Whiplash

Emilio Gasparini looked like he was asleep, as if he could open his eyes at any minute, smile at them, and ask if they'd like one of his special omelets. But he wouldn't be opening his eyes. He'd never wake up again. Sous chef Emilio Gasparini was Cordon Bleu–trained, and only thirty-four years old. He had dark hair and an olive complexion. He was born in Florence, both his parents chefs. There'd been no infusions of money into his bank accounts, no signs of sudden affluence, like new clothes in his closet, a new car, nothing. So that meant the money was in a safe deposit box or hidden with a girlfriend. Or maybe he sent the money back to his parents in Italy. Savich still hoped they'd have some of the answers in a very short time. Dane was already on his cell, giving information to Ollie back at the Hoover Building.

Deputy Glen Phelps was looking closely at Gasparini's face, worry lines already etched on his twenty-four-year-old forehead. "If this is an accident, I'd like to know where all the damage is." His thick southern accent was like slow, heavy syrup. "I mean, a guy drives off the road into a deep ditch, something's gonna show, right? But there's not a bruise, a cut, not one measly scratch on his face, nothing at all on him. I'll bet he was already dead when someone put him behind the wheel of the car. Not much of an attempt to make it look like an accident, or maybe the guy who did him isn't all that smart."

"The guy's smart," Dane said, still looking down at the dead face, "I just don't think he cared. There's a deep well of arrogance in this guy, and disdain, so who cares about a chef ? Kill him, dump him, brush your hands off, and go about your business. What he's doing now is taking care of loose ends."

Dane called out to the paramedics, "We're done here, guys. They're expecting him at Quantico." He turned back to Glen Phelps, who had his pants hiked up a little too high, Dane thought, smiling. "That's a good call, Deputy Phelps." Dane wondered how long Phelps had been out of the police academy. Phelps flushed a bit, then said, "Thank you, Agent Carver. Truth is, when I saw that car in the ditch I had this really bad feeling what I was going to find, and I'll tell you, I was glad I hadn't had lunch before I went down there. But look at him, there's nothing at all to see, like he just nodded off."

Dane said as he shook Deputy Phelps's hand, "Glad you called us right away. Hey, here's my card, you think of anything more, give me a call, doesn't matter what time it is."

Savich and Dane watched Deputy Glen Phelps take Dane's card and ease it with great care into his wallet, right behind his American Express card.

"I've got a business card, too," Phelps said, and blushed as he handed it to Dane. "I just got them, a gift from my mom. She said you just never know when you'll need one. I guess she thought it'd impress people, show what a professional I am." He beamed at them, still blushing as the coroner's van left. "Nasty business. I sure hope you figure all this out."

Savich said, "We will. Thanks again, Deputy Phelps. We've got some folks coming to take the car away. We'll check it over."

"Agent Savich, would you like one of my cards too?"

53

MILLSTONE, CONNECTICUT

Jane Ann Royal's Audi was parked at the curb in front of a red-brick Art Deco apartment building, vintage 1930s, set amid thick maples and oaks. It was a lovely old building, beautifully maintained, the greenery lush. Sherlock was thinking it was pretty nice digs for a young tennis pro.

The building was five stories, only six apartments on each floor. Mick Haggarty was in 2D, an end apartment. Sherlock whistled as she walked down the corridor with its thick dark red runner and Art Deco red sconces on the walls, fanning soft light upward.

She paused a moment outside 2D to listen. She heard voices, a man and a woman, but couldn't make out what they were saying. A pity. She knocked. The door was opened almost immediately by Mick Haggarty. He was maybe twenty-four, twenty-five at most, good-looking, no doubt about that, with a nice thin nose, tough square chin, and high cheekbones. He had dark hair, a deep tan, and startling blue eyes, darker than hers. Black Irish, Sherlock thought. He was wearing tennis whites and sneakers, which really looked good on him. All he needed was a racket in his hand and he could pose for the cover of a magazine.

He stared down at her a moment, then, "Who are you? What can I do for you?"

She smiled up at him. He was tall, nearly as tall as Dillon. She handed him her creds. "As you see, I'm Agent Lacey Sherlock, FBI. I'd like to speak with you and Jane Ann."

She watched him hesitate. She reached out her hand and patted his arm as she pulled her ID from his fingers. "No, don't lie, I saw Jane Ann's Audi downstairs and I just heard her speaking." She stepped around him and gave a little wave. "Jane Ann? It's Agent Sherlock. I hope you're feeling all right today. I wanted to give you an update on what's happening."