Bombshell
Page 77
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They followed her into a huge room with two glass walls filled with high-gloss black lacquered furniture, beautiful stuff that reflected your face back at you. Sherlock wondered how Regina kept it so spotless. They didn’t sit—couldn’t, really—it felt too much like they were on a stage, an unseen audience watching their every move.
Nearly five minutes passed before the door opened and Wakefield Hart came in. They’d been with him not twenty-four hours earlier. Yesterday he’d radiated an air of supreme confidence and a healthy dollop of arrogance. But not this Wakefield Hart. This man, the grieving father, looked haggard and pale and almost insubstantial, his bespoke English suit no longer flat against his sagging shoulders. The powerhouse man was awash in shadows, grief bleeding the life from him.
“You two again. Why are you here? To tell me my son is dead? I know my son is dead. Director Mueller gave me the courtesy of calling me himself. Did he send you here?”
Savich nodded. “We are very sorry about Stony. As you know, we must work very quickly, and that is why we’re here, to speak to you. We need your help, Mr. Hart.”
“Help for what? My son killed himself. If there is blame here, it is on you sadists. If not for you, my son would still be alive. You pushed him to this, treating him like a criminal, making him feel guilty over Tommy’s death. This is your fault. You should be brought up on murder charges.”
He eyed them for a brief instant, his hands fists at his sides.
Savich’s eyes held pity and infinite calm and patience. “Mr. Hart, we understand Stony was here Saturday morning.”
“Yes, he’d heard Tommy was dead. He drove here in that blizzard, nearly killed himself. He was distraught, as we all were. My son was broken; he was a mess. I tried to comfort him, but he was inconsolable.”
Sherlock said, “Mr. Hart, was Stony also here Friday?”
“Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Please answer, sir.”
“Yes, he was here, for a little while.”
“And what about Sunday after the interview at the CAU, after he called you?”
“Yes again. My wife and I asked him to come over, to talk with us about what happened. He was frightened and bewildered, said he knew nothing about Tommy’s death, or about that picture.”
Savich said, “We’re trying to pinpoint when Stony took your wife’s prescription pills, sir, whether he planned this before or after we brought him in to interview. It would help us all understand Stony’s death better, and maybe something more about why he did this.”
They looked up to see Regina standing in the doorway, wringing her hands. “It’s Mrs. Hart, sir, she cry. Please come now. She say cas-ket over and over, and she cry.”
Hart’s face was a study in contradictions: he wanted his wife to keep her awful grief away from him, he wanted to escape these FBI agents or, better yet, shoot them, and he wanted to be left alone in a corner somewhere, all his thoughts passing like movie frames across his face.
He said, “Forgive me, but my wife is distressed, as you can well imagine. At least one likes to believe you can imagine her pain,” and Hart walked quickly from the living room, and closed the door behind him.
Savich said, “Hart wants to blame anyone but the person who murdered Tommy. His lashing out at us is his way of dealing.”
“He deserves to be allowed whatever works for him for now. At least he’s talking with us.” Sherlock paused, rubbed her hands over her arms. “I’m cold. It’s this room, not the temperature.”
Savich agreed. “I wonder what it costs to keep these windows sparkling. It’s like being out of doors inside this room.” He turned directly to her, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “There’s a camera focused on us, over my left shoulder, molding height. Probably mikes, too.”
Sherlock took only a glancing look at the camera, then waved her hand toward the fireplace, built like a funnel of smoked glass. She said, “They use the fireplace often; look at how black it is on the inside.”
Savich nodded, felt his cell vibrate in his pocket. He answered, listened, and said after a moment, “Griffin, yes, Delsey’s at our house, safe and sound. Have you got your sketch of that dead gangbanger posted? And the one who ran down the alley?”
Sherlock listened to one-half of the conversation, her attention on Dillon, trying not to look at that camera until Mr. Hart walked back into the living room.
Savich looked up over at Hart, said something to Griffin, and punched off. “Mr. Hart, do you know whether Mrs. Hart noticed her prescription medication was missing? May we speak with her?”
Nearly five minutes passed before the door opened and Wakefield Hart came in. They’d been with him not twenty-four hours earlier. Yesterday he’d radiated an air of supreme confidence and a healthy dollop of arrogance. But not this Wakefield Hart. This man, the grieving father, looked haggard and pale and almost insubstantial, his bespoke English suit no longer flat against his sagging shoulders. The powerhouse man was awash in shadows, grief bleeding the life from him.
“You two again. Why are you here? To tell me my son is dead? I know my son is dead. Director Mueller gave me the courtesy of calling me himself. Did he send you here?”
Savich nodded. “We are very sorry about Stony. As you know, we must work very quickly, and that is why we’re here, to speak to you. We need your help, Mr. Hart.”
“Help for what? My son killed himself. If there is blame here, it is on you sadists. If not for you, my son would still be alive. You pushed him to this, treating him like a criminal, making him feel guilty over Tommy’s death. This is your fault. You should be brought up on murder charges.”
He eyed them for a brief instant, his hands fists at his sides.
Savich’s eyes held pity and infinite calm and patience. “Mr. Hart, we understand Stony was here Saturday morning.”
“Yes, he’d heard Tommy was dead. He drove here in that blizzard, nearly killed himself. He was distraught, as we all were. My son was broken; he was a mess. I tried to comfort him, but he was inconsolable.”
Sherlock said, “Mr. Hart, was Stony also here Friday?”
“Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Please answer, sir.”
“Yes, he was here, for a little while.”
“And what about Sunday after the interview at the CAU, after he called you?”
“Yes again. My wife and I asked him to come over, to talk with us about what happened. He was frightened and bewildered, said he knew nothing about Tommy’s death, or about that picture.”
Savich said, “We’re trying to pinpoint when Stony took your wife’s prescription pills, sir, whether he planned this before or after we brought him in to interview. It would help us all understand Stony’s death better, and maybe something more about why he did this.”
They looked up to see Regina standing in the doorway, wringing her hands. “It’s Mrs. Hart, sir, she cry. Please come now. She say cas-ket over and over, and she cry.”
Hart’s face was a study in contradictions: he wanted his wife to keep her awful grief away from him, he wanted to escape these FBI agents or, better yet, shoot them, and he wanted to be left alone in a corner somewhere, all his thoughts passing like movie frames across his face.
He said, “Forgive me, but my wife is distressed, as you can well imagine. At least one likes to believe you can imagine her pain,” and Hart walked quickly from the living room, and closed the door behind him.
Savich said, “Hart wants to blame anyone but the person who murdered Tommy. His lashing out at us is his way of dealing.”
“He deserves to be allowed whatever works for him for now. At least he’s talking with us.” Sherlock paused, rubbed her hands over her arms. “I’m cold. It’s this room, not the temperature.”
Savich agreed. “I wonder what it costs to keep these windows sparkling. It’s like being out of doors inside this room.” He turned directly to her, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “There’s a camera focused on us, over my left shoulder, molding height. Probably mikes, too.”
Sherlock took only a glancing look at the camera, then waved her hand toward the fireplace, built like a funnel of smoked glass. She said, “They use the fireplace often; look at how black it is on the inside.”
Savich nodded, felt his cell vibrate in his pocket. He answered, listened, and said after a moment, “Griffin, yes, Delsey’s at our house, safe and sound. Have you got your sketch of that dead gangbanger posted? And the one who ran down the alley?”
Sherlock listened to one-half of the conversation, her attention on Dillon, trying not to look at that camera until Mr. Hart walked back into the living room.
Savich looked up over at Hart, said something to Griffin, and punched off. “Mr. Hart, do you know whether Mrs. Hart noticed her prescription medication was missing? May we speak with her?”
