Elegy in Scarlet

by BV Lawson

  Sarg pulled out his cellphone from his pocket and held it up. “Tried. Got a bunch of gobbledegook error messages.”

  “All that Washington hot air blocking the signal. Either that or the NSA or CIA. Or FBI.”

  Drayco’s companion winced and replied, “Yeah,” as he surveyed the room, likely noting as Drayco had that its brick and artsy-techno stylings didn’t match the historic hotel.

  “You and Elaine ever stay here at the Mayflower?”

  “Nah, we get the heck out of Dodge whenever we need an escape. Even this is too close to Freddyburg. You ordered yet?”

  Drayco flipped open the menu. “Not yet. Think I should get the J. Edgar Hoover special?”

  Sarg tugged on his ear. “Can’t believe the man ate here at the same table for twenty years and all he got was chicken soup, toast, cottage cheese, and grapefruit.”

  “Technically, he ate at the old Rib Room, long gone.”

  “Semantics.” Sarg scanned the menu and closed it after only a few seconds. The waiter took that as his cue, reappearing at their table as Sarg handed back the menu. “I’ll have the Beet Carpaccio salad.”

  Drayco read the description. “What’s black lava salt?”

  Sarg explained, “Solar evaporated Pacific sea salt combined with activated charcoal. It complements the delicate flavors of the golden and red beets. Lightly accents the gorgonzola.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Drayco handed over his menu to the patient waiter. “I’ll just have a burger. Without the fries.”

  Sarg-the-gourmet’s eyes widened in mock horror. “What will you put on the burger this time—candy corn? Or maybe Nutella? And no truffled fries? Blasphemy I say.”

  “I doubt they’re half as good as that truffle dish you served me at your place. Better than anything I’ve had at the Ritz.”

  “Idle flattery, but I’ll take it.” Sarg guzzled some water. “You know, I don’t care if it’s February and gloomy out there. I still worked up a sweat.”

  Drayco glanced at the tables against the far wall and caught the gaze of a man he didn’t recognize who was staring at him. Yet there was also something about the man Drayco couldn’t pinpoint, the feeling he’d seen him before.

  Sarg said, “What’s the matter? You see the ghost of J. Edgar wolfing down his boiled chicken?”

  Drayco turned to Sarg and nodded at the stranger’s table. “That guy look familiar to you?”

  Sarg duly looked. “What guy?”

  “The one who—” But as Drayco checked again, the man was gone. “I didn’t conjure him from my imagination.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Sixtyish, distinguished. A full head of hair parted on the left, square jaw, Greek nose. Pale skin, no scars or moles, so I doubt he’s the out-of-doors type. Manicured hands, custom jacket, Italian shoes. Which could pretty much describe most of the men in this room.”

  Sarg grinned. “Maybe that’s why he comes here. Blends in.”

  Drayco traced the circumference of his coffee cup with his finger. Had he been doing it nonstop? He was distracted, not a good sign. “I need your advice, Sarg.”

  “About your Mom’s case? I can’t tell you whether it’s a good idea to look into it or not. I wouldn’t blame you either way.”

  “Benny Baskin all but shouted I can’t be objective. But you can.”

  Sarg chugged more water. “After you called me with your news this morning, I did some quick checking on the victim, the ex-TSA guy. Jerold Zamorra was well-liked at work, competent, no official complaints. Received a commendation when he retired. His wife—”

  “Was murdered a year ago. I know. It was during a spate of ATM thefts. And both the Arlington and Falls Church police think it was random. Picked the wrong bank machine at the wrong time.” Drayco took a sip of his now-lukewarm coffee and grimaced. “You said no official complaints. And unofficial?”

  “A former colleague, Rena Quentin, filed a sexual harassment charge. Quietly resolved and both of them left the agency not long afterward. Oh, and Jerold was estranged from both his daughter and brother. For reasons unknown.”

  “Any gossip on Jerold Zamorra and his murdered wife?”

  “If you mean do his colleagues think he killed her, no.”

  “The daughter might.”

  “If Zamorra was the one who murdered his wife, I’m not going to cry about his death, whether your mother did it or not. Hell, we should give her an award if she did.”

  Sarg paused as the waiter delivered his salad. “Every time I asked you about your mother over the years, you clammed up. Weren’t you curious? Didn’t you want to track her down? For that matter, didn’t Brock?”

  Everybody was asking that these days, an irritation he didn’t need. But this was Sarg, and if anyone deserved an answer, he did. “Guess I was afraid of what I might find. As for Brock, he was so angry, he just didn’t care.”

  The burger was dry and tasteless. And was it just him or did the grease and charred meat make the place smell like an abattoir? Drayco looked around the table, prompting Sarg to say, “Do not desecrate that lovely Angus burger with any of your weird toppings. Thank God there’s no marshmallow fluff around.”

  Drayco took another bite, then pushed the plate over. Sarg immediately cut off a chunk and closed his eyes as he masticated it into oblivion. “Yep, perfect as is. Don’t tell Elaine, she’s still on the vegetarian warpath. You wouldn’t want to see me get scalped, would you?”

  Drayco checked the table where he saw the stranger earlier, but two women had taken his place. “I need to check out Zamorra’s condo. If my mother didn’t kill him, I’d like to see how the real murderer got in and out without being seen.”

  “It was dark. And raining.”

  “The weather had some help. The few details I got from sneak peeks at Detective Halabi’s report said exterior lights on Zamorra’s end of the building were burned out. His unit has two doors, the front and a rear entrance opening into an alley that runs the length of the building.”

  “Burned-out lights? Did he live in a slum?”

  “The report said the maintenance man recently broke his leg, which explains the lights. And the address puts the building in a ‘transitional’ neighborhood.”

  “Transitional? What, can’t decide whether it wants to be a condo or a townhome when it grows up?”

  “Basically, affordable housing being torn down for expensive condos. Not a slum though the housing complex across the street has a large immigrant community. Several undocumented. Great motivation to stay below the radar and not get involved in a crime.”

  “Except for the mystery witness.”

  “There is that.”

  Sarg polished off both salad and burger with a satisfied burp. “Sounds a lot more interesting than the case I’m consulting on for the Bureau. You’d have it all figured out in an hour.”

  “Taking a trip on the hyperbole train, are we?”

  “Okay, we would have solved it together in an hour. Batman and Robin. And since you’re fifteen years younger, that makes you Robin.”

  Drayco gave a slight smile. “There’s no way you’re going to get me in yellow tights and green hot pants.”

  Sarg snorted. “I’d give my eyeteeth for one of those cool utility belts.”

  They spoke at the same time, “And the bat car.”

  Sarg watched him in silence then said, “You can’t shit an old shitter. You’re rattled by this, junior. Can’t say I blame you.”

  “The police discovered Maura was using an alias and took a taxi to Zamorra’s. Paid in cash. No arrest record. No record at all. The non-existent woman. What am I supposed to think? She may be the woman who gave birth to me, but I know more about most Hollywood celebrities.”

  “What did she say when you went to see her?”

  “Not much. Maybe that was my fault.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mind went blank. I didn’t ask her why she came back now. Or about that piece of paper with �
��Brisbane’ on it.”

  Along with a thousand other questions that arose after his meeting with her. Brain-warping questions, if he allowed himself to dwell on them, and he wasn’t a dwelling kind of guy.

  “Then, you’d say your meeting with her was unsatisfactory?”

  “Make that unnerving.”

  Sarg finished his water with one last gulp and pushed his seat back as he eyed Drayco with a slight smile. “I’d say you need a break, maybe fly over to the Eastern Shore. Visit the Jepsons or Darcie. But I know you. That ain’t gonna happen. Cut yourself some slack. It’s going to take time to process this.”

  Sarg motioned to the waiter to bring the check to him, over Drayco’s protest. As Sarg read it, he asked, “Been having any more of those hypno-paralysis-whatever dreams of yours? After almost losing Tara, I’ve had a few nightmares of my own.”

  Drayco didn’t want to discuss his dreams, not even to Sarg. “Ah, the lovely and talented Tara. She doing well?”

  “My daughter could out-tough a Marine drill sergeant.” He counted out some bills. “Said to tell you how sorry she is, by the way. About your mother.”

  Drayco picked up the salt shaker and rolled it around in his hand. Sarg just had to go and mention bad dreams. He looked up to see Sarg staring at him again. “My offer stands, Drayco. I’ll be happy to testify at your hearing. You told Benny Baskin that, right?”

  Drayco nodded and set the shaker down. “You’re on the witness list.”

  “Chief Onweller won’t mind if I take a few mornings off, as long as I make it up later.”

  Drayco let that sink in. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were offering your services on this murder case. Gratis, no less.”

  “When some rich long-lost relative of yours pops in with a wad of cash in hand, you can repay me. Funny, I hadn’t seen you in three years, and within the span of a few months, you got me chasing impossible scenarios all over creation.”

  “Impossible? Always liked those odds.”

  Having both Benny and Sarg watching his back made it a lot more likely any gambles Drayco took would pay off. But, as usual, Sarg had read him all too well. Drayco wasn’t just rattled, he’d fallen off axis. One more reason to stay away from Maura McCune, or whatever her real name was.

  Yet, as much as he’d tried to hate her or push her out of his mind, it was the picture of her seated next to him at the piano that always flipped open in his mental photograph album. But the murder, the lies, the long silence—he slammed that album shut once more.

  Chapter 9

  Weaving his way through the notorious Friday afternoon rush traffic was always an exercise in frustration for Drayco. Even more so today, with that protest Sarg mentioned adding a slew of road closures and detours into the mix.

  Drayco couldn’t tell what the protest was about from the glimpses of signs sporting the usual banner words, “justice, murder, action.” Different day, different battle, different players. Shades of the gray life in the nation’s capital—parades of protesters below and the incessant military helicopters above.

  After what normally would be a half hour drive turned into ninety minutes, with “tinks” of occasional sleet on the windows and one cellphone call from Benny, Drayco finally pulled his blue Starfire in front of his brick townhome near Capitol Hill. The building didn’t have the terracotta trim and marble glitz of the Mayflower Hotel, but it was as welcome a sight as a five-star pleasure palace.

  Ordinarily. As he drove up in front, his elderly neighbor was standing outside chatting with a younger woman whose blond hair was tied into a neat braid, almost camouflaged against her blond leather jacket.

  The neighbor, Coraline Chapman, was hard of hearing, but her eagle eye cataloged all his comings and goings as well as his visitors. After he parked the car and climbed out, Coraline asked, “Is this your new girlfriend, Scott? It’s time you hooked up with someone different. I didn’t like the last one, the brunette. That one’s a hussy if I ever saw one.”

  Nelia beat Drayco to the punch. “Just a colleague, Mrs. Chapman, I’m a Sheriff’s Deputy over on the Eastern Shore.”

  “You know what they say. Cops should marry cops because they know what they’re getting. Fewer divorces that way.”

  Drayco had patiently tried to explain to his neighbor the difference between cops, deputies, FBI agents, and consultants, but to her, they were all cops. Like Keds or Xerox or Coke. One generic name fits all.

  Nelia didn’t smile at the older woman’s quip but did look in Drayco’s direction as she said it. A light mist enveloped them in a cold mesh of dense dampness, and when it started to sleet in earnest, Mrs. Chapman scurried inside her front door. Nelia and Drayco dashed into his place, welcoming the dry warmth from the wall radiators.

  Drayco took her coat and laid it on a table above one of the radiators to dry off. “I didn’t think I’d see you again, Tyler. That is, so soon.” Tyler, Drayco. Always professional, just two colleagues hanging out together.

  Nelia invited herself to grab a beer from his refrigerator and settled into the soft leather sofa across from the blue abstract painting on his wall. It was the same painting that matched what he saw when he listened to a Prokofiev piano sonata.

  She propped her feet on the coffee table and took several swigs of the beer. He waited for her to say something, but she just stared at the painting and remained silent.

  When her beer was half-drained, she finally said, “It seems we’re always apologizing to each other. But I should have told you about law school.”

  He sat on a chair to her right, a bottle of his favorite Manhattan Special espresso soda in hand. “I didn’t peg you as insane.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he continued, “Law school, working for Benny, and sheriff-ing? God knows when you find time to do your coursework.”

  “Georgetown has a part-time law degree. Most of my classes are at night during the week, and I get Fridays off. Sheriff Sailor’s letting me work half-time and managed to convince the county bean counters it was a good thing. He’s using the other half of my salary as a sort of time share to pay a new deputy, another woman. She just had a baby, so job share works well for her, too.”

  “Still don’t see how you can do it all.”

  “I already know a lot more than most first-year students.”

  “How long will the degree take, then?”

  “Four years, but it’s doable. If the back-and-forth commute doesn’t kill me first.”

  “Well then, I’ll make that mostly insane.” He rubbed his chin. “Why now?”

  She shrugged. “I guess it was all those cases I’ve worked where I couldn’t help anyone. Just arrest them. Or maybe it was your situation. With the review board.”

  So perhaps her disapproval with him wasn’t as severe as he’d first thought. Then why no word from her all this time? Hell, he knew why. It was the five-ton pachyderm in the room. “What does Tim think?”

  “Officially, he’s real rah-rah. Underneath, I think he resents the time away from him.”

  “I could fly you over to save some of the commute time. Not sure Tim would like that idea.”

  “He already thinks you and I are—”

  “Yeah.”

  Nelia looked around the room, then asked, “How’s Darcie these days?”

  She was probably half-expecting to find more of Darcie’s lingerie lying around as she had on one occasion. Thankfully, Darcie had taken that red bow “outfit” from Valentine’s Day with her when she left. He replied, “Good. I mean, she’s fine. As in healthy. She’s very ... healthy.”

  Nelia hid a smile, then exchanged the beer for her feet on the coffee table. “I was worried about you today.”

  “Benny assures me the hearing will be a piece of ‘devil’s food.’ His words.”

  “Not that. I mean, yes that, but your mother, too. I never wanted to pry. Yet I did wonder about her. How could any woman do it? Up and leave her family?” Nelia rested her arms on her thighs.
“Does she know about your sister, about Casey’s death?”

  “I spoke with her briefly. We didn’t get into personal details. Just the murder. She says she didn’t do it, by the way.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to believe her?”

  Drayco looked at a web in one corner of the ceiling. What a lucky spider with only three goals in its little life—spin web, catch food, eat. “My father just wants her to disappear again, and part of me agrees with him.”

  “But you’re going to investigate this, aren’t you?”

  “I wish I could say no.” He raised his shoulders and tilted his neck until he heard a crack. He spied a bottle of aspirin on the table next to Nelia’s coat and got up to take a couple.

  When he returned, she motioned him over to the sofa, and he sat beside her as she said, “Turn around, so your back is facing me.”

  He complied and soon her hands were massaging his upper back and shoulders, expertly digging her thumbs into his sore muscles. He relaxed into her touch and closed his eyes. “God, you’re good.”

  “Surely you’ve had massages before? Maybe a pre-concert massage?”

  “None this nice.”

  “Not even the violinist who seduced your virginity away from you?”

  He’d almost forgotten he told her about that. Hard to forget her reply that it was technically statutory rape since he was sixteen and the violinist in her thirties. “That was a different kind of massage.”

  Nelia’s hands finished with one knot on his right shoulder and then stopped. “That should help a little.”

  He turned around to face her. “Has your husband hit you again?”

  It was her turn to be tense, and he quickly added, “I’m sorry. I told myself I wasn’t going to mention that. Want another beer?” He hopped up without waiting for her answer and rummaged around in the fridge. “Here you go,” and handed the bottle to her.

  There was safety in silence, and they sat within that safety zone for several minutes, marred only by the occasional swig from his espresso soda or her beer.

  Nelia was the first to break the zone. “Benny filled me in on the details of the murder. As much as he knows right now, of course.”