Bombshell
Page 35
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“Not really,” Sherlock said. “We smiled at them and gave them a little wave. I thought one of the guys was going to try to sneak through the gate, but better heads prevailed at the last minute. I do believe, though, he had some comments about Dillon’s antecedents.”
“Give me the nod and I’ll go speak to him.” Atkinson gave a ferocious grin. “Come on in before you freeze to death. It’s beautiful with the sun shining on all the snow, but it’s still cold enough to see your breath.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cronin are in the living room, have been for the past three hours, huddled together, not talking much. Enduring, I’d guess you’d say. It’s been a terrible blow for those poor old folks.” Atkinson shut the front door behind them, paused for a moment, then locked it and shrugged as if to say, You never know, now, do you?
“This old place dates back to 1910,” Atkinson said. “Can you imagine the heating bills?”
They stepped through a large Art Deco entrance hall with signature black and white floor tiles. A kidney-shaped Art Deco table that looked to be an Émile-Jacques Ruhlmann original sat against one long wall. Savich’s mom loved Ruhlmann, had bought a small table designed by the man himself.
Centered on the wall over the table hung a painting of a small barefoot girl in pink shorts running on a beach, hanging for dear life on to a kite string, the tail of a vivid red dragon nearly slapping her face as it whipped and whirled about in the wind. You could feel the young girl’s excitement and the absolute perfection of that single moment, feel the beating wind stinging your face, tearing your eyes. You could smell the brine. Savich stared at the painting, couldn’t help himself. It was one of his grandmother’s, titled The Child.
He said quietly to Sherlock, “There are only three of my grandmother’s paintings I haven’t seen since I was her age.” He pointed to the little girl. “This is one of them. The Cronins have owned it for a very long time.”
Atkinson nodded at the painting. “You like that painting? I think it’s kind of pretty.”
Sherlock smiled at him. “The artist is Sarah Elliott, Dillon’s grandmother. Most of her paintings are in museums.”
Atkinson said, “My wife tells me I’m going to get shot for my big mouth one day, since I’m too big to bother beating on.”
Savich waved it away. They followed Atkinson into the living room on their right, a barn of a room that was, surprisingly, toasty warm, the fire in the old brick fireplace blasting out heat like a bellows. Palmer and Avilla Cronin sat pressed together on a sofa, silent, their eyes moving to the three agents walking toward them into the room. Even their eyes looked flattened, Sherlock thought, and no wonder.
Their deadening pain was palpable in the very air, bowing the Cronins under the weight of it. Sherlock knew the pain would morph into rage and blame; it was the only way to survive such devastation. The Cronins would blame the monster who murdered their grandson, yes, but she knew they would blame the world at large and the FBI as well, for not somehow preventing Tommy’s murder from happening in the first place. It was human nature, and she’d seen it far too many times, and was prepared for it.
Palmer Cronin was seventy-seven, once a compact and solid man, with swarthy skin and lots of hair, and looking more in keeping with his moniker, Big Buddha. Now he was thin, his shoulders stooped, his hair a tonsure of gray around his large head. He looked, Savich thought, ten years older than the last time Savich had seen him on the cover of The Economist six months before. Inside the covers was a smoothly ironic review of Cronin’s decisions and where they’d led, with photos of mortgage, banking, and investment-firm villains sprinkling the pages.
Cronin was wearing ancient leather bedroom slippers, old brown wool pants, a faded plain brown shirt, and, oddly, a lovely new pale blue cashmere cardigan. A Christmas present?
He got slowly to his feet, shuffled more than walked across to them, and looked up at Savich. He seemed folded in on himself, Savich thought, his face pale and drawn, but those dark eyes of his were deep and hard with an intelligence that looked beyond every word uttered to him to the consequences of his reply. Odd, Savich thought, that such formidable intelligence had gone so awry in what had been his undisputed area of expertise.
And now this. This man whose daughter-in-law had died two years before, and his only son last year, had now seen his only grandson brutally murdered yesterday. His name would die with him. He looked, Savich thought, like he’d reached the end of his road and didn’t care.
Cronin said, his voice flat, “You’re the FBI agents Director Mueller told me he was sending.”
“Give me the nod and I’ll go speak to him.” Atkinson gave a ferocious grin. “Come on in before you freeze to death. It’s beautiful with the sun shining on all the snow, but it’s still cold enough to see your breath.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cronin are in the living room, have been for the past three hours, huddled together, not talking much. Enduring, I’d guess you’d say. It’s been a terrible blow for those poor old folks.” Atkinson shut the front door behind them, paused for a moment, then locked it and shrugged as if to say, You never know, now, do you?
“This old place dates back to 1910,” Atkinson said. “Can you imagine the heating bills?”
They stepped through a large Art Deco entrance hall with signature black and white floor tiles. A kidney-shaped Art Deco table that looked to be an Émile-Jacques Ruhlmann original sat against one long wall. Savich’s mom loved Ruhlmann, had bought a small table designed by the man himself.
Centered on the wall over the table hung a painting of a small barefoot girl in pink shorts running on a beach, hanging for dear life on to a kite string, the tail of a vivid red dragon nearly slapping her face as it whipped and whirled about in the wind. You could feel the young girl’s excitement and the absolute perfection of that single moment, feel the beating wind stinging your face, tearing your eyes. You could smell the brine. Savich stared at the painting, couldn’t help himself. It was one of his grandmother’s, titled The Child.
He said quietly to Sherlock, “There are only three of my grandmother’s paintings I haven’t seen since I was her age.” He pointed to the little girl. “This is one of them. The Cronins have owned it for a very long time.”
Atkinson nodded at the painting. “You like that painting? I think it’s kind of pretty.”
Sherlock smiled at him. “The artist is Sarah Elliott, Dillon’s grandmother. Most of her paintings are in museums.”
Atkinson said, “My wife tells me I’m going to get shot for my big mouth one day, since I’m too big to bother beating on.”
Savich waved it away. They followed Atkinson into the living room on their right, a barn of a room that was, surprisingly, toasty warm, the fire in the old brick fireplace blasting out heat like a bellows. Palmer and Avilla Cronin sat pressed together on a sofa, silent, their eyes moving to the three agents walking toward them into the room. Even their eyes looked flattened, Sherlock thought, and no wonder.
Their deadening pain was palpable in the very air, bowing the Cronins under the weight of it. Sherlock knew the pain would morph into rage and blame; it was the only way to survive such devastation. The Cronins would blame the monster who murdered their grandson, yes, but she knew they would blame the world at large and the FBI as well, for not somehow preventing Tommy’s murder from happening in the first place. It was human nature, and she’d seen it far too many times, and was prepared for it.
Palmer Cronin was seventy-seven, once a compact and solid man, with swarthy skin and lots of hair, and looking more in keeping with his moniker, Big Buddha. Now he was thin, his shoulders stooped, his hair a tonsure of gray around his large head. He looked, Savich thought, ten years older than the last time Savich had seen him on the cover of The Economist six months before. Inside the covers was a smoothly ironic review of Cronin’s decisions and where they’d led, with photos of mortgage, banking, and investment-firm villains sprinkling the pages.
Cronin was wearing ancient leather bedroom slippers, old brown wool pants, a faded plain brown shirt, and, oddly, a lovely new pale blue cashmere cardigan. A Christmas present?
He got slowly to his feet, shuffled more than walked across to them, and looked up at Savich. He seemed folded in on himself, Savich thought, his face pale and drawn, but those dark eyes of his were deep and hard with an intelligence that looked beyond every word uttered to him to the consequences of his reply. Odd, Savich thought, that such formidable intelligence had gone so awry in what had been his undisputed area of expertise.
And now this. This man whose daughter-in-law had died two years before, and his only son last year, had now seen his only grandson brutally murdered yesterday. His name would die with him. He looked, Savich thought, like he’d reached the end of his road and didn’t care.
Cronin said, his voice flat, “You’re the FBI agents Director Mueller told me he was sending.”
