Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) (5 page)

Maestro, Virginia

Early Saturday afternoon

Griffin had to pull over for half a dozen big SUVs on his prayer-filled drive through winding snow-drenched streets on his way from the hospital to Professor Salazar’s house on Golden Meadow Terrace in Maestro. He slid up as close as he could to the curb in front of Professor Salazar’s ranch-style home. Its sloping roof and large front yard were covered with snow and flanked by snow-laden oak and pine trees. He counted four cars in the driveway. Was the party still going on?

The front door opened before he could raise his hand to knock.

A woman about his age, wearing pink shorts, of all things—and in the winter and while it was snowing—a nubby pink sweater, and black boots to her knees blinked up at him. Her hair was long and black, parted in the middle, hanging down on either side of her pale, striking face. She eyed him. “Oh, I thought it was Barbara finally back from Starbucks, but no, you are a guy.”

She sounded French. She’d spoken formally, but her English seemed perfectly fluent. A student?

“How can you tell?” Griffin’s face was covered up to his eyebrows.

She said, “You are tall, and I can picture your legs inside those nicely fitting jeans. Come on in; everyone is in the living room and kitchen. Hurry, I am freezing. Hang your coat on the rack.”

No wonder she was freezing, Griffin thought, watching her hurry into the house, her hair streaming down her back, straight as a board. He shut the door behind him, shrugged out of his parka and wool scarf, pulled off his ski cap and gloves, and hung everything on a coat rack near the front door. She called over her shoulder, “I am Gabrielle DuBois. I am Parisian, in case you are wondering about my accent. I play the oboe. Rafael and I make beautiful music together.”

Guitar and oboe duets?

“I sing as well—in fact, better than I play the oboe.”

“That’s nice to know,” Griffin said.

She turned to say something else and her mouth snapped shut. She stopped in her tracks and stared at him.

“
Mon Dieu
, if you had been at the party last night every female would have wanted to leave with you.
C’est pas bon—
Rafael isn’t going to like you at all. Who are you?”

Griffin thought she sounded both a bit alarmed and amused. Her French accent had thickened, and why was that? He fumbled pulling his creds out of his jeans pocket because her eyes were following his every move. He gritted his teeth, finally held up his shield. “Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI.”

“Mais c’est impossible!”
came out of her mouth. She cleared her throat and said, “But how can you be an FBI agent? I mean, you should be a movie star like Brad Pitt.”

“Can’t act,” he said.

Gabrielle gave him a classic Gallic shrug. “Ah, but who would care if you can act, except for those idiot critics no one with a heart pays any attention to?”

A male voice heavy with the mellifluous cadence of Barcelona called out, “Gabrielle! Who is at the door? Is it Barbara? With my Starbucks nonfat mocha cinnamon latte?”

Griffin waved a hand toward the voice. “Professor Salazar, I presume?”

“Yes, that is he, and he is not going to like you,
pas du tout.
” Gabrielle gave him a wicked smile, and sashayed away, hips at full throttle. Griffin smiled after her since he wasn’t dead, and followed her mobile butt and swinging hair toward the noise. He’d hoped to find the professor alone, but that was not to be.

He stepped into a long, narrow living room to see a half-dozen women, though none in shorts like Gabrielle, all chatting and laughing as they filled plastic tubs with dirty plates and glasses, emptied overflowing ashtrays, rearranged furniture. How did the good professor manage to pull off a cleaning crew like this? And in this weather? Griffin was impressed.

Professor Salazar was the only man in the room. Griffin hadn’t taken the time to check up on Salazar before he came over. He wanted to get a sense of his character before knowing anything else about him. He was tall and dark, his black eyes heavily lidded—
smooth-looking
was the word that came to Griffin’s mind. His haughty dark brows and high-bridged nose were set in a face that hadn’t seen forty in a good long time. He had thick black hair, with distinguished flecks of gray at the temples, and beautiful hands, with long, tapered fingers. All in all, Griffin thought, he managed to carry off the European aristocrat look rather well, but sadly, he also reminded Griffin of a complacent lizard sunning on a rock, fully aware that his rock was the most important anywhere around. He was wearing dark slacks, moccasins, and of all things, he wore a smoking jacket. A cigarillo dangled between his fingers. Maybe he was trying for the Barcelona Bohemian look. Griffin wanted to tell him he was an idiot to smoke.

He was staring toward Griffin, not moving. He did not look happy. And why was that, since his house was getting cleaned for him?

“Oh, hi,” said another young woman, stepping in front of him. She came to his armpit, a little fairy with long glossy light brown hair kept back from her face with a gold band. She was wearing sweats and sneakers. “I’m Gloria. I play the viola.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “My goodness, I can’t believe Professor Salazar actually asked you here to help clean up. Why haven’t I ever seen you before?”

“I just got into town.”

She brightened. “What is your instrument?”

“Sorry, no instrument.” He pulled out his creds again. “He didn’t invite me. I’m from the FBI, here to see the professor.”

Gloria blinked up at him as she quickly stepped back. “I swear we didn’t smoke anything but a little weed last night, and Professor Salazar didn’t know about it, well, maybe he did, but he didn’t have any—I didn’t see any cocaine or anything
really
illegal like that, really.”

“I’m here because of Delsey Freestone.” He’d raised his voice a bit and the room fell silent, every face fastened on his. “Have you heard what happened to her?”

Griffin saw Professor Salazar straighten when he said Delsey’s name. He hurried over, introducing himself in midstride. Griffin showed him his creds and the good professor waved them away.

“What do you mean about Delsey? Something’s happened to her? Is she all right? She left last night without telling me. I looked for her, but someone said she slipped out the back door. I tried calling her this morning to see if she wanted to come over, but there was no answer, only voice mail. Why is the FBI here?”

Griffin told them Delsey was in the hospital with a concussion because she’d been struck down in her apartment late last night, assailant unknown. He said nothing about the blood in the bathtub. “No one called any of you? Apparently, it’s all over town.”

Salazar said, “Our little party ended rather late. I gather many of us have hardly been out. But she will be all right, will she not?”

Griffin nodded.

“I’m so sorry,” another young woman said, this one thin as her black pigtails, and wearing six rings on her fingers. She reminded him of Abby on
NCIS
, but without the tattoos. “Delsey’s a sweetheart. Was it a robbery?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

“Can we see her?”

“She has a concussion, so she’s not up to visitors yet,” Griffin said.

“Please tell her we’re all hoping she gets well soon.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s awfully cold out. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you. I prefer to wait for Barbara and that Starbucks nonfat mocha cinnamon latte.”

There were nervous laughs.

“This is terrible,” Salazar said, stubbing out his cigarillo in an ashtray held out to him by another woman, this one about Delsey’s age. Salazar’s accent grew exponentially thicker as he said, flapping his hands, “My beautiful Delsey, how could such a thing happen here in Maestro? This is hardly New York, where robberies take place every second. Who would do this? She should have been safe here, but then again, this is America, and who knows what can happen anywhere in America? There is too much violence on your television. It is disgraceful.

“Poor Delsey would have stayed here if Elliot had left her alone, but no, he was all over her, getting her to drink his deadly margaritas—and that is why she went home and interrupted a robbery, is this correct? It is his fault this happened.” Salazar caught himself when he realized every ear in the living room was wide open and receiving.

“We don’t know yet whether or not it was a robbery.”

Salazar shrugged that off. “Come with me, Agent Hammersmith. We will go to my study and I will answer all your questions.” He gave a general nod to the women in his living room and walked out.

Griffin smiled at the women. “After I’ve spoken to the professor, I’d like to speak to each of you. Please don’t leave.”

“We cannot leave at all until we finish cleaning up this pigsty,” Gabrielle said.

Skinny Black Pigtails said, “How did this stain get on the sofa?”

Gloria, the little fairy, sang out, “Who could even get in Delsey’s apartment? She has a gazillion locks on the door.”

She got that one right,
Griffin thought. Delsey always locked up tight ever since a kid had broken into her apartment in Santa Monica, looking for dope. Delsey, of course, had walked in on him, belted him with a lamp, and called the cops. Last night she never realized the back door had been broken open.

Gabrielle said, “I know who you are now, Agent Hammersmith. You’re Delsey’s brother. She looks like you. She also talks about you all the time.” She turned away, said to no one in particular, “Perhaps she was involved in something very bad, I think, knowing she has this beautiful FBI brother to protect her.” He heard her add, a bit of venom lacing her words, “You know she is all about trying to steal other women’s men. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Sounds like you’ve got an enemy here, Delsey. Who is she jealous about?

Griffin followed Salazar down a short hallway and through a soundproofed door on the right. It was a music room, not a study. Four different beautifully crafted antique classical guitars, all polished to high brilliance, were placed with obvious care by a loving hand throughout the room. A music stand with open music on it stood by a shining black baby grand piano, and folding chairs were lined up side by side against a wall, as if Salazar practiced for an audience. Probably the group in his living room.

Griffin walked to the small fireplace, leaned against the mantel, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me what you know about Delsey. You said someone called Elliot was showing her too much attention at your party last night. Who is that, Professor Salazar?”

Salazar gave a Gallic shrug to rival Gabrielle’s and walked to the grand piano. He paused a moment, pulled a white handkerchief out of his smoking jacket pocket, and lightly rubbed it over a small spot on the piano lid, then moved to stand behind a small, hypermodern ebony desk in the corner. “I am as sorry about Delsey as you are, Agent, believe me. You have my sympathy. As for Elliot, I suppose you will find out soon enough. I was speaking of Dr. Elliot Hayman. He is the director of Stanislaus and also my brother—my twin brother, to be exact. We are fraternal twins and so are not mirrors of each other.”

“I understand the two of you grew up apart.”

“That’s right. I was a teenager before I saw him again, in Madrid, but we are brothers, and thus when he invited me to spend a year at Stanislaus, I accepted. Now, I will tell you that what happened last night is not unusual. This time Elliot focused on Delsey, gave her margaritas he made himself. I must say that Elliot is entirely too familiar with female students here, despite his position. I have told him as much, but he ignores me. As for the Stanislaus board, they pretend not to notice. You would think they’d be more watchful, since Dr. Gordon Holcombe, the former director of Stanislaus, left under, let us say, a very black cloud.”

The pot and the kettle.
“What cloud was this, Professor?”

“There were murders here at Stanislaus last year. It is believed Dr. Holcombe murdered his longtime secretary and lover. He fled. No one knows where he is. I doubt anyone is looking for him, since I was told there isn’t enough evidence to send him to jail.”

So this was the horrific trouble Ruth and Dr. Chesney had spoken about. He wanted to know more about it, but not now. Griffin asked, “So Dr. Hayman was asked to become the director of Stanislaus after Dr. Holcombe’s departure?”

“Yes. He plays the piano rather well on the international stage, and that gives him the stature for his position, and a certain cachet, I suppose. But withal he has the soul of an administrator, so he was taken to be a good choice by the board.”

Griffin said, “Your brother invited you here, yet you don’t get along?”

Salazar drew up. “I am not criticizing my brother. I merely state facts.”

“You mean it’s a fact that Dr. Hayman seduces Stanislaus students?”

Salazar spared him a condescending glance. “I know it is difficult for you, but you must try to understand. It is not at all uncommon among musicians—these attempts to connect with those who share our passions, to keep our balance, and, shall I say it, to gain a certain release. It happens everywhere. Music is a haunting mistress that can consume the souls of the truly gifted.”

And the Spanish lizard shrugged yet again.
As if that said it all,
Griffin thought,
and excused any behavior.
He said, “I see. So as long as one is careful and exercises a bit of discretion, these connections are overlooked, ignored?”

“It is the civilized thing to do.”

“Then why were you so angry with Dr. Hayman for wanting to forge a connection to Delsey?”

“I suppose because she was hurt last night and because Elliot is not what she needs. She is an innocent, though she is a brilliant musician, more driven than most. It is unfortunate she continues to pursue a commercial path. I am endeavoring to guide her away from that profane choice.” He lightly flicked a spot of lint from his smoking jacket. “Naturally, Delsey, like all gifted musicians, needs guidance.”

“And you wish to be the one to provide this guidance?”

If Salazar suspected irony, he didn’t show it. He merely nodded. “That is correct. We are like spirits, she and I.”

Amazing.

“
But tell me, Agent, what happened to her last night? What
really
happened to her, not the press version you gave out to those credulous girls in the living room.”

Griffin smiled. “What happened was exactly what I said. I have nothing more to add for the moment.” He realized he really wanted to punch out the lizard—not good, he had to get control of himself. He said, “I assume you’re enjoying your year here at Stanislaus?”

“Yes, certainly. So many talented musicians, and the atmosphere here is intimate and congenial and conducive to study and performance. Not like all the distractions that plague Juilliard, for example.”

“Professor Salazar, you said Delsey slipped out without anyone seeing her?”

“Hardly anyone. I went looking for her, but I could not find her. Clarice—she is one of our flautists—told me she saw Delsey slip out the back door. She saw her do this, so it is not supposition. I know she was escaping him. There is no doubt in my mind.”

“Did you notice if anyone else left the party about the same time Delsey snuck out?”

This gave Salazar pause. He slowly shook his head. “Not that I can remember. One of the students demanded my attention, and I was occupied. Always the students need my attention.”

“Was Delsey drunk from the margaritas Dr. Hayman gave her?”

“It is possible.”

“Did you ever hear Delsey mention she was worried about someone? Another student, perhaps? Another professor here at Stanislaus?”

“No, certainly not. Well, the students—you must understand that competition is not only encouraged, it is necessary. There are few truly major orchestra seats available for talented musicians to win. For those students, like Delsey, who wish to gain success in composition, there are also many others vying for recognition. Talent is not enough. It is drive that gains the brass ring. Delsey’s fingers could close on the ring, if she would fight for it.”

“Could all that competition have led to violence? Out of jealousy, perhaps?”

“Surely not, but it is a thought that must intrude, is it not?” He frowned toward one of his guitars. “Drive and effort are what are needful in every worthwhile pursuit in life. Perhaps even in yours?” Again, a whiff of contempt.

“Perhaps you will be able to observe that for yourself, Professor,” Griffin said.

When Griffin left Salazar’s study, he heard him shout for Barbara to bring him his nonfat mocha cinnamon latte. Griffin returned to the living room, settled in on the sofa with the stain, and started asking questions.

Gabrielle DuBois said, “There was no earthly
raison
for Dr. Hayman to single her out, but Professor Salazar is right. He did last night, gave her drink after drink. And why, I ask you?” Her French accent was very pronounced, this time for dramatic effect, enough to make Griffin grin. “I mean, does she sing like Edith Piaf?
Non
, she does not. She has not the talent to achieve any sort of magnificent height.”
Like mine,
he heard her add under her breath.

If Gabrielle was edgy and harsh in her dislike of Delsey, Griffin soon got the impression several of the other women also didn’t appreciate Delsey’s getting so much of Dr. Hayman’s attention. Simple jealousy or ambition? He realized some of the women were frightened about the attack because it was too close to home. Others appeared to be worried about Delsey, but none of them admitted to anything strange or unusual having happened at the party the previous evening or to having any idea who might have hurt her.

Griffin asked the group, “Why do you think Professor Salazar and Dr. Hayman don’t get along?”

Barbara of Starbucks fame, a full-bodied future opera singer with an incredibly rich speaking voice, said, “They’re brothers, twins. I’ll bet they’ve competed since they were kids, fought all the time. And now here they are together again at Stanislaus, both fishing in the same pond.”

The little fairy, Gloria of viola fame, said, “Really, Barbara, I don’t like to think of myself as a tuna. Professor Salazar and Dr. Hayman have made it into a fine art. But, you know, I can’t recall ever hearing Dr. Hayman saying anything about Professor Salazar.”

“Professor Salazar, on the other hand,” Barbara said, “is always insulting, snipping, but only when Dr. Hayman isn’t around.”

Gloria said, “It is true, though, many of the professors who aren’t married or near death are the same way.” She grinned at him. “But the professors aren’t stupid. Most of them steer really clear of the undergraduate students.”

Black Pigtails said, “No one wants to be lonely, do they? Everyone wants some attention and intimacy now and then, and what’s wrong with that? I only wish Professor Salazar would pay for our gas to come here.”

Gabrielle said, “Yes, but Professor Salazar is not like his brother. He is seeing me, only me.”

Black Pigtails said matter-of-factly, “Yes, and since Professor Salazar told you you sing like Edith Piaf, you’ve practically had it tattooed on your butt.”

There was one lone snigger.

Salazar strolled into the room, his Starbucks cup in one hand. He didn’t look at Griffin, but told Gabrielle he was certain he’d seen a small sausage roll beneath the sofa. She was on her hands and knees in an instant, her butt in the air, and he stood behind her, smoking another cigarette.

Griffin had to admit it, he was shocked, though none of the other women seemed to find her display unusual.

Griffin left Salazar’s rented house on Golden Meadow Terrace a thoughtful man. Would Delsey have ever told him about this soap opera?