“Special Agent Savich,” he said and stuck out his hand.

“Mr. Biaggini, thank you for coming to us. This is Agent Sherlock.”

Biaggini turned his dark eyes on her, and Sherlock found a smile blooming naturally. He reminded her a bit of the photo of Dillon’s dad on their mantel. She shook his hand.

“Please sit down, sir.”

Biaggini sat. “My son is not here yet, I see.”

Savich said, “He’s waiting in the interview room down the hall. Before we join him, I wanted to hear your thoughts about Tommy Cronin’s murder.”

Biaggini’s expressive face turned hard, and Savich saw grief etched in the lines beside his mouth. “I have called poor Marian to give her my family’s condolences. She is inconsolable, as are Tommy’s grandparents and his sisters. I keep thinking it simply cannot be real, but no, it happened, some monster actually did this to Tommy. Neither my wife nor I can begin to understand the callous brutality, much less what sadistic message the murderer meant to send. Was there any sort of actual message found, Agent Savich?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Sherlock said, “Mr. Biaggini, do you believe Tommy’s murder had something to do with his grandfather and his role in the banking scandal?”

Mr. Biaggini said, “As you undoubtedly know, revenge against Palmer Cronin seemed to be the consensus among all the talking heads on television both yesterday and today. The single member of the Federal Reserve Board I saw interviewed said he believed it had been a personal matter. All others interviewed implied he was whistling in the wind, trying to deflect any blame from himself and the Board.

“It’s a much more titillating news story, isn’t it, to imagine some poor soul stripped of his livelihood and his self-respect in the banking collapse lashing out at Palmer Cronin through his grandson?”

“Yes, but what do you think, sir?” Savich asked him.

Biaggini waved a hand, an artist’s hand, Sherlock thought, like Dillon’s. “I find myself agreeing with the one lone opinion. Unless the man was insane, I can’t understand killing Tommy to exact some sort of belated revenge on his grandfather. Palmer Cronin didn’t mean for the banking collapse to happen; he wasn’t involved in anything unethical during his watch himself. His guilt lay in holding the wrong economic philosophy, and, I suppose, a stubborn blindness to what was happening. But again, he did not actually dirty his hands. If someone wanted revenge, why not kill the CEO of one of those big banking or investment firms who actually were responsible for leaving their investors dangling in the wind because they cared more about their golden parachutes than about morality, or ethics, or responsibility?

“I have thought about this and am forced to conclude that even though Tommy was only twenty, he must have made a violent enemy. A classmate, perhaps, though it chills me to think someone that young could have murdered Tommy so brutally.”

Sherlock said, “Do you know of anyone capable of doing this?”

“No, I do not. From what I know about Tommy over the years, he never seemed to venture far out of his circle. He had a comfort zone, and he stayed well within it. If he enraged someone, it would seem likely to have been one of his intimate group, but I know that isn’t possible. We’re talking three young people—Tommy, Stony, and Peter—who’ve known each other most of their lives. Of course there are other friends as well, but none so close as those three.

“And yes, Peter is one of the three.” He gave her a charming smile. “But of course Peter wouldn’t be capable of such a thing, and certainly not Stony.”

Savich said, “Naturally, Tommy’s circle enlarged significantly when he entered Magdalene.”

“Yes, of course. I imagine he initially had difficulty adapting, but adapt he did. Tommy was always liked well enough, but even more so at Magdalene, so my son Peter told me.” The charming smile bloomed again. “My son Peter will graduate from Magdalene himself in the spring, with a degree in international business. He has already accepted a position with Caruthers and Milton here in Washington. After a year of training and exposure to all the Washington clients, they may transfer him to the New York headquarters.” Mr. Biaggini radiated a father’s pride, and no wonder, Sherlock thought. Caruthers & Milton certainly was a big deal, one of the large investment banks that had taken its share of the billions of dollars coughed up by American taxpayers so they could stay in business, chastened, at least in the short term. Last she’d heard, C&M was flourishing. She couldn’t imagine anyone ever again handing their money over to any of the investment banks, but evidently there were many who hadn’t learned their lesson.