Griffin showed Salazar the photo of the dead man, and after the expected demur, asked him, “Do you know any Hispanic males who might have hurt Delsey?”
Of all things, Salazar hummed. “Hurt her? Why? No, I’m afraid no name springs to mind.”
“Why do you think Delsey was attacked in her apartment?”
“I do not know. It maddens and taunts me.”
When Griffin left Dr. Hayman’s lovely bungalow he looked back to see Professor Salazar and Dr. Hayman standing together in the open doorway; they appeared to be arguing. His interviews with the two men had been informative, but not particularly helpful. He found them strangely alien; he’d met many kinds of people, but none as self-absorbed as these two. Could he believe what either of them had said? And why this fascination with his sister?
Maestro, Virginia
Sunday afternoon
When Dix pulled his SUV into his driveway early that afternoon, he heard Brewster—his four-pound toy poodle—barking his head off. He opened the front door and quickly grabbed him up and held him away from him when he walked into the house so Brewster wouldn’t pee on him in his excitement. As it was, he, Ruth, and the boys were supporting the dry cleaner.
“Yeah, yeah, fluffball, I’m home, and yes, I’ll take you outside, but you’re not going to like it.”
“No need,” Ruth said, coming out to see him, a big spoon in her hand. “Rafe took him out a few minutes ago, laughing his head off when Brewster sank into the snow over his head. Turned into a game. Soup’s on.” She pushed through a half-dozen licks from Brewster when she tried to kiss her husband. “I invited Griffin to stop over to get something to eat and take some of your yummy chili—if there’s any left—back to Delsey. She’s probably really tired of hospital food. He says she’s seen the photo, Dix, and confirms it’s the same man.”
She took Brewster, let him lick her some more, and shouted to her boys, who were watching a recording of the football play-off game from last night in the living room. She made them promise to wash essence of Brewster off their hands before lunch.
“I’m glad the photos have been of some use,” Dix said as he took off his thick jacket and leaned over to pull off his boots. “We’ve been showing them around town, and we’ve heard everything from his being a salesman from Henderson to a basketball scout visiting the high school. The guy was friendly, like Delsey and Anna told us, visited with everyone, but no one knew his name.”
“Maybe Dillon’s facial-recognition program could help,” Ruth said.
“Maybe. Is it halftime yet? I missed the game last night, too, you know.”
“Nope, in a few minutes, depending on the number of time-outs the coaches take. We can watch the game if you like while we chow down on your chili and corn bread, made from—who was it? Oh, yes, your granddad’s favorite recipe. And I made the mandatory salad I expect everyone to eat.”
As they set up trays to take to the living room, Ruth said, “I spoke to Dillon, told him what was going on here. He’s tied up with his own case, that Tommy Cronin murder. He asked me to stay here and save your bacon and figure this all out for you.”
Dix laughed. “What a nice guy. That’s quite a case he’s got. Why murder a twenty-year-old and set him up on the world stage like that?” But Dix didn’t expect an answer. His eyes were locked on the TV and the game.
“What do you mean?”
Thankfully, there was a time-out, and she got his attention. “If it was payback, it’s like killing the messenger. I mean, why kill the boy when he wasn’t responsible for any of the mess himself? He’s not his grandfather.”
Ruth said slowly, “Unless it was some kind of message. ‘You all hurt me, so I’m taking one of yours’?”
“If that’s so, it’s a stranger world than I thought,” Dix said.
Chevy Chase, Maryland
Sunday morning
FBI Special Agent Ted Atkinson, a former college football tackle with a neck the size of Sherlock’s waist, met Savich and Sherlock at the oversized oak front door of the Cronin estate. “I’m glad to see you guys. It’s quiet as a tomb around here.” He cracked his knuckles. “What a terrible business.”
“Amen to that,” Sherlock said.
“Some of the media were here when I arrived early this morning.” He waved past the postcard-beautiful lawn with snow blanketing the maple and oak trees toward the three TV vans hunkered down at the distant curb. “Those gates you drove through have helped keep the vultures out, but they’re still sitting out there. Why? Do they think someone will welcome them in, tell them how they feel, offer them a latte? I take a stroll around the perimeter every once in a while, show them how big and mean I look. Did they hassle you?”