Bombshell
Page 117
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Anna pulled her creds out of her pocket. “We haven’t actually met properly, Gabrielle. As you can see, my real name is Agent Anna Parrish, DEA, and I’ve been working undercover here at Stanislaus. And your own name is not Gabrielle DuBois, but Claudine Renard.”
Griffin was pleased to see Gabrielle flinch and her face go pale, but she recovered quickly, even managed a sneer. “I do not know this Renard person.”
Griffin said, “Sure you do, Gabrielle—excuse me, it’s Claudine—isn’t it? Claudine Renard, longtime student of Madame Maria Rosa Salazar of Madrid? That will make it impossible for you to leave the country, since you entered illegally under an assumed identity.” Anna simply shoved her back and moved in, Griffin behind her. He shut the door.
Gabrielle stumbled, managed to right herself. She shot Anna a venomous look. “All right, so you have forced your way in, and you are the law. They are rude and pushy everywhere. But I am not impressed, Anna. I don’t care who you are. I want you to get out.”
Griffin said, “I’m afraid that’s no longer up to you, Ms. Renard. A gang member we’ve identified as a José Ramirez was shot last night at the Bonhomie Club in Washington, D.C., while lying in wait for my sister, Delsey. I have his picture on my cell phone. He is the same man Delsey and I saw running away after the attack on her at the B&B here in Maestro. Unfortunately for you, he was carrying a disposable cell with your number on it. Careless of him not to toss it, but he was like that, wasn’t he? I guess he didn’t think it would be necessary. He was one of the men who called you for instructions from Delsey’s apartment, too, wasn’t he?”
“Vous est dingue! Vous avez perdu la raison! C’est completement fou!” She waved her hand in his face. “This is lunacy, it is madness, do you hear me?”
Anna pulled a sheaf of pictures from her jacket pocket. “I appreciate your fluent French and your dramatic gestures, Claudine, but they won’t fly now. Take a look at these.” Anna handed her the pictures. “Once we knew who to ask about, we sent a photo of you to the Spanish police, asked them if they could identify you, match your photo with anyone in their files of the Lozano and Salazar family contacts. There you are at a recital at about age eighteen, I’d say, standing next to Maria Rosa Salazar, accompanying you on the piano. You seem quite happy. She taught you voice, and no doubt brought you into the Lozano family business. Odd you never mentioned her. Did you even study with Professor Salazar here at Stanislaus at all, or spend all your time on the drug business?”
Gabrielle looked wildly toward her luggage.
Anna said, “Forget the gun you have tucked inside that luggage, Claudine. You’re not getting anywhere near it. Now, you were at Salazar’s party last Friday night. It was you, wasn’t it, who ordered two of your thugs to take Agent Racker out of there and find out what he knew?”
Gabrielle kicked out fast and hard against Griffin’s wounded leg. She made a mad dive for her luggage as he went down. Anna grabbed her ponytail and jerked her back against her. She held her Glock against her temple. “After you’re tried and sentenced here in Virginia, Claudine, I doubt you’ll ever get to see France again at all.”
Griffin stood slowly, his leg thrumming like a metal drum. He looked down at his cane, in two jagged pieces on the floor. “Now, Agent Parrish, don’t you think you’re being overly harsh? Maybe Ms. Renard can cut a deal with the Justice Department, tell them all about the Lozano family and about Maria Rosa.”
Savich home
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Two days later, Friday evening
Anna accepted a slice of pizza from Griffin and bit in. There were half a dozen pizza boxes scattered on every available surface in the Savich living room for the dozen people—DEA, FBI, and the sheriff of Maestro—and most of them Griffin hadn’t even known a week before and now they were his friends.
Sherlock patted her mouth with a napkin and sat back in her chair. “Let me ask you, Agent Brannon, who gets the credit here, the DEA or the FBI?”
Mac Brannon looked from Anna to Griffin, took a swig of beer, and grinned. “I guess with what’s probably going to happen between these two”—he nodded toward Griffin and Anna—“we’ll have to consider it a joint success.” He raised his beer bottle and toasted Savich. “Now that I think of it, though, Savich here did some of the prep work, but the DEA did all the heavy lifting. I don’t remember any FBI dweebs, or you, Sheriff Noble, out there hauling away the guns and drugs.”
Griffin was pleased to see Gabrielle flinch and her face go pale, but she recovered quickly, even managed a sneer. “I do not know this Renard person.”
Griffin said, “Sure you do, Gabrielle—excuse me, it’s Claudine—isn’t it? Claudine Renard, longtime student of Madame Maria Rosa Salazar of Madrid? That will make it impossible for you to leave the country, since you entered illegally under an assumed identity.” Anna simply shoved her back and moved in, Griffin behind her. He shut the door.
Gabrielle stumbled, managed to right herself. She shot Anna a venomous look. “All right, so you have forced your way in, and you are the law. They are rude and pushy everywhere. But I am not impressed, Anna. I don’t care who you are. I want you to get out.”
Griffin said, “I’m afraid that’s no longer up to you, Ms. Renard. A gang member we’ve identified as a José Ramirez was shot last night at the Bonhomie Club in Washington, D.C., while lying in wait for my sister, Delsey. I have his picture on my cell phone. He is the same man Delsey and I saw running away after the attack on her at the B&B here in Maestro. Unfortunately for you, he was carrying a disposable cell with your number on it. Careless of him not to toss it, but he was like that, wasn’t he? I guess he didn’t think it would be necessary. He was one of the men who called you for instructions from Delsey’s apartment, too, wasn’t he?”
“Vous est dingue! Vous avez perdu la raison! C’est completement fou!” She waved her hand in his face. “This is lunacy, it is madness, do you hear me?”
Anna pulled a sheaf of pictures from her jacket pocket. “I appreciate your fluent French and your dramatic gestures, Claudine, but they won’t fly now. Take a look at these.” Anna handed her the pictures. “Once we knew who to ask about, we sent a photo of you to the Spanish police, asked them if they could identify you, match your photo with anyone in their files of the Lozano and Salazar family contacts. There you are at a recital at about age eighteen, I’d say, standing next to Maria Rosa Salazar, accompanying you on the piano. You seem quite happy. She taught you voice, and no doubt brought you into the Lozano family business. Odd you never mentioned her. Did you even study with Professor Salazar here at Stanislaus at all, or spend all your time on the drug business?”
Gabrielle looked wildly toward her luggage.
Anna said, “Forget the gun you have tucked inside that luggage, Claudine. You’re not getting anywhere near it. Now, you were at Salazar’s party last Friday night. It was you, wasn’t it, who ordered two of your thugs to take Agent Racker out of there and find out what he knew?”
Gabrielle kicked out fast and hard against Griffin’s wounded leg. She made a mad dive for her luggage as he went down. Anna grabbed her ponytail and jerked her back against her. She held her Glock against her temple. “After you’re tried and sentenced here in Virginia, Claudine, I doubt you’ll ever get to see France again at all.”
Griffin stood slowly, his leg thrumming like a metal drum. He looked down at his cane, in two jagged pieces on the floor. “Now, Agent Parrish, don’t you think you’re being overly harsh? Maybe Ms. Renard can cut a deal with the Justice Department, tell them all about the Lozano family and about Maria Rosa.”
Savich home
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Two days later, Friday evening
Anna accepted a slice of pizza from Griffin and bit in. There were half a dozen pizza boxes scattered on every available surface in the Savich living room for the dozen people—DEA, FBI, and the sheriff of Maestro—and most of them Griffin hadn’t even known a week before and now they were his friends.
Sherlock patted her mouth with a napkin and sat back in her chair. “Let me ask you, Agent Brannon, who gets the credit here, the DEA or the FBI?”
Mac Brannon looked from Anna to Griffin, took a swig of beer, and grinned. “I guess with what’s probably going to happen between these two”—he nodded toward Griffin and Anna—“we’ll have to consider it a joint success.” He raised his beer bottle and toasted Savich. “Now that I think of it, though, Savich here did some of the prep work, but the DEA did all the heavy lifting. I don’t remember any FBI dweebs, or you, Sheriff Noble, out there hauling away the guns and drugs.”
