Elegy in Scarlet

by BV Lawson

  “You’re already here. We’ll just have to make the best of it.” She fiddled with the ends of her French-braided hair. “Although this will have to serve as my break.”

  He softened his tone. “I apologize for the interruption. How long have you worked here?”

  “Only a year, but I enjoy it. Most of the time. I feel like I’m helping these women, if in a small way.” Her voice grew quieter. “Guess personal experience helps.”

  Personal experience. Now that was unexpected. “Are you referring to Gogo or did your father abuse you?”

  She inhaled a sharp breath. “Gogo? Despite the martial arts thing, he’s a teddy bear. No, it was my ex. And my father never hit me. He did hit my mother, but she could give as well as she got. I grew up in a very dramatic family, Mr. Drayco.”

  “You indicated you were close to your mother, isn’t that correct?”

  She bit her lip. “I miss her every day. She wasn’t just my Mom, we were best friends.”

  Maybe it meant more to daughters to have a mother they could count on. Drayco thought of the photos in Edwin’s home of mother and daughter together, laughing. Right next to the photos of Edwin and Ashley’s mother standing so close—intimately close—together.

  He almost hated to ask, but he had to know. “Ashley, was your mother in love with your Uncle Edwin?”

  She stared at the camel carpet for a few moments without replying. She didn’t raise her head when she finally said, “I often think how different it would have been if she’d married him instead of Dad. They both pursued her, but Dad won.”

  When she looked up at Drayco, her eyes were soft with pain. “I admit I wondered, more than once, if Uncle Edwin and Mom had an affair. Maybe part of Mom’s constant fighting with Dad was because she’d realized she made a mistake. Should have married Uncle Edwin.”

  Drayco studied Ashley, comparing her to Jerold and Edwin. The brothers shared a strong family resemblance, so it wasn’t easy just by looking to tell if Ashley was Jerold’s daughter or Edwin’s. But it would explain why Edwin was protective of her.

  “What can you tell me about your parents and their habits or routines? Or even hobbies.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand why you’d ask about that. What does this have to do with that woman they arrested?”

  “Sometimes connecting the dots takes you into some strange territory. Motives aren’t always straight-forward.”

  She sighed. “Well, they were pretty boring. At least, to me. Mom was kinda OCD about her business. Spent long hours on it. Lots of satisfied customers.” Drayco knew this himself, having checked with some of her former clients and consumer complaint agencies last evening.

  “Dad had his quartet, as you know. He also liked to play golf at the East Potomac Park course. He was bitter he wasn’t a high enough mucky muck to bypass the long waiting list at the Washington Golf and Country Club.”

  “Do you recall your mother’s behavior changing at all before her murder?”

  Ashley blinked her eyes several times and got up to grab a tissue from a box on a counter. “Sorry. It’s bad enough to remember she’s dead. But thinking about how she died ...” She dabbed at her eyes and clutched the tissue in her hands. “She seemed normal to me. Happier, even, after she got divorced from Dad.”

  “Was your father happier, too? You said you thought he cheated on your mother. Maybe he was in a new relationship with his affair partner or someone else.”

  “As I said, I hadn’t seen him in a year or so. Just to take over his things that one day.”

  A young woman dressed in faded jeans and a red sweater two sizes too big for her opened the door and stepped a foot in. “Everything okay, Miss Ashley?”

  Tendrils of the woman’s dark hair fell in curtains across the right side of her face but couldn’t completely hide the yellow-green-purple skin peeking through. She glared at Drayco.

  “I’m fine, Tanya. Just chatting with a friend.”

  The woman huffed but withdrew and closed the door.

  “Most of the women here, like Tanya, are victims of domestic violence. They’re understandably suspicious of men. One reason we don’t allow many men in here.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset your residents.” He thought of Rena Quentin and her sexual harassment case and how much difference money and clout can make.

  “It’s why I brought you in here where we could be out of sight.”

  “Nor did I want to upset you. I have a feeling Gogo would have something to say about that—he seems very protective of you.”

  She sat in silence before adding slowly, “Gogo and me, we have our ups and downs. Nothing major, mostly lots of little things. He loves to haunt all those tacky dollar stores run by Chinese in strip malls. You know, the ones filled with cheap, flimsy trinkets. And I hate Chinese food. Tried to get him to go vegan like me, but he’s into all that animal protein stuff for his training, whey, egg, even fish protein. But I love him.”

  “It seems mutual.”

  She gave him the first smile he’d seen from her. “Now, if we can get his parents on board, we’ll be all set. First, my parents were against him, then his parents against me. It’s so twentieth century.”

  “I knew your father disapproved, but your mother too?”

  “My father wasn’t the one who disapproved that much of Gogo. Well, he did at first. Before he got to know him better in the quartet. They didn’t get along, but it wasn’t that. Mom was dead set against us dating.”

  “Did she give any reason?”

  “Not really. Just protective, I guess. He’s eight years older than me.” She rubbed her forehead. “The ironic thing is I never told her I’d married once before. One of those quickie Vegas weddings to a man twenty years older. The day after our ‘honeymoon,’ he started hitting me. And come to find out he was already married but hadn’t bothered to get a divorce.”

  “You got it annulled?”

  “Faster than you can say fraud.” Ashley clutched the crumpled tissue in her hand even tighter.

  “Why didn’t you tell your parents?”

  “The same reason you didn’t tell your parents about every stupid thing you did.”

  Drayco had to agree with her there. A guilt sandwich wrapped in shame washed down by a lecture. Not exactly a happy meal. “Sounds like your parents cared. That’s a lot rarer than you’d think.”

  He got up to get her another tissue. “I need to ask you more about the days before your mother’s death. Did she seem afraid or mention any stalkers? Or perhaps she had problems with one of her customers?”

  “Zilch on all counts. That’s why I know my father killed her. Who else hated her that much?”

  “The police think it was a random robbery.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Maybe. I don’t think your father’s murder was random, however. It was someone with an ax to grind. Or who stood to gain from his death.”

  “You still think I killed him? For his money?”

  He took a deep breath and chose his words carefully. “I believe you hated him. But if everyone killed the people they hated, half the population on the planet would die each year.”

  “Meaning you haven’t decided yet.”

  Score one for Ashley being smarter and more perceptive than he’d first thought. It was a reminder he had to push past any feelings of sympathy for her and remain objective—cold, calculating killers were often terrific actors.

  Still, without knowing more about his own mother’s past, Ashley’s motivations might pale in comparison with Maura’s. It was time he did something about that knowledge gap.

  Chapter 20

  After checking on the Generic Silver Camry he kept in the garage beneath the small and woefully overpriced office he rented near Capitol Hill, Drayco hunched over his laptop. His initial efforts after he first talked to his mother hadn’t been of much use, but in the time since, new possibilities had percolated through to his conscious mind. He drilled
down into the internet’s labyrinth, trying the dozens of databases he had access to, then started tunneling through more obscure websites.

  The white and mostly bare walls surrounding him weren’t much of an inspiration. The framed degrees, especially the criminology doctorate, even seemed to be mocking him. Maybe he needed to get a potted plant.

  He started with “Brisbane,” the name found with Maura at the time of her arrest. Through Benny and other sources, he’d learned Halabi and company had struck out with their Australian line of investigation. But Brisbane, the city, was named after Sir Thomas Brisbane, a Scotsman. Brisbane was a Scottish surname going back to at least the thirteenth century. And Maura was allegedly Scottish. Or so she’d told Brock.

  He pored over birth and death records, police records, newspaper articles. There were a lot of accounts of noble, law-abiding Brisbanes, but the skeletons in the family tree interested him more. One branch seemed to follow a gypsy-esque lifestyle, not true Roma people but never settling down. There was very little information about them. Ghost people.

  It was in this line where he came across a link to a Maura Brisbane, born at a time that would make her a contemporary of his mother’s. It was just one tiny mention, and it referenced a fraternal twin brother, Alistair. If this were the same woman, now he knew where he and Casey got the twin gene. And it also meant he had an uncle he’d never known—unless the man was dead.

  Drayco didn’t find immigration records for Maura, but he did see a brief record for Alistair, who’d moved to the U.S. thirty-six years ago. That would be the same time Maura McCune allegedly did, marrying Brock a year later.

  Drayco next researched Alistair Brisbane, who appeared to be very much alive, if the same man. Of Alistair’s time in the U.S., there was one brief news item about him and his role as a power broker, but that was from over a decade ago. The man apparently liked to keep a low profile. Nevertheless, his name popped up once or twice in the same paragraph as a senator or lobbyist or judge.

  No arrests or blots on his record as near as Drayco could tell. Or much of anything in any record, for that matter. He’d have to get Sarg to run his name through the FBI databases, but it looked like invisibility was the man’s specialty.

  He came across only one photo of Brisbane, and it was blurred, with Brisbane half-hidden behind a congressman from New York. Despite the poor quality and the fact its subject was fifteen years younger at the time, Drayco could see traces of Maura in Alistair. He’d also seen this man before—it was the same mystery man who’d stared at him in the Mayflower Hotel’s cafe.

  § § §

  Blades of the late-afternoon sun managed to stab through the cloud layers as Drayco stood outside a small duplex, one unit painted white, the other gray. Nice and neutral. As if the building were shrinking back from the road in hopes no one would notice it.

  Being midafternoon, the occupants of the white half appeared to be away. Since the duplex sat at the end of a side street with homes spaced relatively far apart, he figured picking the door lock to the gray side’s door would go unnoticed.

  Thanks to Benny, Drayco had gotten a peek at the list of tenants the police compiled of homes, apartments, and condos within a few miles of Jerold’s place, hoping to find where Maura McCune had been staying. What they hadn’t noticed, but he had, was that the gray duplex was rented under the name of Isolde Ian—a combination of Casey’s middle name and Drayco’s middle name. After chatting up the landlord and learning “Isolde Ian” paid her rent in cash, Drayco figured he had a winner.

  His conscience pricked him a little as he pictured Sarg’s disapproving look, but at least he’d brought along nitrile gloves. He slipped them on.

  Essentially a one-bedroom apartment, it didn’t take long for him to conduct a sweep of the place. Making it even easier was the lack of belongings, something you’d expect from living the gypsy lifestyle. One lightweight suitcase lay in the bottom of the bedroom closet, with conservative, nondescript women’s clothing hanging above. Even the one small trash can was empty.

  No computer, no TV, no dishes other than paper plates and plastic ware. One small potted plant sat in the kitchen window, wilting from neglect. On an impulse, he picked it up and gave it some water from the sink. At least, there weren’t any dead goldfish around.

  He returned to the bedroom and sat on the bed close to the nightstand so he could open its lone drawer. Inside were four driver’s license IDs from different states with different names beside her photo. He made a note of each, knowing it was just a matter of time before Halabi and his people found this place. He’d do some checking on those IDs for his own edification and let Halabi waste his own time.

  Next to the drivers’ licenses sat a burner “dumb” phone, possibly the one she used to call Jerold. He checked recent calls and found Jerold’s number, but no others. Either this was a new phone or Maura was careful to change out the SIM cards frequently. He’d love to pocket the phone and let the FBI techs dig into the SIM card, but decided to let the proper channels run their course.

  The only other items inside the drawer, beside some receipts for food and cleaning supplies, were two decks of Tarot cards and the sole piece of jewelry around, a necklace with a half-heart pendant that had PAH engraved on it. Risking more of Halabi’s wrath, he slipped that item into his pocket. Act now, apologize later.

  An invisible woman, an anonymous life. No roots, no identity, no real existence. Thirty years since she left her family, and this was all she had? Or perhaps she had a storage unit somewhere, also paid for in cash.

  He scanned the receipts again. The receipts went back almost two years—living in the area for two years, and she never tried to contact him? Had he passed by her on the street and didn’t even know who she was?

  A couple of poetry books graced the top of the nightstand, one by Robert Frost, one by E.E. Cummings. He checked the Frost book first. No notes, no inscriptions, no secret pieces of paper or numbers anywhere. He picked up the Cummings book, flipped through the contents and noted the poem “I Carry Your Heart With Me.” Then he flipped to the front of the book and saw an inscription in all block letters, ICYHWM, the same as Iago’s tattoo. The inscription was signed simply, “I.”

  Chapter 21

  They sat in the Range Rover in the dark, headlights off. Drayco looked over at Sarg. “You didn’t have to come along.”

  “Just happened to be coming to town when I got your call. Dropped Elaine and a friend of hers off at the Ken Cen for one of those crappy musicals.”

  Drayco grinned. “This from a man who likes polka?”

  “It’s a cultural thing. With a small ‘c.’ You sure you got the right info from Gogo Cheng’s phone call at his studio?”

  Drayco pulled out the mini-flashlight he always carried in his pocket and flicked it on for a few seconds to look at his notes. “This is the date and time he mentioned. The place is a bit of a guess. The coded words he used on his end of the conversation fit a boat supply joint, and there aren’t many of those around.”

  “And the betting slips you saw are his tickets to the wide world of illegal sports betting.”

  “Could be dangerous. Remember the task force that took down the multi-million dollar gambling op at the Eden Center a few years ago?”

  “How could I forget? The Bureau was part of that one. Vietnamese gangs, as I recall. Don’t know which are worse around here, them or MS13.”

  Drayco nodded at the back door. “Shall we go in?”

  The cars lining the street around the boat supply building and the lights in the basement all but confirmed Drayco’s theory, as did the unsmiling face of the man covered in tattoos who answered the door. Drayco couldn’t tell if they were gang tattoos, but since this was a betting joint, he’d bet they were.

  “You’re not invited to this party,” the man said, standing in the center of the doorway.

  Drayco took advantage of his six-four height and got just close enough to tower over the man, his hands on his h
ips to show he wasn’t holding any weapons. “Looking for Gogo Cheng,” he said.

  Tattoo Man’s fierce stance wavered a fraction. “You cops?”

  “He owes me money,” Drayco replied. “And I need it. Now.”

  The other man nodded. “Yeah, we hear that a lot. I’ll get him.”

  Through the door, Drayco could see TV monitors tuned to sporting events around the world. Ice hockey and basketball in the U.S., tennis in Mexico, horse racing in Australia, cycling in New Zealand, cricket in New Delhi. The interactive computer betting consoles were another tip this was not an amateur set-up.

  When Gogo arrived at the door, shock didn’t begin to describe the look on his face. He swallowed hard but said loud enough so Tattoo Man could hear, “I said I’d get you the money tomorrow. Couldn’t it wait?” and he stepped outside and closed the door.

  Drayco nodded at Sarg’s car, and the trio climbed inside, Gogo and Drayco in the back, Sarg in the front. Drayco conducted a quick scan of Gogo’s body and clothing, but he didn’t appear to have any Eskrima weapons on him.

  “It’s not what you think.” Gogo’s voice ordinarily had green forks that stabbed at Drayco, but tonight those forks had hard black edges.

  “Then, what is it, sir?” Sarg’s own voice dripped with more sarcasm than usual.

  Gogo’s words came out in a rush. “Years ago, my parents gave me a painting of Chinese calligraphy. Some Song Dynasty thing. Been in our family for generations. I took it for granted, didn’t realize its worth. Jerold Zamorra said he was having a big party and wondered if I would loan it to him. I said, sure, and didn’t think anything of it. Until he didn’t give it back.”

  His hands, balled into fists, pounded the seat. “Found out later he’d sold it to pay for his goddamn gambling debts. And that it was worth over fifty grand. Then I decided to find the painting by tracking down the buyer.”

  Drayco kept one eye on Gogo and another on a car parked near them until two people got in and left. “Do your parents know?”