Bombshell
Page 98
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Stop. Back up. The one thing Savich was sure of was that Tommy’s murderer was a man. A woman could have shoved Tommy Cronin out of a two-story window, perhaps, a fall that had broken so many of his bones, but he couldn’t imagine a woman hauling him to the Lincoln Memorial, stripping him naked, and displaying him at Lincoln’s feet. That took a good deal of strength. Two people, then? He shook his head at the utter debasement of the act.
He pictured each of the men he’d met in the past three days, not all that many, really, and had one of them been Tommy’s killer? Or was he still off the mark, despite all the evidence against Hart? It could have been an acquaintance, a student at Magdalene who hated Palmer Cronin enough, perhaps on his own father’s or mother’s behalf, to strike out in rage at his grandson. He saw Palmer Cronin’s aged grieving face, then August Biaggini’s face when his son had treated him with such contempt on Sunday afternoon, and finally, Wakefield Hart’s face, set and angry, ready to do battle for his son that same afternoon.
He let his mind return to the victims, picture them in death. Tommy Cronin’s dead, bone-white face, Stony’s peaceful face, then, finally, Peter Biaggini’s, covered in blood.
Savich saw Stony’s face clearly in his mind, saw the bewilderment, the horror when they’d accused him of uploading Tommy’s photo. No, Stony hadn’t done that, but he knew who had, and it had shaken his world. A user of people wouldn’t have cared so much. Was he the innocent victim in all this?
His thoughts drifted and time passed until he realized he was circling back on himself, torturing and distorting his own thoughts to make them fit the facts. He still had too few of them, and he would have to find more.
His cell played Bob Dylan again.
“Dillon? Delsey here.”
He went immediately on alert.
“No, no, everything’s okay here. Remember my pilot, Agent Davis Sullivan, who flew me in from Maestro? He’s here, and I’d like to go to the Bonhomie Club with him tonight.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be too smart, Delsey.”
“Maybe Davis and I could come to the CAU and talk about this with you?”
Savich smiled into the phone. “Tell you what, invite Davis over for dinner tonight. Tell him I’ve got an idea I want to talk over with him.”
He punched off, leaving Delsey midsentence trying to wrangle more out of him. His phone buzzed a message. From Bo Horsley. Heard about kid’s murder. Call me when get it finished.
Jesse stuck his head in. “All done, Savich. Wait till you see the sketch.”
Maestro, Virginia
Tuesday morning
Thank heaven Rob and Rafe were in school, Ruth thought, as a dozen DEA agents in Kevlar vests piled into her house with her husband, Anna, and Griffin to talk strategy. There were eight men and four women among them, all talking, all pumped, downing cups of coffee at a manic clip from two huge urns and lacing up their hiking boots. Their MP-5 assault rifles were a daunting sight piled by the front wall, black satchels next to them holding additional magazines. She looked over at the piles of headlamps and flashlights everyone would need.
They were going to war. In a cave. She felt a spurt of fear for Dix, quashed it fast. If anyone could handle himself, it was her husband. She looked over at him, speaking to Mac Brannon, who was in charge of the operation. Anna had told her that her boss, Mr. Brannon, was a hardnose, but not unfair, and thankfully he didn’t seem to be a do-it-my-way-or-else type thus far, but who knew? He was creeping up on fifty, tall and fit, with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a rock-solid stubborn jaw. He seemed absolutely in control.
Griffin was speaking in a low voice to Anna, who looked very unlike the waitress at Maurie’s Diner this morning. Her long hair was braided in a single tail, wound around a couple of times and fastened at the base of her neck. She was wearing black, like her fellow agents. She looked honed to the bone and tough, a major league butt-kicker among a herd of butt-kickers in Ruth’s living room. Griffin looked relaxed enough, Ruth could see, and showed no signs of being in pain since he’d taken some aspirin a short time before. She knew Anna didn’t want him to go, but she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut now that she’d figured out he’d be in on the op if he had to crawl, which he wouldn’t have to do, thankfully. He looked as pumped as all the other agents, and ready, despite the cane. If Mac Brannon also eyed that cane askance, he didn’t say anything.
“People, listen up.”
Everyone quieted, turned again to Mac Brannon.
“If our intelligence is right, today we’re going to hit one of the biggest drug distribution operations in Virginia. And we’re going to take a bite out of MS-13. I’ve discussed strategy with Dix and Ruth, who know the cave well. We’ve also got three spelunkers with us—raise your hands, guys—thank you. So if you get into trouble, ask them for help.
He pictured each of the men he’d met in the past three days, not all that many, really, and had one of them been Tommy’s killer? Or was he still off the mark, despite all the evidence against Hart? It could have been an acquaintance, a student at Magdalene who hated Palmer Cronin enough, perhaps on his own father’s or mother’s behalf, to strike out in rage at his grandson. He saw Palmer Cronin’s aged grieving face, then August Biaggini’s face when his son had treated him with such contempt on Sunday afternoon, and finally, Wakefield Hart’s face, set and angry, ready to do battle for his son that same afternoon.
He let his mind return to the victims, picture them in death. Tommy Cronin’s dead, bone-white face, Stony’s peaceful face, then, finally, Peter Biaggini’s, covered in blood.
Savich saw Stony’s face clearly in his mind, saw the bewilderment, the horror when they’d accused him of uploading Tommy’s photo. No, Stony hadn’t done that, but he knew who had, and it had shaken his world. A user of people wouldn’t have cared so much. Was he the innocent victim in all this?
His thoughts drifted and time passed until he realized he was circling back on himself, torturing and distorting his own thoughts to make them fit the facts. He still had too few of them, and he would have to find more.
His cell played Bob Dylan again.
“Dillon? Delsey here.”
He went immediately on alert.
“No, no, everything’s okay here. Remember my pilot, Agent Davis Sullivan, who flew me in from Maestro? He’s here, and I’d like to go to the Bonhomie Club with him tonight.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be too smart, Delsey.”
“Maybe Davis and I could come to the CAU and talk about this with you?”
Savich smiled into the phone. “Tell you what, invite Davis over for dinner tonight. Tell him I’ve got an idea I want to talk over with him.”
He punched off, leaving Delsey midsentence trying to wrangle more out of him. His phone buzzed a message. From Bo Horsley. Heard about kid’s murder. Call me when get it finished.
Jesse stuck his head in. “All done, Savich. Wait till you see the sketch.”
Maestro, Virginia
Tuesday morning
Thank heaven Rob and Rafe were in school, Ruth thought, as a dozen DEA agents in Kevlar vests piled into her house with her husband, Anna, and Griffin to talk strategy. There were eight men and four women among them, all talking, all pumped, downing cups of coffee at a manic clip from two huge urns and lacing up their hiking boots. Their MP-5 assault rifles were a daunting sight piled by the front wall, black satchels next to them holding additional magazines. She looked over at the piles of headlamps and flashlights everyone would need.
They were going to war. In a cave. She felt a spurt of fear for Dix, quashed it fast. If anyone could handle himself, it was her husband. She looked over at him, speaking to Mac Brannon, who was in charge of the operation. Anna had told her that her boss, Mr. Brannon, was a hardnose, but not unfair, and thankfully he didn’t seem to be a do-it-my-way-or-else type thus far, but who knew? He was creeping up on fifty, tall and fit, with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a rock-solid stubborn jaw. He seemed absolutely in control.
Griffin was speaking in a low voice to Anna, who looked very unlike the waitress at Maurie’s Diner this morning. Her long hair was braided in a single tail, wound around a couple of times and fastened at the base of her neck. She was wearing black, like her fellow agents. She looked honed to the bone and tough, a major league butt-kicker among a herd of butt-kickers in Ruth’s living room. Griffin looked relaxed enough, Ruth could see, and showed no signs of being in pain since he’d taken some aspirin a short time before. She knew Anna didn’t want him to go, but she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut now that she’d figured out he’d be in on the op if he had to crawl, which he wouldn’t have to do, thankfully. He looked as pumped as all the other agents, and ready, despite the cane. If Mac Brannon also eyed that cane askance, he didn’t say anything.
“People, listen up.”
Everyone quieted, turned again to Mac Brannon.
“If our intelligence is right, today we’re going to hit one of the biggest drug distribution operations in Virginia. And we’re going to take a bite out of MS-13. I’ve discussed strategy with Dix and Ruth, who know the cave well. We’ve also got three spelunkers with us—raise your hands, guys—thank you. So if you get into trouble, ask them for help.
