Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) (19 page)

Bud Bailey’s B&B

Maestro, Virginia

Delsey dreamed she was skydiving into the very heart of Santiago, tourists and natives alike all staring up at her and pointing. She wondered why all the people were pointing at her when she realized she felt the parachute straps digging into her shoulders and her shoulders were bare. Then she noticed she was wearing only knee-high boots, nothing else. The wind danced wildly in her hair, and she was cold, freezing. Suddenly, she felt something coming close and she tried to move out of the way, jerk on the parachute straps, but she couldn’t move. Something cast a shadow over her face and it was coming at her—not making any noise, but she could feel it, and it was a him, and she felt his breath on her cheek. She couldn’t move, couldn’t—

Delsey jerked awake. She stared up into the face of the man she hadn’t until this moment realized she’d seen just before he’d smashed something down against her head. He was straddling her, holding her down, her arms by her sides under the covers, and his hand was over her mouth. He whispered above her mouth, “You bounced right back, didn’t you,
pequeña niña
? You were lucky, but not tonight. You recognized me, didn’t you? Can’t let you stay around. Hey, you scared?” He laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll just slip it in, it’ll sink right into your heart and you’ll hardly even notice.”

The glimpse she’d gotten of him—she hadn’t realized he was so very young, and his eyes were dead. She couldn’t move. Griffin was across the living room in the other bedroom, sound asleep. She made a sound in her throat and stared at the glittering silver knife coming down.

Three shots rang out, loud as cannons. The man slammed forward on top of her. She opened her mouth to scream and tasted his blood. His blood was everywhere, hot and sticky, on her face, her neck—”

“Delsey, are you okay?”

It was Griffin.

She was frantic, out of control, but her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “Get him off me!”

Griffin quickly shoved him off, let him land on the floor on his side, fall slowly onto his back. Griffin switched on the bedside lamp as he sat down to hold her. He saw blood splattered on her face. Then he felt the blast of cold air from the open window.

He dropped Delsey and ran to the window. Delsey was behind him, her blood-splattered nightgown flapping at her ankles.

They looked at a man standing at the base of a tall ladder leaned against the B&B wall in the alley below the window. He stared up at them, and they saw his face clearly. A split second later, the man turned and ran down the alley away from them and disappeared around a corner.

“Give me a second, Delsey, I’ve got to call Dix.” He grabbed her cell out of its charger on the bedside table, since his was in his bedroom.

A moment later, he laid the cell on the bedside table and turned to see Delsey standing in the middle of the small bedroom, blood-spattered, pale as death, trying not to look at the dead man on the floor beside the bed. He shoved the window down.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” but she could hear herself wheezing for breath. “I’m cold, Griffin, I’m so cold I’m going to crack like ice. You’re okay, right?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll bet the other man was the second man in my apartment.” She raised shocked eyes to his face. “He was waiting for his partner to kill me and then what? They’d go have a beer?” She knew her voice sounded weak, thin as a thread, but she couldn’t help it. She looked again at the dead man. “He’s so young. Thank you for saving my life, Griffin. How did you know?”

Griffin shrugged. “I guess I woke up and I heard him.”

“But how could you hear him? He was whispering and he had his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t make a sound. I couldn’t scream or anything.”

“Well, whatever, we’re both okay.”

He’d somehow known, and for that, she was more grateful than she’d ever been in her life. She felt a punch of nausea and swallowed convulsively when she looked down at herself. Her old soft-as-butter white granny nightgown wasn’t soft or white now. “May I go take a shower, Griffin?”

“Make it nice and hot, okay?”

She nodded, took one more look at the dead man. “He’s so young, Griffin, maybe not even twenty. The other man, he knows we saw him. He knows.”

“Maybe so, but we don’t have to worry anymore about this one. Go take your shower.”

When he heard the water turn on in the bathroom, he went down on his haunches beside the dead man. He studied his face. Delsey was right, he was so damned young. He’d shot him three times in the chest, center mass. His eyes and his mouth were both open, his mouth in silent surprise. He saw something on the side of his neck. It was a tattoo. He gently turned his head to the side. There in Gothic script were
MS
and the number
13
right below.

Washington, D.C.

Sunday, midnight

When his cell belted out “Tequila,”
Savich was sleeping beside Sherlock, dreaming for some reason about Sister Maria’s song in
The
Sound of Music
, the movie Sean had watched for the umpteenth time before bed. He awoke instantly. “Savich.”

“Savich, Agent Sparks here. Stony Hart’s dead, dammit, and I swear I never saw anyone go in. The girlfriend came running out of the building screaming. I called 911, and Metro is on their way. I calmed her down, took her back upstairs, told her to stay in the kitchen. I looked in the bedroom. It looks like Hart committed suicide.”

“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

The early-morning hours in Washington were like an entirely different city for Savich and his Porsche. The only traffic was mostly young professionals trying to get themselves home safely before the workweek started again in a few hours. Moonlight reflected off the white snow and helped light their way. The streets were free of ice, the temperature still hovering above freezing. The heater started to blast out hot air as the engine warmed.

While Savich drove, Sherlock called Agent Sparks to get more details. When she punched off her cell, she said, “Bill said Stony never left his apartment. There was a pizza delivery at eight. Bill checked with the pizza guy, verified he delivered the pizza to Hart’s apartment, said a young woman paid him. Her name’s Janelle Eckles, his girlfriend. She left about nine o’clock, got into a car with two other young women. Bill said Stony’s lights were the last to go off in the building, about eleven. He saw the girlfriend come back before midnight, let herself in. The apartment lights went on, and she came out screaming. No wonder.”

Savich was frowning. “Suicide?”

“I suppose someone could have gotten in through the rear entrance of the building without Bill seeing him, but Bill says we’ll see for ourselves.” Sherlock looked at the GPS, then shot a look at a street sign. “Not much farther. Turn left here on Green Leaf Avenue, Dillon. And I know you’re already blaming yourself, so stop it, or you’re going to piss me off. This is not your fault.”

He looked at her quickly and only shook his head.

“Bill said a Detective Moffett of the WPD just drove up.”

They found themselves in a not-quite-gentrified neighborhood of mid- to low-end apartments that left very few trees to soften the scene. Instead, there were stuffed garbage cans lining the street, and piles of filthy snow packed back against buildings. Four cop cars blocked the street. Officers were already out canvassing the neighborhood wherever they saw a light.

“I hate this,” she said.

Detective Lorenzo Moffett, a fireplug topped with a short halo of hair hugging his head, and eyes that had seen too much, met them at Stony Hart’s apartment door on the second floor, waved them in. “So you’re Agent Savich. There’s a lot of talk at the Daly Building about that poor kid found at the Lincoln Memorial. I’d say this one is a suicide, first glance, but given the circumstances, we’ll see. Hart’s in here.”

“Our forensic team and the FBI ME will be here soon, Detective Moffett,” Sherlock said.

“My Loo’s got no problem with you guys taking over the forensics once he heard it’s connected to Tommy Cronin’s murder. I’ve got officers out speaking to the neighborhood, and I want to be kept in the loop. I’ve got the girlfriend in the kitchen. She was pretty drunk when we got here, since she’d been out partying with girlfriends. She told Agent Sparks she decided to surprise him with a return visit, all unplanned, according to her, and this is what she found. Needless to say, she’s stone-cold sober now. Naturally, she didn’t know about an FBI agent sitting in front of the building. Did Hart know?”

Savich shook his head. “I assigned Agent Sparks to keep watch here.”

Moffett didn’t say a word about that, although they could tell he wanted to. “I ran a check on the girlfriend while I waited for you guys,” Moffett said. “Janelle Eckles is twenty-two; she’s a clerk at State part-time and finishing up her senior year at George Washington, majoring in history. Parents live in Independence, Iowa, work in Cedar Rapids, both engineers in a biotech company.”

As Moffett spoke, he led them into the good-sized living room that had a lovely view of an alley. The living room furniture looked to be college dorm seconds Stony had gathered over the years, from a fifties-modern coffee table to a beat-up early-American sofa. Stacks of CDs covered an entire side of the sofa, and there was a bowl filled to the brim with shrink-wrapped flash drives on the coffee table. Along one wall was a long cafeteria-style table, mostly empty except for a lonely keyboard, a printer, and a beehive of computer wiring. Layers of dust in geometric patterns were scattered around the table, where Stony’s computers and routers had stood before Spooner and his crew had removed them all that afternoon.

Moffett waved his hand around. “You can see Hart was really into his computers. Agent Sparks told me the FBI hauled away his stuff. I’d like to know what that was about. First let’s see if you agree this is a suicide.”

He ushered them into a long, narrow bedroom that held only a single dresser, a leather chair, and a king-size bed. No computer paraphernalia in here, maybe on orders from his girlfriend, only a big flat-screen TV hung on the wall opposite the bed.

Walter Stony Hart was lying on the bed on his back with his arms at his sides, dressed in old jeans, a blue-and-white Magdalene sweatshirt, and black Nikes on his feet, his arms at his sides. His eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. Beside him on the bedside table stood two empty pill bottles. Savich looked closely at the bottles, saw the prescription labels had been ripped off so no one would know where he’d got them? Or because he didn’t want to be saved if the pills didn’t kill him? Next to the bottle was a piece of white paper.

“Ms. Eckles said she read it,” Moffett said. “She said it was neatly set beneath the bottles.

“We didn’t touch it again,” Moffett said. Sherlock leaned down, read aloud,
“I can’t live like this.
I’m sorry.”
It was signed “Stony Hart.”

Sherlock studied the scene, studied Stony’s face. “Where is the pad this sheet of paper came from?”

“It’s here, on the floor beside the bed.”

“And the pen?”

Moffett said, “It’s on top of the pad of paper. It’s really a journal sort of notebook, but funny thing is, there’s nothing written in it.”

Sherlock took the journal, thumbed through the pages. “It still smells new,” she said, and gave it back to Detective Moffett.

“Devil’s advocate here. It’s suicide; look at him, he didn’t struggle, he’s all peaceful, like he came to a decision and followed through, even left a note. Hard to fake all that.”

Sherlock lightly touched her fingers to Stony’s gray cheek. “Poor boy, you should have told us the truth, but maybe in the end it didn’t matter.”

Savich was studying the pill bottles. “Since he ripped off the prescription labels, it will take a few hours to know what they were. From the size of the bottles, I’d say maybe narcotic pain relievers, like oxycodone, and some kind of sleeping pills or tranquilizers. Either Stony stole them or someone else did.”

Sherlock said to Moffett, “If it turns out it’s not suicide, we’ll have a suspect. Peter Biaggini, and that would mean Peter killed one of his best friends and danced out all pleased with himself for stage-setting a perfect suicide scene.”

“Talk to me,” Detective Moffett said. “Tell me who this Peter is.”

Savich saw no reason not to tell him. By the time he finished speaking, Moffett was shaking his head. “But you don’t know yet.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “We don’t. Something I do know, though, is that Peter Biaggini will be alibied up to his tonsils if he had anything to do with this. We’d appreciate it if you’d keep this all close to the vest, Detective Moffett. We don’t want it to get out to the media.”

Detective Moffett said, “Not a problem.”

Savich lightly touched his hand to Stony Hart’s flaccid hand. Another life gone, simply snuffed out. The waste of it all made him want to weep. He said, “Murder or suicide, the ME can tell us for certain.”