Bombshell
Page 64
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Savich said, “When exactly did you stop seeing Tommy and start up with Peter Biaggini?”
“Weeks ago, really, right after Christmas.”
“And Peter then took over Tommy’s assistance with your bills?”
“No! Well—a little bit.”
Savich said, “You’ve been making healthy cash deposits since around the first of the year, right? All from Peter?”
She hadn’t expected that question and stumbled out a reply. “What of it? Peter’s a really nice guy—”
And you’re so beautiful you drop boys in their tracks at twenty feet, a perfect damsel in distress. “Like Tommy?” Sherlock asked. “How many other boys have helped you out since you arrived in Washington, Ms. Ivy?”
“I know you’re federal officers, but you shouldn’t be able to look at my bank account. It’s not right. It’s none of your business how much money my friends lend me.”
“I agree,” Savich said, rising. “A cop would never do that without a warrant.”
She looked at him, realized she’d emptied her bucket without a whimper and looked furious. She jumped to her feet. “I didn’t have anything to do with Tommy’s awful murder, I didn’t! Peter said you’d come here and threaten me, but I couldn’t imagine why you would. Peter was with me, he really was. Yes, I remember now, we did make love. He didn’t snore; he never does. He didn’t have anything to do with Tommy’s death; he didn’t.”
Sherlock said, “Ms. Ivy, I really hope you’re not lying to us. But I’ve got to tell you, I do wonder if you’re telling us the whole truth about Friday night. I’d hate to see you in a federal penitentiary for a couple of years. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”
“I’m not lying; I’m not.”
Sherlock smiled. “I think you might do very well in TV someday if you guard your reputation, your looks. Oh, yes, if you’re not lying, then I suggest you be careful around Peter Biaggini. I would wager my Super Bowl ticket that if he drugged your wine he might have killed Tommy, too.” She shrugged. “I fear you could be a loose end, Ms. Ivy.”
“There’s no reason for Peter to kill Tommy. I mean, why would he? I left Tommy for him. He knows that. He won! I don’t know if he made fun of Tommy about it, I don’t, but why would he? They were friends forever!”
At last the truth, Sherlock thought.
Savich said, “Ms. Ivy, a tech could be here in a half hour to draw your blood, and we could find out.”
She stared at Savich as though he’d grown an extra head. “Draw my blood? No! My mom would never allow that, never. Peter’s not bad, really, he’s—”
“Very generous, I know,” Sherlock said. She handed Melissa a card. “Wouldn’t you like to know what really happened on Friday night, Ms. Ivy? Perhaps you owe it to Tommy to try to find out the truth.”
Melissa stared at the card but said nothing more. Savich turned at the doorway. “Ms. Ivy, like Agent Sherlock, I caution you not to speak to Peter Biaggini. If you tell him you don’t remember spending the whole night with him, if you can’t really give him an alibi, you could be a danger to him.”
Sherlock’s last sight of Melissa Ivy was her chewing on her lower lip, her pink UGGs bright on the banged-up hardwood entrance hall.
Maurie’s Diner
Maestro, Virginia
Sunday evening
Griffin eyed Anna, the kick-butt waitress wearing a Maurie’s red apron, and decided her full name, Lilyanna, brought to a man’s mind a vision of a flowy-dressed Southern woman with long loose hair lifting romantically in a summer breeze while she served sweet tea on the front porch. Nope, this was a solid Anna with a Glock 22 stuck in her jeans. He realized he’d like to get into it with her, let her wrestle him down. Griffin shook his head. He was losing it. He watched her, always friendly to the customers, always a smile in place. She was moving closer to their booth.
He’d brought Delsey here for dinner after she’d awakened, showered all the hospital off her again, she’d told him, since once wasn’t enough, and managed to cover the sutures with a small bandage, a hank of hair covering it.
A ketchup-drenched french fry paused on the way to her mouth. “Hey, whatever are you thinking about, Griffin?” She smiled over at Anna, watched her wave a menu at them, then start over.
She saw her brother’s eyes follow. “Hmm. Maybe you don’t have to tell me. She’s something, isn’t she?”
“Weeks ago, really, right after Christmas.”
“And Peter then took over Tommy’s assistance with your bills?”
“No! Well—a little bit.”
Savich said, “You’ve been making healthy cash deposits since around the first of the year, right? All from Peter?”
She hadn’t expected that question and stumbled out a reply. “What of it? Peter’s a really nice guy—”
And you’re so beautiful you drop boys in their tracks at twenty feet, a perfect damsel in distress. “Like Tommy?” Sherlock asked. “How many other boys have helped you out since you arrived in Washington, Ms. Ivy?”
“I know you’re federal officers, but you shouldn’t be able to look at my bank account. It’s not right. It’s none of your business how much money my friends lend me.”
“I agree,” Savich said, rising. “A cop would never do that without a warrant.”
She looked at him, realized she’d emptied her bucket without a whimper and looked furious. She jumped to her feet. “I didn’t have anything to do with Tommy’s awful murder, I didn’t! Peter said you’d come here and threaten me, but I couldn’t imagine why you would. Peter was with me, he really was. Yes, I remember now, we did make love. He didn’t snore; he never does. He didn’t have anything to do with Tommy’s death; he didn’t.”
Sherlock said, “Ms. Ivy, I really hope you’re not lying to us. But I’ve got to tell you, I do wonder if you’re telling us the whole truth about Friday night. I’d hate to see you in a federal penitentiary for a couple of years. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”
“I’m not lying; I’m not.”
Sherlock smiled. “I think you might do very well in TV someday if you guard your reputation, your looks. Oh, yes, if you’re not lying, then I suggest you be careful around Peter Biaggini. I would wager my Super Bowl ticket that if he drugged your wine he might have killed Tommy, too.” She shrugged. “I fear you could be a loose end, Ms. Ivy.”
“There’s no reason for Peter to kill Tommy. I mean, why would he? I left Tommy for him. He knows that. He won! I don’t know if he made fun of Tommy about it, I don’t, but why would he? They were friends forever!”
At last the truth, Sherlock thought.
Savich said, “Ms. Ivy, a tech could be here in a half hour to draw your blood, and we could find out.”
She stared at Savich as though he’d grown an extra head. “Draw my blood? No! My mom would never allow that, never. Peter’s not bad, really, he’s—”
“Very generous, I know,” Sherlock said. She handed Melissa a card. “Wouldn’t you like to know what really happened on Friday night, Ms. Ivy? Perhaps you owe it to Tommy to try to find out the truth.”
Melissa stared at the card but said nothing more. Savich turned at the doorway. “Ms. Ivy, like Agent Sherlock, I caution you not to speak to Peter Biaggini. If you tell him you don’t remember spending the whole night with him, if you can’t really give him an alibi, you could be a danger to him.”
Sherlock’s last sight of Melissa Ivy was her chewing on her lower lip, her pink UGGs bright on the banged-up hardwood entrance hall.
Maurie’s Diner
Maestro, Virginia
Sunday evening
Griffin eyed Anna, the kick-butt waitress wearing a Maurie’s red apron, and decided her full name, Lilyanna, brought to a man’s mind a vision of a flowy-dressed Southern woman with long loose hair lifting romantically in a summer breeze while she served sweet tea on the front porch. Nope, this was a solid Anna with a Glock 22 stuck in her jeans. He realized he’d like to get into it with her, let her wrestle him down. Griffin shook his head. He was losing it. He watched her, always friendly to the customers, always a smile in place. She was moving closer to their booth.
He’d brought Delsey here for dinner after she’d awakened, showered all the hospital off her again, she’d told him, since once wasn’t enough, and managed to cover the sutures with a small bandage, a hank of hair covering it.
A ketchup-drenched french fry paused on the way to her mouth. “Hey, whatever are you thinking about, Griffin?” She smiled over at Anna, watched her wave a menu at them, then start over.
She saw her brother’s eyes follow. “Hmm. Maybe you don’t have to tell me. She’s something, isn’t she?”
