Bombshell
Page 116
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“But I didn’t kill Peter, I tell you. I didn’t kill that little bastard!”
Sherlock said, “Then why, Mr. Hart, was your gun lying beside Peter’s body?”
“I told you, it’s been missing for years, anyone—”
“Did you panic, Mr. Hart, run before you could get yourself together to search Peter’s apartment?”
“My wife and I were here last night together! And Friday night as well. Ask her!”
Hart looked at his wife, standing beside Sherlock, looking vague and stupid to him from all her drugs. She was his only chance, and he knew it.
Mrs. Hart said slowly and precisely, “He could easily have slipped out Friday night; last night as well. We have separate bedrooms, you see.” She looked at him appraisingly, as if they both knew something Savich didn’t, as if challenging Hart to say what he would.
Savich saw Hart’s face go slack, saw defeat in his eyes.
“Of course, Mr. Hart,” Savich said, “it could be you are telling the truth about Peter. Melissa Ivy saw someone leaving Peter’s apartment building, not well, but well enough to think it wasn’t you she saw, but someone shorter.
“So let me paint another scenario. Since Mrs. Hart can’t vouch for your being home that night, you can’t vouch for her. It could have been Mrs. Hart who drove to Peter’s apartment last night, Mrs. Hart Peter let in, not realizing she knew and guessed enough to blame him for Stony’s death, for Tommy’s death, too. Peter would have pleaded for his life when he saw the gun, told Mrs. Hart everything about the video, about Tommy’s blackmailing you, that it was you who had killed Tommy. But she knew Peter well enough to know he’d put Tommy up to it, that he would never have done such a thing by himself.
“That’s when she realized if she shot Peter, you would be blamed for it, that all the evidence would point to you, particularly if she left your gun next to Peter’s body. All she had to do was to vouch for your being with her that night, as any good wife would. All she had to do was wait, knowing the FBI would find a copy of the video, and that we would arrest you, not her, Mr. Hart.”
Another long look passed between husband and wife. Carolyn Hart said to him, her voice low and despairing, “Our son, our precious Stony, he did nothing wrong. And now we have only our two daughters. Would you leave them out in the world without a parent? Do the right thing finally for one time in your miserable life.”
Hart looked at her again, then said very quietly, “I did kill Tommy and Peter. I killed both of them.”
• • •
THEY WEREN’T HOME UNTIL DAWN. Sherlock lay on her back in the dull gray light, exhausted and sad. Had Wakefield Hart really killed Peter, and dropped his own gun there beside Peter’s body? And did it even matter, since Hart was willing to swear to it now? At least the two Hart daughters would have a parent to raise and nurture them. And there was closure.
Maestro, Virginia
Wednesday morning
Gabrielle DuBois was packing. They could see her suitcase open, impossible to hide it even with her standing in the doorway, blocking them.
She eyed the three of them, then said, her accent thick, “What is it you are doing here? What do you want?”
Griffin said, “You seem to be in a big hurry, Ms. DuBois. Where are you going?”
“Not that it is any of your business, but I am going home.” She shrugged, and crossed her arms over her chest, not moving. She wore loose black sweats and thick white socks on her feet. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she was wearing bright red lipstick. “I do not approve of Stanislaus any longer. I had such high hopes, but I was deceived. Look at what has happened here in your countryside—a cave filled with cocaine, a murder, Professor Salazar shot. Even you, Agent Hammersmith, shot in the leg. Thank you, no, I will return to France, to civilization. I am afraid to remain here.”
“That’s not very nice of you to say,” Griffin said. “What about Professor Salazar? He’s hurt very badly. Doesn’t he need you? I thought you were in love with him and he with you. Why aren’t you at his bedside at the hospital?”
There was no explosion of French expletives, only a lovely Gallic shrug. “I was deceived by Professor Salazar as well. He toyed with my affections. He prefers your sister, I think. It seems he is nothing more than a common criminal, in any case. I no longer care what happens to him.”
“Interesting that you are the only student with urgent plans to leave the country, don’t you think?” Griffin asked. He stepped forward, but she didn’t oblige him and back up. Instead, she leaned into him. “I do not invite you into my apartment.”
Sherlock said, “Then why, Mr. Hart, was your gun lying beside Peter’s body?”
“I told you, it’s been missing for years, anyone—”
“Did you panic, Mr. Hart, run before you could get yourself together to search Peter’s apartment?”
“My wife and I were here last night together! And Friday night as well. Ask her!”
Hart looked at his wife, standing beside Sherlock, looking vague and stupid to him from all her drugs. She was his only chance, and he knew it.
Mrs. Hart said slowly and precisely, “He could easily have slipped out Friday night; last night as well. We have separate bedrooms, you see.” She looked at him appraisingly, as if they both knew something Savich didn’t, as if challenging Hart to say what he would.
Savich saw Hart’s face go slack, saw defeat in his eyes.
“Of course, Mr. Hart,” Savich said, “it could be you are telling the truth about Peter. Melissa Ivy saw someone leaving Peter’s apartment building, not well, but well enough to think it wasn’t you she saw, but someone shorter.
“So let me paint another scenario. Since Mrs. Hart can’t vouch for your being home that night, you can’t vouch for her. It could have been Mrs. Hart who drove to Peter’s apartment last night, Mrs. Hart Peter let in, not realizing she knew and guessed enough to blame him for Stony’s death, for Tommy’s death, too. Peter would have pleaded for his life when he saw the gun, told Mrs. Hart everything about the video, about Tommy’s blackmailing you, that it was you who had killed Tommy. But she knew Peter well enough to know he’d put Tommy up to it, that he would never have done such a thing by himself.
“That’s when she realized if she shot Peter, you would be blamed for it, that all the evidence would point to you, particularly if she left your gun next to Peter’s body. All she had to do was to vouch for your being with her that night, as any good wife would. All she had to do was wait, knowing the FBI would find a copy of the video, and that we would arrest you, not her, Mr. Hart.”
Another long look passed between husband and wife. Carolyn Hart said to him, her voice low and despairing, “Our son, our precious Stony, he did nothing wrong. And now we have only our two daughters. Would you leave them out in the world without a parent? Do the right thing finally for one time in your miserable life.”
Hart looked at her again, then said very quietly, “I did kill Tommy and Peter. I killed both of them.”
• • •
THEY WEREN’T HOME UNTIL DAWN. Sherlock lay on her back in the dull gray light, exhausted and sad. Had Wakefield Hart really killed Peter, and dropped his own gun there beside Peter’s body? And did it even matter, since Hart was willing to swear to it now? At least the two Hart daughters would have a parent to raise and nurture them. And there was closure.
Maestro, Virginia
Wednesday morning
Gabrielle DuBois was packing. They could see her suitcase open, impossible to hide it even with her standing in the doorway, blocking them.
She eyed the three of them, then said, her accent thick, “What is it you are doing here? What do you want?”
Griffin said, “You seem to be in a big hurry, Ms. DuBois. Where are you going?”
“Not that it is any of your business, but I am going home.” She shrugged, and crossed her arms over her chest, not moving. She wore loose black sweats and thick white socks on her feet. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she was wearing bright red lipstick. “I do not approve of Stanislaus any longer. I had such high hopes, but I was deceived. Look at what has happened here in your countryside—a cave filled with cocaine, a murder, Professor Salazar shot. Even you, Agent Hammersmith, shot in the leg. Thank you, no, I will return to France, to civilization. I am afraid to remain here.”
“That’s not very nice of you to say,” Griffin said. “What about Professor Salazar? He’s hurt very badly. Doesn’t he need you? I thought you were in love with him and he with you. Why aren’t you at his bedside at the hospital?”
There was no explosion of French expletives, only a lovely Gallic shrug. “I was deceived by Professor Salazar as well. He toyed with my affections. He prefers your sister, I think. It seems he is nothing more than a common criminal, in any case. I no longer care what happens to him.”
“Interesting that you are the only student with urgent plans to leave the country, don’t you think?” Griffin asked. He stepped forward, but she didn’t oblige him and back up. Instead, she leaned into him. “I do not invite you into my apartment.”
