Savich asked, “Peter, you knew Tommy’s father? His mother?”
Savich watched a sneer mar his mouth again. It made him look common and mean. “Of course I did. Both of them liked to show off their money, but I’ve got to say they always treated Tommy’s friends well, took us all to Redskins games, sailing on the Potomac, clamming and big bonfires on the beach. When Tommy’s mom killed herself, I remember Mr. Cronin brought in Tommy’s Aunt Marian and everything continued on as it always had—barbecues and parties, whatever his dad and aunt could come up with—only with a change in moms.”
Savich said, “It sounds to me like you don’t think Mr. Cronin missed his wife that much.”
Peter Biaggini’s cell buzzed a text message. For a moment, it seemed he would answer, but he only touched the phone, then let his fingers drop away. “How would I know? It was weird, though, what happened. A year later, Tommy’s dad dies in his kick-ass red Ferrari. Who could see that coming? But I’ll tell you, good old Aunt Marian kept going, like neither of Tommy’s parents had ever really been all that important. I mean, the house kept going, everyone kept hanging out there, and Tommy got all into himself since he saw himself as the new boss man of the house. Aunt Marian smiled behind her hand, let him strut around and act all serious about the electric bill.”
Mr. Biaggini looked both embarrassed and pained. He cleared his throat, bringing Savich and Sherlock’s attention back to him. “It was a dreadful time. Barbara Cronin was a lovely woman, an excellent mother to Tommy and his sisters. I was shocked and frankly surprised she would kill herself. I knew of no reason for her to do such a thing.”
“She was shacking up with the guy who remodeled the kitchen,” Peter Biaggini said, slouching down farther in his chair. “All the kids knew about it; we thought it was funny.”
Sherlock said, “Did Tommy think it was funny?”
“No, he’d leave whenever anyone said anything.” He said to his father, “Come on, Dad, don’t go all righteous and disapproving. Since all the kids knew it, surely you and Mom did, too.”
“There is always gossip,” Mr. Biaggini said, his body as stiff as his voice, “but if one has any sense and maturity at all, one discounts it. I do not believe and never believed Tommy’s mother was unfaithful to his father. What does any of this have to do with Tommy’s murder?”
Peter rolled his eyes and began tapping his fingers again. Another message came in on his cell and he began quickly pressing keys. Savich reached over, took the cell from his hand, and tossed it to Coop, who turned it off and slipped it into his pocket. Peter Biaggini froze. He started to say something but thought better of it.
Savich knew Barbara Cronin wasn’t the point here, but her suicide bothered him, Sherlock, too, and so he said to Mr. Biaggini, “Indulge me. Now, something must have triggered her suicide. Do you remember anything out of the ordinary happening at the time, sir?”
Mr. Biaggini shook his head. “I was very busy with my business around that time, with expansion, new franchises going up throughout Maryland and Virginia. My wife and I hadn’t seen the Cronins in some time.”
Peter gave an ugly laugh. “Yeah, you had to get all the rich old ladies more beauty products, right, Dad?”
Savich was pleased when Mr. Biaggini slowly rose to his feet, spread his hands on the tabletop, and leaned toward his son. “You mock me for the fine house you’ve lived in all your life? You mock that your mother and I care for you, that we have provided for you, given you the best education possible?”
But not a new car? Savich knew Peter drove a five-year-old Honda, which meant Mr. Biaggini did have some limits, probably because of his son’s DUIs.
Peter looked his father up and down. “Yeah, thanks for the Cheerios, Dad. But you didn’t give me my education. I worked for it. I would have been valedictorian at Columbia High School if that jerk Noah Horton hadn’t kissed up to all his teachers. And I could have gotten scholarships to college if you hadn’t coughed up the tuition for Magdalene. I even earned that job with Caruthers and Milton on my own.” Again, he shrugged, looked at Sherlock, then back to his father. “Have you ever thought you should have spent more time with us, Dad, rather than making hair spray?”
Mr. Biaggini had heard this before, too many times, Sherlock thought. He stared at his son, his hands working, but he did nothing, said nothing more, his look stoic. The story of Peter’s life growing up? A brief show of indignation, then nothing? Sherlock wanted to leap over the interview table and plant her fist in Peter Biaggini’s sneering mouth. She said, her voice as sharp as glass shards, “Tell us, Peter, about how you and Stony Hart tried to anonymously upload that photo of Tommy’s dead body at the Lincoln Memorial on YouTube? That photo we tracked to Stony’s computer?”