“And what would his motive be, Mr. Biaggini?” Sherlock asked him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know of a single motive to attach to any of Tommy’s friends. No, Peter, don’t say anything more, you don’t have to defend yourself any further.”
Mr. Biaggini sat down, leaned over the table, his eyes locked on Savich’s face. “The next time we see you, Agent, we’re bringing a lawyer. We’re leaving now.”
Savich said, “So we’re clear before you leave, if you choose to, Mr. Biaggini, we never said Stony accused Peter of any involvement in posting that photo. We raised that question with you. Stony denies any knowledge of the photo, just as Peter does.”
“Then how can you accuse my son of these crimes? Of being a liar? You people should all be fired.”
“You may not have deserved to hear that, sir, but we’re trying to find a murderer. Now, we won’t keep either of you from leaving, but if Peter is willing to stay and answer a few more questions, it will save both of you a great deal of time and trouble later.”
“It’s all right, Dad,” Peter said, suddenly cocky again. “I’ll answer a few questions. What is it you want to know?” And he sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Do you know where Tommy was Friday night, Peter?”
“No. I hadn’t seen him in a while. He was usually studying late, or sleeping.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Nearly a week ago, maybe last Monday. We had some pizza, then he said he had to study, and we split up.”
“Did you notice if he was disturbed about something? Did he mention anything he was involved with?”
“Sorry, Agent. Tommy seemed just fine to me. I told you, he was a serious go-getter since his father died, working hard at school, looking to fill his grandfather’s shoes, I guess.”
Savich said, “Now tell us where you were on Friday night, Peter.”
Peter Biaggini raised his hand before his father could interrupt. He grinned, and Savich knew for sure that Peter had agreed to stay because he wanted to be asked that very question. He was preening now, no other word for it, and it wasn’t a sham. He looked directly at Savich as he said, “I was at the Raleigh Gallery in Georgetown at a showing of modern American paintings, part of an assignment for my art history class.
“Oh, yeah, Tommy’s former girlfriend, Melissa Ivy, was there with me.” He smirked at them. “So much for Stony’s photo. There’s no way I could have taken a photo of Tommy dead. I wasn’t anywhere close to the Lincoln Memorial Friday night.”
“Where did you go after you left the gallery?” Sherlock asked.
“Mel and I went to her apartment and tangled the sheets all night. So I couldn’t have killed Tommy. As for that stupid photo, who cares? No crime there anyway, now, is there?” He turned to his father. “See, Dad, no reason to get an ulcer. Can I leave now, Agents?”
Savich stood. “You may leave, but we will see you again soon.”
As he walked to the door and opened it for them, Sherlock said, “Peter, don’t leave Washington.”
“I love Washington. Why would I leave?”
They heard Mr. Biaggini’s harsh breathing as they walked again, and then his low, angry voice. “Why didn’t you tell them right away where you were Friday night? Why drag this lunacy out?”
They heard Peter speak but couldn’t make out his words.
They watched from the CAU doorway as Peter whistled his way along the wide corridor to the elevator. He turned right before he got on, and gave them a little finger wave. Mr. Biaggini followed behind him, his head down. He never looked at them.
“That kid should have been left on a Greek mountainside at birth,” Coop said.
“I want to meet Melissa Ivy,” Sherlock said.
“Peter’s got to believe she’ll lock in his alibi,” Coop said.
Sherlock said, “I’m willing to bet my Pink Panther socks she’ll swear they not only spent the night together, she’ll also swear she made him breakfast Saturday morning, didn’t just toss him a box of cornflakes, either. Melissa will tell us she made him scrambled eggs, with blueberry pancakes on the side.”
“After she broke up with Tommy,” Lucy said, “she sure hooked up with Peter Biaggini real fast.”
Savich said, “Mr. Biaggini isn’t a thing like my father.”
Ward Place, N.W.
Close to George Washington campus
Early Sunday evening