Elegy in Scarlet

by BV Lawson

  She said a little too quickly, “No.”

  Feeling the tension level rising several degrees and fearing their dialogue might soon be toast, he changed the subject. “Why isn’t Ashley part of your quartet? Or I guess that would make it a quintet?”

  Gogo groaned. “Oh, lord, that would be a disaster. Her ear’s not tin, it’s steel. Cliché intended.”

  Drayco swung his legs around the bench to face them. “Speaking of clichés, the police will probably ask where the two of you were the night Jerold was killed.”

  “Ashley and I were together. You can ask her.” Gogo picked up his bow again, this time twirling it like Rena and her polo mallet.

  Drayco waited for Lauralee, who took a puff off the cigarette. “I went clubbing by myself in the District. The usual places—PsychoTropics, Ultrabar, Danceskellar. Someone will remember me.”

  The staff member who’d given Drayco directions earlier poked his head in the door. “Your four o’clock students are here, Gogo.”

  Gogo grabbed his violin, closed it inside a case, and thrust the case in a corner locker. That prompted Lauralee to pack up, too, and hoist the cello case over her shoulder. As Gogo hurried out of the room, he said to Drayco, “If Kegger ever gives us the heave-ho, I may give you a call.”

  Lauralee tentatively stuck out her hand to shake Drayco’s. “My parents would say it’s a sin to be glad someone’s dead.”

  “More so if you’re the one who killed him.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “The Bible says an eye for an eye, doesn’t it?”

  “It also says if your eye offends you, pluck it out, but I don’t see too many people doing that these days.”

  That elicited a small smile, and she gave an equally small wave as he made his exit. He paused briefly to watch Gogo, who was wearing black padded gloves, demonstrate a thrusting move with a bolo knife to his students and then expertly deflect an attack from a partner armed with a daga sword.

  Gogo had the motive and skill to stab Jerold. Lauralee wasn’t a martial arts expert, but she harbored her own reason to hate the victim. And to hate the victim’s murdered wife, for that matter.

  Throw in one vengeful daughter, an estranged brother, and possible ex-colleagues with an ax to grind, and all of a sudden, Drayco’s mother had a lot of competition for the Person Most Likely to Kill Jerold Zamorra. Although it still didn’t explain why she was standing over his body with a knife if innocent of his actual murder.

  God, he was tired. Rock-pile-on-the-shoulders tired. Brock was probably gearing up for his usual three-day weekend, with no more worries than whether rain would keep him from going quail hunting. Or shooting hoops with his Bureau-brats gang of former agents. Drayco spent a lot of his youth out of town touring, but on those rare occasions he was home, Brock never once suggested they play a round of basketball.

  And Maura McCune Drayco was alive all that time. Somewhere. Only now, he knew exactly where she’d be spending her weekend. Why did the thought of her in that orange jumpsuit safely tucked away not give him any comfort?

  Chapter 14

  After a couple of hours running the type of errands that felt like a rat chasing cheese in a maze, Drayco finally made it home. He squinted at the sky, which was already dark at five-thirty—the one thing about switching from daylight saving time to standard time he liked. Couldn’t make out a single constellation, thanks to the District’s light pollution. But the moonlight was enough to show him something unexpected.

  He’d developed a habit years ago of cramming a small piece of green paper between the gate on the side of his townhome leading to a small yard behind and the gate’s frame. The lock on the gate was currently in place, but the paper lay on the sidewalk. It would be difficult for that paper to come loose without the gate being opened.

  After easing the lock off, he made it through the gate without a sound. He navigated from one stepping stone to another until he got to the rear corner of the building. Not much of a gardener, his yard’s landscaping consisted of one weeping cherry and a low evergreen hedge. No places to hide.

  Seeing nothing that shouldn’t be there, he started to open the back door but tripped over the cat dish. The little stray silver tabby he’d been feeding must have moved the bowl while eating, as she often did. Seems like he was always taking in strays of one kind or another, animal and human.

  Drayco opened the door and entered, noted the security system was armed, and punched in his security code. His senses still on full alert, he maneuvered slowly through the kitchen and made a sight-sweep of the living area. Clear. He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it on a chair, and removed his shoes before heading up the stairs.

  He took one step when the rattle of the front mail slot startled him, followed by the “thump” of letters dropping to the floor. The mailman must be running unusually late. That was followed by another noise that made him whirl around, just not soon enough.

  A giant blur of a figure shot out of nowhere, grabbed him, and shoved his face against the wall, leaving Drayco with just enough air to breathe. He struggled to twist out of the steel grip, but his assailant knew what he was doing. It was almost impossible to get out of a rear mount headlock, and struggling would only waste energy.

  Drayco gulped in a couple of deep breaths and waited for King Kong to relax an inch so he could counter-attack. When the man didn’t oblige, Drayco tried Stalling for Time 101 and wheezed out, “Look, if this is about that overdue gas bill, it’s in the mail.”

  “It’s about Maura McCune.” The big man’s voice was more baritone than bass, but his growl hit Drayco’s skull like brick-colored nails. “And your investigation.”

  “My investigation?” Drayco’s neck was going to be purple tomorrow.

  “You need to let it go.”

  “No can do. I’m going to find out the truth, whatever it is.”

  “The truth?” The man’s grip released a fraction, and Drayco gauged his best defensive move. The man asked, “You’re not trying to prove she’s guilty?”

  “Not unless she is. I have no idea who killed Jerold Zamorra. Yet.”

  As quickly as he’d ensnared Drayco, the man half-picked him up in a move that a WWE wrestler would envy and launched him into a nearby chair. He pulled out a large knife that would put one of those Eskrima bolos to shame. “Thought you’d be like your father. Wanting Maura to take the fall.”

  Drayco was getting a good look at his attacker now. At least six-seven, maybe six-eight, mostly bald save for a wrap-around thatch of neatly trimmed blond-gray hair, with matching beard and mustache. Squinting green eyes, a triangle-shaped strawberry birthmark on the right side of his head. And dressed all in black.

  “My father and I don’t agree on a lot of things. But he doesn’t want his former wife to ‘take the fall,’ as you say. He doesn’t care what happens to her.”

  “And you do? Even after she abandoned you?”

  Drayco stared at him. “Who are you? How do you know my mother?”

  “Iago, and she’s a friend. That’s all you need to know.” The knife in his hand didn’t waver one centimeter. “Detective Halabi and the police have it wrong. Maura is innocent of murder. She may have stabbed him once, but she didn’t kill him.”

  Now that was information few people outside the police department knew. Unless Halabi had a mole burrowing into his ranks. “I’ve talked to several people who have good reason to hate, maybe kill, Zamorra. But when I talked to my mother, she refused to tell me squat. I’m not sure how anyone can help her as long as she takes that line.”

  “She and Zamorra were colleagues. In a business of theirs. A very successful business. He was two-timing her, and it made her angry. Argue-angry, not kill-angry.”

  “And I’m just supposed to trust you on that?”

  “If you know what’s good for you. Besides, you said you wanted the truth, and that’s the truth.”

  “What are the chances of you telling me what this business venture was?”
<
br />   Iago glared at him, staying silent.

  “Right. Well then, I will help her, and therefore you, if she is innocent. And that’s all I can promise.”

  Drayco’s visitor thought for a moment. “Okay.” He lifted his arm as he folded up the knife and returned it to his pocket. As he did, Drayco glimpsed a tattoo on the man’s right forearm, the letters ICYHWM. “If I find out more, Drayco, I’ll contact you. And I expect you to do the same.”

  “How will I find you?”

  Iago didn’t answer and let himself out the front door. Drayco jumped up to follow him and peered outside. No car, but the man had vanished.

  Whoever Iago was, he knew a lot about security systems. He’d managed to counteract Drayco’s state of the art anti-jamming software and rolling code transmitter. Even more effective than Darcie’s sweet-talking-the-neighbor scheme.

  Small, greenish dots on his doorstep caught Drayco’s eye, and he bent down to scoop them up. He examined them in the light. Pepita, or pumpkin, seeds. Did Iago accidentally drop them? Or were they his calling card?

  Drayco grabbed one plastic bag from his kitchen to seal the seeds in and filled another bag with ice. Then he headed for his computer but stopped when he spied a small white square of paper half-hiding underneath the chair were Iago tossed him earlier. Part of a bus ticket.

  Setting the ticket next to the computer, he tapped on the keyboard with his left hand while using his right hand to hold the ice bag to his neck. Time to find out who this Iago character—if that was his actual name—really was. What the hell did he have to do with Maura McCune? And what kind of “business ventures” were she and Jerold involved with? Somehow, he doubted it was door-to-door cosmetics sales.

  He trawled through every online database he had access to, growing more frustrated by the minute with the big, fat zero that summed up his results. It was rare he couldn’t find anything on a person, let alone two, in this day and age of Big Brother Internet. There weren’t many people powerful enough to wipe their computer traces clean.

  He threw the ice bag across the room and watched with more than a little perverse pleasure as it split open, spilling water and ice cubes all over the floor. Agent Rodriguez wouldn’t call him Sereno Drayco right now. “Mister Serene” was no longer on the scene. With a sigh, Drayco went to the closet to grab a mop.

  Chapter 15

  Sunday, February 17

  After his late-night mopping exercise, Drayco had tackled a Chopin ballade with such force, he’d apologized to his piano afterward. Maybe that was why the instrument had sounded off, lacking its usual colors, almost flat, even though he’d had it tuned two months ago. His unsatisfying playing had been followed by more failed research attempts that kept him up until three, making him oversleep this morning and barely making it to his appointment on time.

  Sarg didn’t look too irritated at the fifteen-minute delay in picking him up from Union Station, giving Drayco’s Starfire a little pat before he climbed in. “You should treat me to a second breakfast. Let me guess—I’ll bet you had a fluffernutter. Or some equally awful creation.”

  “I’ll have you know I had sausage, eggs, and a biscuit.”

  “The Sunday morning McDonald’s drive-through special?”

  “Microwaved. What did you have, caviar toast points?”

  “Tarragon omelet. After the Army, I swore I’d never eat crap-on-a-cracker food again.”

  That was an image Drayco didn’t need. “Didn’t the Rangers get special chow?”

  “By special you mean MREs? You should take a cooking class, junior.”

  “They’d throw me out. Though I might sail through Can Opening 101.”

  Sarg grinned. “It does my soul good to know you suck at something.”

  After navigating through surprisingly heavy traffic on Route 50, they made it to an eight-story, glass and concrete tower in Arlington that looked like every other glass and concrete tower developers erected in the region these days.

  The sign outside this particular line of condominiums said Glencroft Shores—another bit of developer whimsy. The nearest body of water was a good six miles with Lake Barcroft to the west or the Potomac River to the east. The unit prices didn’t reflect that, starting in the upper six figures—if Jerold was broke, how could he afford one of these?

  A light blue Ford sedan pulled in next to them, a woman with blond hair behind the wheel. She rolled down the window and called out, “It is all right if I park here?” Drayco pointed to another guest space, and she headed for it.

  Sarg peered at him. “Not that I mind, because I like her—but what’s Deputy Tyler doing here?”

  “She’s getting a J.D. part time and came into town early this weekend to cram for a test. She’s helping Benny out, Benny’s helping me out. I told her she could come along.” When Sarg peered down his nose with one of his “are-you-shitting-me” looks, Drayco added, “It’s not what you think.”

  Sarg muttered, “I think it’s exactly what I think.”

  Drayco ignored him and pulled out the key to Jerold Zamorra’s condo. Like the police report indicated, it had a back entrance opening out to a wide alley that led to an underground parking lot. It was daylight, meaning it wasn’t possible to see burned-out lights. But due to the building’s overhang, if the closest exterior light were out, it would make for a dark scene. Easy to get in and out unnoticed.

  Unlike Jerold’s brother’s beige-y neutral place, this one was painted in odd color combinations, green, purple, orange. The few furniture pieces looked like Ikea catalog rejects, and the floor was a faux-wood vinyl. A musty, rancid smell similar to decaying meat filled the air, but it was competing with the pungent scent of Pine-Sol.

  The police report showed the forensic techs had used oblique lighting and electrostatic dust lifters looking for latent shoe prints, but other than those of the police crew, they found only Jerold’s and Maura’s. The same as with the fingerprints.

  Nelia gave a quick glance around, “The police have already been through this place? And Ashley and Edwin, too? Can’t imagine there’d be any clues left.”

  Sarg replied with a bow toward Drayco, “But The Brain hasn’t been through it yet.” He opened a small box he’d brought with him and passed it over to Nelia and Drayco. “Don’t forget your gloves, kids.”

  Drayco started with the kitchen, the site of the murder. Despite someone mopping up most of the blood—the crime scene techs or maybe a cleanup crew Ashley had hired—it was easy to tell where Jerold fell. The bottom cabinets still had dried blood stains, and a few flecks lined the cracks in the tile grouting. That explained the odors.

  Despite Halabi’s prickly attitude, the man had a stellar reputation, and his crew had done their job well. Not seeing anything of interest, Drayco returned to the living room to rejoin Sarg and Nelia.

  He walked over to a wall with a frame holding a matted document of some kind. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was a pair of state lottery tickets. Some kind of joke? Had Jerold won one dollar and framed the winning ticket on a lark? The date on the tickets went back three years.

  Sarg pulled out his notebook to write down the numbers, prompting Drayco to ask, “Why not type them into your cell?”

  “Because this notebook doesn’t need charging and doesn’t have any parts that can fail.” Sarg returned the small pad to his shirt pocket. “By the way, that Iago guy you told me about over the phone this morning? I ran his description through various channels. Nada. Should be easy enough to track one NBA-sized thug. Or so you’d think.”

  Hearing Sarg had also struck out made Drayco feel a bit better. And even more intrigued. “Like Maura McCune, a man who doesn’t exist.”

  Sarg picked up a succession of three glass snow globes, examining each in turn. “Doesn’t mean he’s not our murderer.”

  “Why threaten me if he thought I was trying to prove Maura guilty? Her conviction would take him off the hook.”

  Nelia stopped next to an aquarium and pointed. “Fun
ny you should mention hooks. Dead fish. I thought it smelled a little, well, fishy in here.”

  Drayco joined her and bent over to look inside the tank. Then he pushed up his sleeve and reached into the tank to grab something from the bottom.

  She scrutinized the object in his hand. “One of those fake rocks. How did you know? This one is the best I’ve ever seen—it’s so realistic, you can’t tell it apart from the real ones.”

  “Not just a fake betta boulder, either.” He flipped it over and pried open the bottom, pulling out a key hidden inside.

  She said, “A small key like that—”

  “Safe deposit box, storage unit, gym locker? Must be hundreds of banks and storage units in the area.”

  “Perhaps Ashley or Edwin Zamorra might know something.”

  Sarg piped up, “Or Drayco’s mother.”

  Nelia headed to another glass tank in the corner of the room and pulled out a snake. “A bloodred corn snake. And it’s still alive.”

  Drayco and Sarg looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Seeing their reaction, Nelia glared at them. “I like snakes. And no penis jokes, please. As the lone female deputy in my department until recently, I get plenty of those.”

  Sarg stifled a smile, but Drayco sucked in a breath. The thought of Nelia being subjected to sexual harassment made his blood boil. She was respected by her colleagues for the most part, but one of her fellow male deputies recently got a stone-stud earring and suggested she call him “the stud.” He’d have to talk to Sheriff Sailor about that.

  “This little guy should get fed once every four or five days. Someone must have been here. Guess they don’t like fish as much.” Nelia placed the snake inside its enclosure. “About that key. I don’t see a computer anywhere, so I’m assuming the PD carted it away. Maybe there’s a note explaining the key’s purpose on the hard drive.”

  Sarg replied, “Halabi’s crew are working on the computer as we speak. Also took away an old-fashioned Rolodex. He kept a list of passwords on it. And get this—he filed it under ‘P.’”