Angeles to New York. They’re scary dudes, over-the-top violent.”

“That’s right. They love their tattoos and their code of absolute loyalty to the gang. Anyone acting against them is dealt with quickly and with extreme violence, as you said. The Sinolas Cartel recruited them in the drug wars south of the border. Most of them grew up with violence as a part of their lives.”

“So you and Dix think someone working with them, or some other gang, is shipping drugs, or guns, through rural Virginia?” Griffin asked.

“Well, the I-95 is one of the main corridors in the east for running drugs and guns up from South America to Miami, and the number of weapons and drugs coming east from the southwest increases by the day. The DEA has been working to infiltrate the gangs, and they’ve stepped up their surveillance along the interstate. The gangs, unfortunately, have almost limitless motivation because of the huge amounts of money they can make shipping drugs for sale up to the U.S., and the guns and money are going back south. It’s a nightmare.”

“So you’re thinking that Maestro, Virginia, might be a perfect route, or even a place to stash or distribute, to avoid that attention?”

Ruth nodded. “Maybe. Only an hour away from I-95 and you’re in a different world. We don’t know what attracted the DEA, but why else would an agent—Weathers—be here undercover if not to find out how they’re coordinating things locally?

“I’m thinking there’s got to be somebody who can help them disguise the operation, someone who fits right in and doesn’t look like a gang member, someone who knows his way around.”

“Maybe someone at Stanislaus, since there are new faces there all the time, so no one would notice?”

“Hopefully we’ll find out, if the DEA comes clean with us,” Ruth said.

Griffin said, “Okay, let’s say whoever’s in charge found out about Weathers and had him killed. That would mean Weathers only lasted six days. I wonder what happened to trigger them, how they outed the agent’s real identity.”

“Don’t know yet. We searched Mr. Weathers’s room, found nondescript clothes—three pairs of jeans, three sweaters, underwear, and a pair of size-twelve boots, and absolutely nothing else. Gotta admit, I find that odd.”

Griffin nodded. “Yes, I do, too.”

Ruth said, “Maybe his murderer went to his apartment, scooped up his laptop and his papers. If so, his murderer now knows details of the DEA operation here. Did he have stuff stashed in the tan Ford? Even if Dix’s deputies find the Ford, I can’t see it’ll be much good unless he was struck down in his car and it’s part of the crime scene. I wouldn’t be surprised if the DEA already has the tan Ford.”

Griffin said, “Ruth, it’s hard to believe Maestro is the epicenter of a gun and/or drug stash. Where? Somewhere on the Stanislaus campus? In a secret room off the auditorium? Has Dix heard any rumors at all?”

“No, but we’re a small, tight community here that keeps to itself, a gun dealer’s wet dream, when you think about it.”

“Since Delsey’s a student at Stanislaus,” Griffin said slowly, “she could have accidentally stumbled over something she shouldn’t have, more likely there than in town. But Delsey actually never met Weathers. She probably saw him at Salazar’s party Friday night, but so what? Why place the agent’s body in her bathtub and haul it away? What kind of warning is that?”

Ruth said, “Maybe they thought she was DEA, too, but if they killed her to make a statement, the DEA would come back in assault helicopters. They wouldn’t want that to happen.”

Delsey opened the bathroom door. She looked shell-shocked. “If I hadn’t seen that the man was Latino, then you’d never have guessed it might be this MS-13 gang, right?”

Ruth said, “Not really, Delsey, even MS-13 members come in all races now. It fits, though. Finding out the man in your tub was DEA, though, that should blow things open.”

Delsey said, “You’re thinking the dealers believed I was working with Mr. Weathers?”

Griffin said, “I don’t know. I mean, we can come up with all sorts of scenarios.” Delsey smiled at Ruth and watched Griffin frown as he paced, thinking, that wonderful brain of his focused entirely on the problem. He turned. “And none of them really tie everything together. Mr. Weathers wasn’t tortured, he took a knife in the chest, so they weren’t interested or didn’t have the time to try to make him talk about what the DEA knows.”

“Who was the other man whose voice I heard?” Delsey asked.

Griffin said, “No clue. But I promise, Dels, whatever the DEA knows, they’re going to tell us.” He stopped, stared at her. “That small bandage is lots better, but you’re looking a bit on the peaked side. How about we get you to the B&B and tuck you in?”

Delsey waved that away. “What did you learn from Dr. Hayman?”

“Not a whole lot. Professor Salazar dropped by as well. The two of them are different in a lot of ways. But they both want you, sis, and that I find very curious.”