Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) (16 page)

When Peter saw his father flanked by two agents, Savich saw surprise and wariness register on his face before he caught himself and smoothed it out. Savich was impressed that a twenty-two-year-old could adjust the controls so quickly. His surprise and wariness were soon replaced by thinly veiled impatience and contempt in the look he sent his father—the Hair Spray King,
isn’t that what he called him? Savich wanted to haul him out of his lizard pose, but he merely nodded to the young man. His father didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. Didn’t Biaggini Senior see what was written so clearly on the son’s face?

“. . . And Mr. Biaggini, this is Agent McKnight and Agent Carlyle.”

After nods and handshakes, Savich pointed to a chair at the end of the table. Before he sat, Mr. Biaggini reached out his hand to his son. “You haven’t returned your mother’s calls, Peter. Your mother and I are so very sorry about Tommy. Are you all right?”

Peter Biaggini stared at his dad, stared at his hand, darted a fast look at Savich, and gave his father’s hand a quick shake.

What are you like when you’re alone with him?
Savich wondered.

Peter nodded. “I’m all right, though of course I’m upset; none of Tommy’s friends can believe it.” He nodded toward Coop and Lucy. “Those agents over there told me the cops brought me here to be questioned about his murder. I asked them why, but they wouldn’t answer me. I guess they didn’t know because they’re pretty low on the food chain around here.”

Lucy bit her lip to keep from grinning.
Good shot, kid.

Peter continued to his father, “They must think we have something to do with it. I know I didn’t. Did you have him killed, Dad?”

Savich watched Biaggini Senior literally recoil from the flippant words out of his eldest son’s mouth. Then he drew himself up again, and his voice was austere. “That is not amusing, Peter. The agents do not believe that either you or I had anything to do with this tragedy; they simply want to know about Tommy.”

Peter never changed his lizard sprawl, and now an ugly sneer marred his mouth. “Tragedy, Dad? Tommy was
murdered
. Tragedy would be if he died of leukemia. That’s like calling 9/11 a tragedy when it was mass murder. You really think these agents only want our thoughts and advice? I don’t think so. I think they’re looking for someone to blame. So what happens when they find out you hated Tommy’s grandfather, called him a dangerous buffoon? I remember all your harangues about him, about practically the whole financial industry. Looks like somebody finally struck a blow against all the greed you hate so much. Tell me, Dad, are you really sorry?”

Peter Biaggini’s contempt seared the air. Sherlock saw Coop and Lucy exchange glances, their thoughts clear on their faces—
Why doesn’t Biaggini slam that idiot son of his to the floor and kick him a couple of times?

Savich hoped they’d get back to their poker faces quickly, because he’d been watching Peter as he spoke and seen him preen when he got the reaction he’d wanted.

Mr. Biaggini was pale and still. It was obvious to Savich he was used to his son’s abusiveness. When he finally spoke, his voice was a model of tolerance, probably used for so long with his son it was an ingrained habit. “I doubt Palmer Cronin would agree anyone deserves what happened to Tommy. He’s devastated, Peter; so is Tommy’s grandmother. I imagine he would gladly have taken Tommy’s place if he’d been given the choice.”

Savich said, “I’m sure you’re quite upset, Peter. After all, Tommy Cronin was one of your best friends since when? You met when you were six years old and he was four, right?”

Peter Biaggini shrugged. “Tommy was lame as a kid, and he never really changed, but he was part of our group, right?”

Sherlock said, “So you’re saying you’re not upset that Tommy was murdered?”

Peter Biaggini turned dark eyes to her, very close to the color of Sean’s eyes, she thought, and it scared her that she’d noticed that. Could the malignancy that brimmed in Peter Biaggini possibly be lurking in Sean? Did a parent ever really know what would develop in her young child’s mind? Could a parent ever do more than guess and hope that her child would grow up to be honorable?

Peter’s fingers stopped their tapping, and he leaned toward Sherlock. “Of course I am upset. Even if you didn’t admire a person you grew up with, it would still leave a hole, don’t you think? A very deep hole. I’ll miss him.” They kept staring at each other, and Savich wondered,
What is Sherlock seeing in him?

Savich asked, “Peter, you knew Tommy’s father? His mother?”

Savich watched a sneer mar his mouth again. It made him look common and mean. “Of course I did. Both of them liked to show off their money, but I’ve got to say they always treated Tommy’s friends well, took us all to Redskins games, sailing on the Potomac, clamming and big bonfires on the beach. When Tommy’s mom killed herself, I remember Mr. Cronin brought in Tommy’s Aunt Marian and everything continued on as it always had—barbecues and parties, whatever his dad and aunt could come up with—only with a change in moms.”

Savich said, “It sounds to me like you don’t think Mr. Cronin missed his wife that much.”

Peter Biaggini’s cell buzzed a text message. For a moment, it seemed he would answer, but he only touched the phone, then let his fingers drop away. “How would I know? It was weird, though, what happened. A year later, Tommy’s dad dies in his kick-ass red Ferrari. Who could see that coming? But I’ll tell you, good old Aunt Marian kept going, like neither of Tommy’s parents had ever really been all that important. I mean, the house kept going, everyone kept hanging out there, and Tommy got all into himself since he saw himself as the new boss man of the house. Aunt Marian smiled behind her hand, let him strut around and act all serious about the electric bill.”

Mr. Biaggini looked both embarrassed and pained. He cleared his throat, bringing Savich and Sherlock’s attention back to him. “It was a dreadful time. Barbara Cronin was a lovely woman, an excellent mother to Tommy and his sisters. I was shocked and frankly surprised she would kill herself. I knew of no reason for her to do such a thing.”

“She was shacking up with the guy who remodeled the kitchen,” Peter Biaggini said, slouching down farther in his chair. “All the kids knew about it; we thought it was funny.”

Sherlock said, “Did Tommy think it was funny?”

“No, he’d leave whenever anyone said anything.” He said to his father, “Come on, Dad, don’t go all righteous and disapproving. Since all the kids knew it, surely you and Mom did, too.”

“There is always gossip,” Mr. Biaggini said, his body as stiff as his voice, “but if one has any sense and maturity at all, one discounts it. I do not believe and never believed Tommy’s mother was unfaithful to his father. What does any of this have to do with Tommy’s murder?”

Peter rolled his eyes and began tapping his fingers again. Another message came in on his cell and he began quickly pressing keys. Savich reached over, took the cell from his hand, and tossed it to Coop, who turned it off and slipped it into his pocket. Peter Biaggini froze. He started to say something but thought better of it.

Savich knew Barbara Cronin wasn’t the point here, but her suicide bothered him, Sherlock, too, and so he said to Mr. Biaggini, “Indulge me. Now, something must have triggered her suicide. Do you remember anything out of the ordinary happening at the time, sir?”

Mr. Biaggini shook his head. “I was very busy with my business around that time, with expansion, new franchises going up throughout Maryland and Virginia. My wife and I hadn’t seen the Cronins in some time.”

Peter gave an ugly laugh. “Yeah, you had to get all the rich old ladies more
beauty products
, right, Dad?”

Savich was pleased when Mr. Biaggini slowly rose to his feet, spread his hands on the tabletop, and leaned toward his son. “You mock me for the fine house you’ve lived in all your life? You mock that your mother and I care for you, that we have provided for you, given you the best education possible?”

But not a new car?
Savich knew Peter drove a five-year-old Honda, which meant Mr. Biaggini did have some limits, probably because of his son’s DUIs.

Peter looked his father up and down. “Yeah, thanks for the Cheerios, Dad. But you didn’t give me my education. I worked for it. I would have been valedictorian at Columbia High School if that jerk Noah Horton hadn’t kissed up to all his teachers. And I could have gotten scholarships to college if you hadn’t coughed up the tuition for Magdalene. I even earned that job with Caruthers and Milton on my own.” Again, he shrugged, looked at Sherlock, then back to his father. “Have you ever thought you should have spent more time with us, Dad, rather than making hair spray?”

Mr. Biaggini had heard this before, too many times, Sherlock thought. He stared at his son, his hands working, but he did nothing, said nothing more, his look stoic.
The story of Peter’s life growing up?
A brief show of indignation, then nothing?
Sherlock wanted to leap over the interview table and plant her fist in Peter Biaggini’s sneering mouth. She said, her voice as sharp as glass shards, “Tell us, Peter, about how you and Stony Hart tried to anonymously upload that photo of Tommy’s dead body at the Lincoln Memorial on YouTube? That photo we tracked to Stony’s computer?”

The lizard disappeared. Peter Biaggini snapped to, straightened and swallowed, one hand clenched into a fist. For the first time, he looked scared. “Wh-what?”

Scared now, Peter? Or do you not know anything about it?

Unfortunately, his protective father jumped in. Mr. Biaggini’s face was red as he shouted at Sherlock, “What are you talking about? What do you mean my son and Stony were involved? Surely not that photo that ended up on YouTube—that’s ridiculous. What sort of ploy is this?”

Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “Mr. Biaggini, we know the YouTube photo was posted from Stony’s computer, and we know Peter has a lifelong habit of driving the bus for his friends, that if they don’t do what he wants, he sets them straight. Stony told us about Peter’s slashing Stony’s mom’s tires on her new Prius. How old were you then, Peter? Twelve? Do you happen to remember what order of yours Stony refused to carry out?”

Mr. Biaggini surged to his feet. “You will stop this now! Do you hear me, stop this or I will have my lawyers in here to stop it for you.”

“I didn’t slash his bitch mother’s tires.”

Sherlock kept her eyes locked on Peter Biaggini’s face. “Sure you did, and you really enjoyed doing it. Tell us about the death photo you got Stony to upload.”

“Sorry, I don’t know anything about a photo. If Stony did that, I don’t know anything about that, either. I’ve got to say, I’m surprised. Even though Stony’s a computer whiz, he’s a wuss; say boo to him and he withers like a weed. He never wanted to do anything that was the least bit risky. Until now. I can’t believe he did that, and I can’t believe he got caught, either.”

Sherlock said, “Mr. Biaggini, you’ve seen the photo, haven’t you?”

Mr. Biaggini said, “Even the rebels in Rwanda have seen that horrible photo, but it has nothing at all to do with my son. He has no reason to lie to you. Regardless, uploading such a thing on the Internet is despicable. Peter would not have been a part of it.”

That was all he was going to say? Then Sherlock looked at his eyes; Biaggini didn’t believe what he’d just said. He looked devastated, but not surprised, because he knew his son.

Peter shot his father a look of pure disgust, but underlying that look was something else entirely. Had he seen the look of doubt in his father’s face? Had he seen the devastation that the recognition of that doubt had cost him? Did he care?

Peter’s voice climbed an octave. “He’s right, I told you the truth. Stony’s a dodging little nothing. His only talent is the computer. He’s a liar; he’s always looking out for number one. That story about his mom’s Prius, I mean, how lame is that?”

Sherlock smiled at Peter Biaggini. “Why do you think he would lie, Peter?”

Peter was nearly panting now, words spewing fast and hard. “I see now, you scared him so bad he had to make something up, and he did. No one would believe it for a second. I mean, about the only thing Stony does well is hack NASA. And he did it without any help from me. I never even saw Tommy’s photo!”

“Peter—”

Peter didn’t look at his father. He leaned forward, his eyes dark and hard. “You want a scapegoat and you don’t have squat, so you singled me out. I don’t know what Stony did or didn’t do, but I do know he couldn’t have uploaded Tommy’s photo.”

He flung himself back in the chair, crossed his arms over his chest.

Savich’s eyebrow went up. “And why is that?”

“Stony doesn’t make mistakes on computers. If he didn’t want you to know he’d posted something, you’d have never found out about it.”

Time to test the waters.
Savich said, “Sorry, Peter, Stony did make a mistake, and we caught him with the help of the NSA. Even Stony can’t deny Tommy’s photo was posted from his computer.”

Sherlock picked it up fast. “Why don’t you tell us about what drove you to do this, Peter? What did Tommy do to you to make you hate him so much?”

August Biaggini roared to his feet again. He slammed his fist on the table. “You will stop this now! My son couldn’t have done this, for the simple reason that it’s monstrous. Sure, he was the leader of his group of friends, there always is one. Everyone knows that. Peter had no motive to kill Tommy Cronin. No motive!

“Listen, about Stony. I told you he always sought the easiest path and that’s why he blames Peter, to save himself. What’s perjury to him now? It’s obvious Stony is the guilty one here.”

“And what would his motive be, Mr. Biaggini?” Sherlock asked him.

“I don’t know. I don’t know of a single motive to attach to any of Tommy’s friends. No, Peter, don’t say anything more, you don’t have to defend yourself any further.”

Mr. Biaggini sat down, leaned over the table, his eyes locked on Savich’s face. “The next time we see you, Agent, we’re bringing a lawyer. We’re leaving now.”

Savich said, “So we’re clear before you leave, if you choose to, Mr. Biaggini, we never said Stony accused Peter of any involvement in posting that photo. We raised that question with you. Stony denies any knowledge of the photo, just as Peter does.”

“Then how can you accuse my son of these crimes? Of being a liar? You people should all be fired.”

“You may not have deserved to hear that, sir, but we’re trying to find a murderer. Now, we won’t keep either of you from leaving, but if Peter is willing to stay and answer a few more questions, it will save both of you a great deal of time and trouble later.”

“It’s all right, Dad,” Peter said, suddenly cocky again. “I’ll answer a few questions. What is it you want to know?” And he sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Do you know where Tommy was Friday night, Peter?”

“No. I hadn’t seen him in a while. He was usually studying late, or sleeping.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Nearly a week ago, maybe last Monday. We had some pizza, then he said he had to study, and we split up.”

“Did you notice if he was disturbed about something? Did he mention anything he was involved with?”

“Sorry, Agent. Tommy seemed just fine to me. I told you, he was a serious go-getter since his father died, working hard at school, looking to fill his grandfather’s shoes, I guess.”

Savich said, “Now tell us where you were on Friday night, Peter.”

Peter Biaggini raised his hand before his father could interrupt. He grinned, and Savich knew for sure that Peter had agreed to stay because he wanted to be asked that very question. He was preening now, no other word for it, and it wasn’t a sham. He looked directly at Savich as he said, “I was at the Raleigh Gallery in Georgetown at a showing of modern American paintings, part of an assignment for my art history class.

“Oh, yeah, Tommy’s former girlfriend, Melissa Ivy, was there with me.” He smirked at them. “So much for Stony’s photo. There’s no way I could have taken a photo of Tommy dead. I wasn’t anywhere close to the Lincoln Memorial Friday night.”

“Where did you go after you left the gallery?” Sherlock asked.

“Mel and I went to her apartment and tangled the sheets all night. So I couldn’t have killed Tommy. As for that stupid photo, who cares? No crime there anyway, now, is there?” He turned to his father. “See, Dad, no reason to get an ulcer. Can I leave now, Agents?”

Savich stood. “You may leave, but we will see you again soon.”

As he walked to the door and opened it for them, Sherlock said, “Peter, don’t leave Washington.”

“I love Washington. Why would I leave?”

They heard Mr. Biaggini’s harsh breathing as they walked again, and then his low, angry voice. “Why didn’t you tell them right away where you were Friday night? Why drag this lunacy out?”

They heard Peter speak but couldn’t make out his words.

They watched from the CAU doorway as Peter whistled his way along the wide corridor to the elevator. He turned right before he got on, and gave them a little finger wave. Mr. Biaggini followed behind him, his head down. He never looked at them.

“That kid should have been left on a Greek mountainside at birth,” Coop said.

“I want to meet Melissa Ivy,” Sherlock said.

“Peter’s got to believe she’ll lock in his alibi,” Coop said.

Sherlock said, “I’m willing to bet my Pink Panther socks she’ll swear they not only spent the night together, she’ll also swear she made him breakfast Saturday morning, didn’t just toss him a box of cornflakes, either. Melissa will tell us she made him scrambled eggs, with blueberry pancakes on the side.”

“After she broke up with Tommy,” Lucy said, “she sure hooked up with Peter Biaggini real fast.”

Savich said, “Mr. Biaggini isn’t a thing like my father.”