Bombshell
Page 33
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Why did she leave you behind?”
“It was my father’s condition for a divorce, and so I grew up in New Jersey. If you wish to know more about Rafael or Maria Rosa’s family, you can ask my brother. I expect him shortly.”
He called his mother by her first name? Well, Griffin supposed it could be natural, given he didn’t grow up with her.
“And why is Professor Salazar coming here this fine morning?”
“His lifestyle does not relieve him of his responsibilities here at Stanislaus. He is a colleague, Agent. We are to discuss the scheduling of his students’ recitals for the coming semester.”
Griffin pulled out his smartphone, scrolled to a photo of the dead man on Breaker’s Hill, and held it up. “Have you ever seen this man before, Dr. Hayman?”
Hayman studied the photo. “No, I can’t say that I have. Is this man involved with what happened to Delsey?”
“Perhaps,” Griffin said. “We also know the man who struck Delsey was a young Hispanic. Were there any Hispanic men at the party?”
Hayman blinked. “There are perhaps a dozen Hispanic musicians at Stanislaus, though I don’t recall seeing any of them at the party. Surely it was not one of them. They are all accomplished musicians, here to study and improve themselves, not rob houses. And perhaps that is what it was—a simple robbery, after all.”
“Dr. Hayman, there is nothing at all simple about what happened to Delsey.”
They heard the front doorbell ring.
“It is my brother, I believe.”
Griffin said, “Do you have a music room, sir? Could you take me there, then send Professor Salazar in to see me?”
Hayman shrugged and walked out of the living room, Griffin on his heels. He opened a door on his right, motioned to Griffin. Griffin stepped into a small room filled with books, a huge grand piano, and a wall of shoulder-high mirrors set against it, all with ornate antique frames.
“I will ask Rafael if he wishes to speak to you,” Hayman said and walked out. Griffin heard his footfalls toward the front door. Would Salazar agree to speak to him?
The music room was good-sized, with nothing out of place. Sheet music sat atop a small desk, neat and tidy. The concert-size Steinway was bare. And what about all those mirrors, some so old the glass was distorted and shadowed? Did Hayman stare at himself while he played the piano? Why? To perfect some special demeanor for his audiences?
He moved to the door, opened it a crack and listened. He heard voices, but they were speaking too quietly for him to make out what they were saying. Too bad.
Professor Rafael Salazar strolled into the small study, walked to the piano, and leaned against it—no, he lounged against it. He was wearing gray cashmere today, and looked very sharp indeed.
He said, “Agent Hammersmith, I understand you are concerned for your sister, but I have been more than generous with my time with you already. I have learned nothing more since we last spoke. I have a great deal to accomplish today, even on Sunday, and I ask that if you or the sheriff wish to speak with me again, you make an appointment through my office. From what my brother tells me, you have already formed an opinion of me. A hedonist, sir?”
Griffin smiled at him. “Tell me, Professor Salazar, do you dislike your brother as much as he appears to dislike you?”
Salazar blinked at him, then smiled with genuine amusement. It changed him, made him seem real, but only for an instant. “Dislike my brother? He is a brilliant pianist, naturally, but he carries the burden of being a bourgeois—after all, he was raised here in the United States—who could expect him to simply appreciate some of the splendid diversions life offers? Ah, like a certain measure of hedonism.”
“Unlike in Spain?”
“Very possibly. In Europe, the artist and his needs are better appreciated and valued, his needs for diversions understood and accepted.”
“Is that what your mother, Maria Rosa, does? Understand you? She taught you to enjoy life’s diversions?”
Salazar’s mouth seamed. “My mother is a woman of infinite good taste and judgment. She certainly understands me. I will say, too, she has the good judgment to never interfere in my personal life, Agent. My brother should never have spoken of her to you. I do not understand why you wish to discuss such things.”
“I ask because you appear to have no shortage of perceived self-worth, and I wondered how it was nurtured in you.”
“You mock me, Agent? The truth is I have been blessed, but I also work incredibly hard. My life is not all pleasurable amusement, you know.” Salazar shrugged. “So why pretend I am like everyone else when I am clearly not? As much as I’ve enjoyed this chat, Agent Hammersmith, if there is nothing truly pressing, I will ask you to excuse me.”
“It was my father’s condition for a divorce, and so I grew up in New Jersey. If you wish to know more about Rafael or Maria Rosa’s family, you can ask my brother. I expect him shortly.”
He called his mother by her first name? Well, Griffin supposed it could be natural, given he didn’t grow up with her.
“And why is Professor Salazar coming here this fine morning?”
“His lifestyle does not relieve him of his responsibilities here at Stanislaus. He is a colleague, Agent. We are to discuss the scheduling of his students’ recitals for the coming semester.”
Griffin pulled out his smartphone, scrolled to a photo of the dead man on Breaker’s Hill, and held it up. “Have you ever seen this man before, Dr. Hayman?”
Hayman studied the photo. “No, I can’t say that I have. Is this man involved with what happened to Delsey?”
“Perhaps,” Griffin said. “We also know the man who struck Delsey was a young Hispanic. Were there any Hispanic men at the party?”
Hayman blinked. “There are perhaps a dozen Hispanic musicians at Stanislaus, though I don’t recall seeing any of them at the party. Surely it was not one of them. They are all accomplished musicians, here to study and improve themselves, not rob houses. And perhaps that is what it was—a simple robbery, after all.”
“Dr. Hayman, there is nothing at all simple about what happened to Delsey.”
They heard the front doorbell ring.
“It is my brother, I believe.”
Griffin said, “Do you have a music room, sir? Could you take me there, then send Professor Salazar in to see me?”
Hayman shrugged and walked out of the living room, Griffin on his heels. He opened a door on his right, motioned to Griffin. Griffin stepped into a small room filled with books, a huge grand piano, and a wall of shoulder-high mirrors set against it, all with ornate antique frames.
“I will ask Rafael if he wishes to speak to you,” Hayman said and walked out. Griffin heard his footfalls toward the front door. Would Salazar agree to speak to him?
The music room was good-sized, with nothing out of place. Sheet music sat atop a small desk, neat and tidy. The concert-size Steinway was bare. And what about all those mirrors, some so old the glass was distorted and shadowed? Did Hayman stare at himself while he played the piano? Why? To perfect some special demeanor for his audiences?
He moved to the door, opened it a crack and listened. He heard voices, but they were speaking too quietly for him to make out what they were saying. Too bad.
Professor Rafael Salazar strolled into the small study, walked to the piano, and leaned against it—no, he lounged against it. He was wearing gray cashmere today, and looked very sharp indeed.
He said, “Agent Hammersmith, I understand you are concerned for your sister, but I have been more than generous with my time with you already. I have learned nothing more since we last spoke. I have a great deal to accomplish today, even on Sunday, and I ask that if you or the sheriff wish to speak with me again, you make an appointment through my office. From what my brother tells me, you have already formed an opinion of me. A hedonist, sir?”
Griffin smiled at him. “Tell me, Professor Salazar, do you dislike your brother as much as he appears to dislike you?”
Salazar blinked at him, then smiled with genuine amusement. It changed him, made him seem real, but only for an instant. “Dislike my brother? He is a brilliant pianist, naturally, but he carries the burden of being a bourgeois—after all, he was raised here in the United States—who could expect him to simply appreciate some of the splendid diversions life offers? Ah, like a certain measure of hedonism.”
“Unlike in Spain?”
“Very possibly. In Europe, the artist and his needs are better appreciated and valued, his needs for diversions understood and accepted.”
“Is that what your mother, Maria Rosa, does? Understand you? She taught you to enjoy life’s diversions?”
Salazar’s mouth seamed. “My mother is a woman of infinite good taste and judgment. She certainly understands me. I will say, too, she has the good judgment to never interfere in my personal life, Agent. My brother should never have spoken of her to you. I do not understand why you wish to discuss such things.”
“I ask because you appear to have no shortage of perceived self-worth, and I wondered how it was nurtured in you.”
“You mock me, Agent? The truth is I have been blessed, but I also work incredibly hard. My life is not all pleasurable amusement, you know.” Salazar shrugged. “So why pretend I am like everyone else when I am clearly not? As much as I’ve enjoyed this chat, Agent Hammersmith, if there is nothing truly pressing, I will ask you to excuse me.”
