“Can you describe him?” Savich said.
“He was wearing a long coat that was too large for him, I think. It was dark, maybe dark brown. I’m sorry, but I didn’t really pay attention.”
“Was he tall? Short?”
Melissa gave Savich a helpless look and shook her head.
“Did you recognize him?”
“No, sir.”
Savich pulled a photo of Wakefield Hart out of his pocket. “Was this the man?”
“No, sir, that’s Mr. Hart. Mr. Maitland already showed me his picture, and I told him it couldn’t have been Mr. Hart. I’ve met him several times. I would have said hello to him. Mr. Maitland showed me a whole series of photos, but I didn’t recognize any of the men on them, except for Mr. Hart and Mr. Biaggini.”
So Mr. Maitland had shown her photos of all the principals Savich sat back, watched her a moment. He rose. “Excuse me, Ms. Ivy.” He motioned for Lucy to follow him outside.
“Tell me what you think, Lucy.”
“She’s drop-dead gorgeous, she’s fluent and reasonable, and I don’t know if I believe a word she said. If she’d seen this man in the coat, wouldn’t she have told you that last night? Could shock have really made her not remember? It’s a pretty big deal, Dillon, seeing this man. On the other hand, why should she lie? This is about her boyfriend’s killer. Wouldn’t she want him caught?”
“Good question.”
Bob Dylan’s whiny nasal voice sang “Like a Rolling Stone” from Savich’s cell. Savich excused himself. “Sherlock, what’s up? Did you dig up some bloody clothes?”
“Nope, Dillon. The only thing we found was a skeleton of a dead parrot wrapped in blankets. Tom picked up a trace of blood with Luminol inside the washer under the back of the lid, but not enough to identify whose blood it is. It’s not looking good in the yard. Three techs are in the woods, looking around. Seems to me if someone dug in the woods, it’d be pretty obvious. Oh, and Wakefield Hart’s lawyer is here, accusing us of harassing a grieving family. He had them bring the girls down, and they’re sobbing in their mother’s arms, all huddled in the living room to show us what cruel jerks we are.”
“I don’t suppose Tom found any video disks from the webcams in the living room?”
“Not yet, but we found another camera, well hidden in the study.”
Savich didn’t hold out much hope. “Once the techs clear the woods, cut Tom and the forensic team loose. I need you back here to speak to Melissa Ivy. She’s saying now she remembers seeing a man running down the stairs before she went up to Peter’s apartment.”
“How could she have forgotten that fine tidbit, even as upset as she was? I’ll be there as soon as I can, Dillon.”
Savich walked back into the interview room to see Melissa Ivy staring down at her clasped hands, no expression on her beautiful face. She looked up at him, gave him a tentative smile.
He said, “This is Mr. Griggs. I’d like you to work with him to give me a picture of the man you saw.”
She blinked long lashes and looked distressed. “But, Agent Savich, I only saw the man for a moment, really, and not all that clearly, and I—”
“You said you saw him long enough to be certain it wasn’t Wakefield Hart. Please try for us. Mr. Griggs is good at this. Jesse, this is Ms. Ivy. I’ll come back when you’re done.”
Savich left Jesse Griggs, their best sketch artist, alone with Melissa, and stepped out of the interview room. Lucy, Dane, and Ollie were clustered together, all talking nonstop. He raised his hand. “Someone please call me when Jesse is finished with his sketch, all right? Excuse me a moment.”
He walked into his office, closed the door, sat down, and tried to clear his brain. Since they’d been called to the Lincoln Memorial, they’d spent their time reacting, first to Tommy’s murder, then to Stony’s suicide, and finally to Peter’s murder. They’d been pulled one way, then another; it was time to stop playing catch-up, time to focus in. He went back to the beginning, to Saturday morning, with the call from Ben Raven, let each scene unfold slowly in his mind. He didn’t analyze them, only let them flow over him to get impressions, to let his gut ring in.
It all had to be of a piece, had to be. One overriding motive that had resulted in both Tommy’s and Peter’s murders. But what? The gun in Peter’s apartment pointed a neon arrow right to Wakefield Hart. But any of the boys could have taken that gun from the Harts’ attic. It might already have been in Peter’s apartment last night, though he doubted that. The murderer had come to kill, not talk. And now Melissa Ivy was saying the man she’d seen in Peter’s apartment lobby wasn’t Mr. Hart?