Savich said, “Have you spoken to your son about Tommy’s murder, Mr. Biaggini?”
“No, I have not seen him since Thursday evening, when he came over to the house for dinner. Spaghetti, always spaghetti. Peter loves his mother’s meat sauce. My son is very popular, always in demand. Although he spends much of his time on campus, he also has his own apartment over on Winston Avenue.”
“Peter has three residences? One of them an apartment? Why?” Sherlock asked. “I understand you live with the rest of your family—Peter’s mom and his two younger brothers, nearby in Hillsborough?”
“His mother and I gave it to him as a gift for his senior year, to give the young man some privacy. We can always let the lease go when he moves to New York for Caruthers and Milton.”
Savich already knew about Mr. Biaggini’s extravagant gift to his eldest son—not too surprising, perhaps, for a successful owner of a chain of cosmetics stores. But he also knew about Peter’s country club membership, and the two troublesome DUIs he’d gotten in Virginia. No consequences for Peter, thanks to his father’s intervention.
Savich said, “How is your son doing in his senior classes at Magdalene?”
“Why, he’s doing very well. He’s a brilliant young man. Even though Peter is—was—Tommy’s senior by nearly two years, they were still close growing up; our families spent time together.”
Sherlock said, “Did you like Tommy, as a person?”
Mr. Biaggini thought about this for a moment. “Tommy was usually well mannered, respectful. But I remember thinking that as a teenager Tommy saw people as they really were and took advantage when he could. The word sly comes to mind, though it pains me to say such a thing now that he’s dead.”
Sherlock said, “Could you give us an example?”
Mr. Biaggini looked thoughtful. “I remember hearing him bait his aunt, Marian Lodge, about not preventing his mother’s suicide. I will admit, I was appalled and thought that was very unlike him, since he had to know that was very painful for her.” He shrugged. “Then his father died and Tommy seemed to change; he looked out for his younger sisters, became more thoughtful, more mature, rather than a spoiled teenage boy spewing out hormones and attitude. I guess you could say he became the man of the house, and Marian seemed pleased to let him assume that role.”
Sherlock said, “Did Tommy Cronin defer too often to Peter?”
Mr. Biaggini blinked. “That’s quite a question to ask a father, Agent Sherlock, and it is difficult to answer because Peter and Tommy were so different from each other. What I mean is, my son is a natural leader, and Tommy, well, wasn’t. Tommy tended to hang back, as did Stony, to see what direction Peter wanted to go.” Mr. Biaggini looked away for a moment, shook his head. “Who knows what Tommy would have done with his life if he’d been allowed to keep it.”
She said, “And what do you know about Stony Hart, sir?”
“Stony? The second major member of Tommy’s circle, and Peter’s good friend as well, I might add. The three of them together since childhood. Unfortunately, Walter—Stony—lacks maturity, something common at his young age, I suppose, but with Stony I always wondered if he was ever going to grow up. He seems much younger than Peter in his behavior, in how he views the world and his place in it, even though he’s a year older. Even his father, a rather authoritarian man, still treats him like a teenager in some ways.
“Of the three friends, Stony was the shyest, and the hardest to pry away from his computers. I remember when he was only eleven years old he was caught trying to hack into a local bank.” Mr. Biaggini smiled at the memory. “The FBI, if I remember correctly, made it a point to scare the socks off him.
“Stony is a kind soul, though; he seems to feel things more than most others. I’ve noticed over the years that his father thinks Stony’s kindness is a weakness, makes him less a man. But he’s wrong.”
Sherlock said, “You don’t care for Mr. Hart, sir?”
“No, I don’t,” Mr. Biaggini said. He paused for a long moment, studied his thumbnail, then added, “Wakefield Hart wants Stony to be a chip off the proverbial old block, but he isn’t, and never will be.”
Savich rose and motioned Mr. Biaggini down the hall. He opened the door to the same interview room Stony had occupied not two hours before.
As with Stony, Coop and Lucy stood silent and grim, their backs against the wall, arms crossed over their chests. Unlike Stony, though, Peter Biaggini was sprawled in his chair, looking loose and bored, his fingers tapping a smart tattoo on the tabletop. He was whistling under his breath and texting on his cell with racing fingers. Sherlock’s first thought was that he could be Dillon’s younger brother—handsome as sin, dark-eyed like his father—surely strong enough to haul Tommy Cronin over his shoulder and drop him at Lincoln’s feet.