Her second thought was that he looked as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
When Peter saw his father flanked by two agents, Savich saw surprise and wariness register on his face before he caught himself and smoothed it out. Savich was impressed that a twenty-two-year-old could adjust the controls so quickly. His surprise and wariness were soon replaced by thinly veiled impatience and contempt in the look he sent his father—the Hair Spray King, isn’t that what he called him? Savich wanted to haul him out of his lizard pose, but he merely nodded to the young man. His father didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. Didn’t Biaggini Senior see what was written so clearly on the son’s face?
“. . . And Mr. Biaggini, this is Agent McKnight and Agent Carlyle.”
After nods and handshakes, Savich pointed to a chair at the end of the table. Before he sat, Mr. Biaggini reached out his hand to his son. “You haven’t returned your mother’s calls, Peter. Your mother and I are so very sorry about Tommy. Are you all right?”
Peter Biaggini stared at his dad, stared at his hand, darted a fast look at Savich, and gave his father’s hand a quick shake.
What are you like when you’re alone with him? Savich wondered.
Peter nodded. “I’m all right, though of course I’m upset; none of Tommy’s friends can believe it.” He nodded toward Coop and Lucy. “Those agents over there told me the cops brought me here to be questioned about his murder. I asked them why, but they wouldn’t answer me. I guess they didn’t know because they’re pretty low on the food chain around here.”
Lucy bit her lip to keep from grinning. Good shot, kid.
Peter continued to his father, “They must think we have something to do with it. I know I didn’t. Did you have him killed, Dad?”
Savich watched Biaggini Senior literally recoil from the flippant words out of his eldest son’s mouth. Then he drew himself up again, and his voice was austere. “That is not amusing, Peter. The agents do not believe that either you or I had anything to do with this tragedy; they simply want to know about Tommy.”
Peter never changed his lizard sprawl, and now an ugly sneer marred his mouth. “Tragedy, Dad? Tommy was murdered. Tragedy would be if he died of leukemia. That’s like calling 9/11 a tragedy when it was mass murder. You really think these agents only want our thoughts and advice? I don’t think so. I think they’re looking for someone to blame. So what happens when they find out you hated Tommy’s grandfather, called him a dangerous buffoon? I remember all your harangues about him, about practically the whole financial industry. Looks like somebody finally struck a blow against all the greed you hate so much. Tell me, Dad, are you really sorry?”
Peter Biaggini’s contempt seared the air. Sherlock saw Coop and Lucy exchange glances, their thoughts clear on their faces—Why doesn’t Biaggini slam that idiot son of his to the floor and kick him a couple of times?
Savich hoped they’d get back to their poker faces quickly, because he’d been watching Peter as he spoke and seen him preen when he got the reaction he’d wanted.
Mr. Biaggini was pale and still. It was obvious to Savich he was used to his son’s abusiveness. When he finally spoke, his voice was a model of tolerance, probably used for so long with his son it was an ingrained habit. “I doubt Palmer Cronin would agree anyone deserves what happened to Tommy. He’s devastated, Peter; so is Tommy’s grandmother. I imagine he would gladly have taken Tommy’s place if he’d been given the choice.”
Savich said, “I’m sure you’re quite upset, Peter. After all, Tommy Cronin was one of your best friends since when? You met when you were six years old and he was four, right?”
Peter Biaggini shrugged. “Tommy was lame as a kid, and he never really changed, but he was part of our group, right?”
Sherlock said, “So you’re saying you’re not upset that Tommy was murdered?”
Peter Biaggini turned dark eyes to her, very close to the color of Sean’s eyes, she thought, and it scared her that she’d noticed that. Could the malignancy that brimmed in Peter Biaggini possibly be lurking in Sean? Did a parent ever really know what would develop in her young child’s mind? Could a parent ever do more than guess and hope that her child would grow up to be honorable?
Peter’s fingers stopped their tapping, and he leaned toward Sherlock. “Of course I am upset. Even if you didn’t admire a person you grew up with, it would still leave a hole, don’t you think? A very deep hole. I’ll miss him.” They kept staring at each other, and Savich wondered, What is Sherlock seeing in him?