by BV Lawson
“Hell no. That’s why I’ve got to find that painting first. Then I won’t have to tell them.”
“Why not go to the police?”
“The police would want to talk to my parents. Then they’d find out.”
Sarg spoke up from the driver’s seat. “When was this alleged party of Jerold’s?”
“About six months ago.”
“So, Mr. Cheng, you’re telling us you’re just here to find out if any of these delightful, upstanding gentlemen know who Jerold sold that painting to, is that right?”
“I’ve been coming a couple times a month. Betting a little here and there. Just enough to gain their trust. That’s all, I swear. I’m not rich, but I make enough from the studio and concerts.”
“Don’t forget Ashley’s money, Mr. Cheng.”
Gogo glared at Sarg’s profile. “How many times do I have to tell you people I don’t give a shit about her money? When I first started dating her, hell up until a few days ago, I thought she had less money than I do.”
Drayco waited for another car to empty its passengers into the building. “I take it this sport betting operation moves around—thus the meeting details over the phone at Kicks and Sticks?”
“That’s how you knew? Man, I thought you were psychic. Yeah, it moves every couple weeks.”
“Did you find what you were looking for—the name of the person who bought your painting?”
Gogo sat straighter in his seat. “Sorta. Some guy called Marchand. Faust Marchand. But that’s gotta be a fake name, right?”
Sarg wrote down the name in his notebook. “We’ll check out your story. In the meantime, I’d strongly suggest you stay away from this group.”
“Hell, if you can help me get back my painting, I’ll do anything you say.”
Drayco replied, “No promises, but we’ll see what we can do.” He added, “Does Ashley know about any of this?”
“Not the painting nor the gambling. I’d like it to stay that way.”
Drayco put a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go home and tackle some Bach. Always clears my head.”
Gogo took the hint and scrambled out the door. They watched as he went to his car, hopped in, and peeled away. Sarg put his index fingers to the sides of his head and said, “I have a feeling there’s going to be a raid on that outfit very soon. I must be psychic.”
Drayco switched out of the back seat into the front passenger side. “Then I hope Gogo takes our advice.”
Sarg grunted. “Jerold swiping, then selling, a painting worth fifty grand—I’ve seen wimpier motives for murder. And despite what he says, I don’t buy that whole ‘I didn’t know about Ashley’s inheritance’ bit.”
Drayco said, “Hmm,” as he drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “During my quick glance inside that joint, I didn’t see many women. But there were a few.”
“You’re thinking Maura was involved in part of this? The gambling, the painting, both?”
“Iago said she and Jerold were business partners in something, but I don’t know. Maybe I’m the one who’s being played.”
“Then they don’t know betting against a Drayco is the definition of insanity.” Sarg started up the engine. “What’s up with that name he got, this Faust Marchand guy?”
“It may be a fake name someone gave Gogo, as he suspected. ‘Marchand’ is French for dealer or broker. And Faust—well, I guess when you play dice with this guy, you make a deal with the devil.”
Chapter 22
Drayco knew he wasn’t alone the second he stepped inside his townhome. Every muscle in his body tensed as he looked around for signs of Iago. Or someone worse.
From the kitchen came sounds of the freezer door opening and ice cubes being dropped into a glass. Since most intruders wouldn’t help themselves to his food supplies, he relaxed a bit as he headed to the kitchen. Maybe Darcie was back with more lasagna? And if she was wearing that red bow again ... He headed into the kitchen.
Brock straightened up and turned around so fast that he almost fell over. His tie was partially undone, his jacket and pants rumpled, and he squinted at Drayco through a half-sloshed fog. Drayco walked over to him and picked up the bottle of Scotch that was nearly full when Drayco left this morning.
Brock grabbed the bottle from him, tipped his glass in salute, and staggered to the sofa in the den. “Hate being on the receiving end of an interrogation. Halabi and his ‘minions,’” Brock made quote marks in the air, “had me in for a couple hours today. Who, What, Where, Why, When, Which, Whatever.”
“I thought they grilled you already. Unless this has to do with some kind of illegal scheme they uncovered?” He wasn’t about to bring up Iago. Not yet.
“No, but it wouldn’t surprise me one whit.”
For one microsecond, Drayco entertained the idea Brock had him totally snowed all this time and was in cahoots with Maura, but a microsecond later dismissed the idea as preposterous. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you drunk.”
“Drunk? This is stewed. Rhymes with screwed. Next is smashed, rhymes with trashed. Then on to drunk. Drunk, drunk ... oh, yeah. Funk. Or Flunk.” He took another sip. “Last time I was screwed-trashed-drunk was when that woman disappeared. Now she’s back. You do the ...” He belched. “Math.”
Brock sagged into the sofa as he balanced the Scotch in his hands. He sat there without saying anything or taking another drink for several moments. Finally, he said, “I lied.”
Drayco had just decided to head to the kitchen and make some coffee, but Brock’s words stopped him in mid-stride. “You lied to Halabi?”
“No.” Brock sipped some of the Scotch and tilted his head to let the liquid trickle down the back of his throat. “To you.”
“When? What about?”
“I had your mother declared legally dead to tie up all the legal mumbo jumbo. Closure. Hell, to me she was dead. Then I got a letter. When you were fifteen. From her.”
“You sure it was from her?”
“Didn’t have the handwriting analyzed, but didn’t matter. I knew.”
Drayco stood over his father, trying to rein in his anger. “Do you still have it?”
“Threw it away. But I ’member what it said. She knew she was declared legally dead. She wanted to stay that way as far as everyone was concerned. ’Specially you. Said it was for the best.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I agreed with her. Better she stay dead.”
Screw the coffee. Drayco needed another bottle of Scotch all to himself. “Casting aside—for now—the million reasons you should have told me, why would she bother contacting you at all? What did she gain?”
“Hell if I know. Why’d she leave in the first place? Why’d she even marry me? What makes oranges orange and blueberries blue? Why are sofas so damn hard?” He pounded the one he was sitting on.
Brock’s hand shook, and he dropped the drink on the table. Rivulets of Scotch flowed over the edge and onto the area rug. He said, “I wish you better luck in prying anything out of her,” then got up to rummage through Drayco’s cabinets to get another drink while Drayco mopped up the spill.
Drayco called after him, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
Brock stopped making the drink, then lurched forward and stood close to Drayco. “I’ll tell ya what I’ve had enough of. This.” He gestured at the space between the two men. “This distance. It’s always there. You. Me. An ocean between. The Arctic Ocean, with little icebergs circling around.”
“And you blame me for that?”
“I blame the whole fuck-sucking universe for that.”
“Let me guess. This is the point where you tell me I’m adopted.”
“You may wish you were. Hell, I may wish you were, after all of this.” Brock pushed on Drayco’s chest. “We should duke it out. Right here and now.”
He raised his other fist, but even though Brock was still fit and only a couple of inches shorter than his son, Drayco easily g
rabbed his father’s hands to interrupt his half-hearted attack. “Some other day. With a boxing ring and gloves. Right now, we need to put you to bed.”
Brock deflated faster than a child’s balloon and allowed his son to cart him off to the guest bedroom. Brock mumbled, “Waste of your time and skills, this thing. Won’t even get paid for it. Leave it alone.”
Drayco managed to wrestle off Brock’s shoes, jacket, and tie. Brock always wore ties. Maybe even to bed, for all Drayco knew. Drayco flipped off the light to the guest room. He wandered out to the den and sat in almost-silence as the faint snores from his father wafted out to him.
After Drayco’s piano career was cut short, he’d always thought he chose to go into law enforcement due to his father’s influence. Was it really that? Or had part of his subconscious dragged him into it because deep down, he never accepted his father’s story of Maura just up and abandoning them without one word?
Maybe he blamed Brock but never admitted it to himself. For not going after her, for not trying to seek the truth. All part of the distance between them, and now, another lie. Lies on top of lies.
In the cosmic pool of irony, it would be fitting if this case destroyed the relationship he had with his father, even as he got reacquainted with his mother. Had everything in his life been one gargantuan, universe-sized lie?
The mostly empty bottle of Scotch stood on the table, but Drayco didn’t make a move toward it. Despite himself, when the snoring from the guest bedroom stopped, he got up to make sure his father was still breathing. The snoring started up again, and suddenly tired beyond words, Drayco stumbled up the stairs to his own bedroom. Following his father’s example, he fell onto the bed, clothes and all.
Chapter 23
Tuesday, February 19
By six a.m., thousands of day laborers congregated in Home Depot and 7-11 parking lots spread throughout the metro area—hopeful penitents at the Feast of St. Paycheck waiting for a blessing. Wearing patched coats and shod in steel-toed construction boots, they scarfed down coffee, breakfast taquitos, and yellow and pink pan dulces while keeping an eye on every single vehicle passing by.
If the men were lucky, they’d get hired for the day at minimum wage and not be stiffed or become a victim of crime. When they swarmed around Drayco’s car as he stopped to ask if they’d seen his quarry, he hated to disappoint them. But he got what he was seeking.
The man Drayco had tracked down was not likely to be a crime victim, more than able to hold his own. And thanks to another of the day laborers who’d been helpful—in exchange for a couple of Andrew Jacksons—Drayco now knew the man’s full name.
Drayco spied his pray, a man dressed all in black. He rolled down his car window to motion for the man to come over. “Looking for a job? Hop in.”
The man hesitated, then joined Drayco and immediately slid his seat all the way back. Drayco also had problems in cramped spaces with his long legs, but he wasn’t six-eight. “Greetings, Iago Pryce. I could pay you for the day, but I have a feeling you don’t need it.”
Drayco pulled his Generic Silver Camry into a parking garage in Shirlington and turned off the engine. Iago crossed his arms over his wide chest, no small feat. “Howdja find me?”
“You dropped a bus ticket stub at my home. Plus, you had dirt under your fingernails like a workman and mud on your shoes despite the fact it hasn’t rained in a week. You also had the distinct aroma of sewage cologne, so I looked at the bus line and scoped out day laborer spots near the water pollution control plant. A day laborer job is a perfect cover for someone who moves around a lot. And you do move around a lot, don’t you? Following Maura McCune?”
Iago didn’t reply, grabbing a handful of pepita seeds from his pocket and tossing them into his mouth.
“Has she been in the U.S. for the past thirty years or just the last two?”
Still munching on the seeds, Iago replied, “Like you said, moving around.”
“And you follow her. Are you some kind of official bodyguard?”
Iago turned his head sharply. “How much do you know about her?”
“Not much, which is why I’m here. If you’re supposed to be keeping Maura out of trouble, why don’t you just go to the police and say—truthfully or not—Maura was with you and couldn’t have committed the murder?”
Iago uttered a derisive laugh. “Even if it was true, I don’t exist.”
“That means you weren’t with her that night. How can you be so certain she’s not guilty?”
More silence, except for the sound of Iago’s chewing.
“I’m guessing you have several identities like she does. Okay. What’s with ICYHWM and E.E. Cummings?”
“You found her apartment.” Iago picked at his nails, but it would take a lot more than that to get the dirt out. “I met her at a poetry slam, went for one date. She said she wasn’t interested in pursuing anything. I followed her, found out what she does for a living, who she is.”
“That’s more than my father discovered.”
“He doesn’t care like I do.”
Bodyguard or stalker, Iago still represented the first crack in the wall of mystery surrounding Drayco’s mother. But he wanted more. Much more. “Let’s talk about what she does for a living. Petty theft, cons, fraud. Am I warm?”
“What difference does it make? Everybody gambles with something. It’s all in the cards or numbers. Sometimes you win the lottery, sometimes you don’t.”
“It matters because you said Jerold was a ‘colleague’ of Maura’s. And she was angry with him for two-timing her.”
“Maybe they were partners, maybe they weren’t. It’s not relevant. She didn’t kill him over it. Look, I’m your friend as long as you try to help her. But if you change your mind and try to prosecute her, you’ll see me again, all right. But you don’t want to see me again that way. Trust me.”
Drayco ignored the threat. “Maura arrived in the U.S. about the same time as her twin brother Alistair, isn’t that right?”
Iago pushed open the car door and stepped out, bending down so he could see Drayco, still inside. “Best you forget that name. Throwing it around can be bad for your health.”
He didn’t slam the door but shut it quietly and deliberately. By the time Drayco started his car and pulled out of the garage to follow, Iago was nowhere in sight.
So much for tailing the guy. Drayco had a pretty good idea Iago wouldn’t return to this location and gave it his best shot, driving around for a half hour. No luck. Maybe he should have followed on foot, but if Iago hopped onto a bus, Drayco would have been spotted right away.
He wasn’t surprised Iago would know about Alistair Brisbane, but did Brisbane know about him? Or about Maura, for that matter. Iago didn’t fit the circle of powerful friends Drayco glimpsed from that one newspaper article. How did all the puzzle pieces fit together?
He pulled the car over to text a message to a friend he hadn’t seen in a while. He needed answers, and he needed them soon. Taking into account the time difference between the States and Scotland, it was only late morning there, so no tirades about waking up his friend. But if anyone could track down a phantom in the Scottish netherworld, it was Brody McGregor.
First, he had another meeting with the ghost from his past.
Chapter 24
Maura McCune clasped her hands together on the little desk across from the glass. It was déjà vu as Drayco observed her in his second meeting at the detention center, with one exception—this time, Benny Baskin sat next to him. Since Benny’s prior solo visit with Maura had proved frustrating, or as Benny put it, “like talking to Mt. Everest,” he’d decided to let Drayco take the lead.
Drayco studied Maura, his gaze falling to the scar on her neck. He hadn’t paid that much attention to it on their first meeting. It was definitely an old scar, almost a W-shape, like one left over from a burn ... or maybe a hot poker. She caught him looking at it and tried to pull the top of her orange jumpsuit up to cover it, but it was hardly adequat
e for that.
After he stared at her for a few more moments without saying anything, she finally blurted out, “As jails go, it’s a pretty decent one. There’s even a library. I’m reading that new thriller by Simon D’Avanzo.”
“And how many jails have you been in?”
She just bit her lip, then shook her head.
“I’m not sure what I should call you. A gypsy? A nomad? Or is con woman more accurate?”
Her pale skin turned a mottled crimson. “I cannae expect you to understand, Scotty. I couldn’t tell you the troth, could I? To know the kind of person I was.” Until now, her accent was a mere shadow of its former self. But the more agitated she got, the more it spilled out.
“You abandoned us when Casey and I were five years old. You don’t want to know what I think of you.”
She clasped her hands tighter, the knuckles turning white as Drayco continued, unable to keep the words from pouring out. “When Casey lay dying in the hospital with me and Brock by her side, she cried out for her Mommy. Did you know that?”
Maura turned her head away. She cleared her throat and released one of her hands long enough to dab at her eyes before turning her attention back to him. Her voice was so soft, it was almost a whisper. But this time, she spoke each word slowly, sounding more like she had on his first visit. “I can’t change the past. Only the present.”
Despite his promise to stay silent, Benny piped up, “You can start by telling us your relationship to Jerold Zamorra.”
“We found out we were in the same line of work and hooked up as partners. Turns out, it was a bad idea on my part. I’ve trusted few people in my life and here I’d trusted Jerold, and he was going to double-cross me.”
Drayco asked, “With someone else, a new partner?”
She nodded. “I don’t know who.”
“That’s why you called him and arranged the meeting right before he was murdered?”
“Aye. And when I found him lying there, dead, I was furious. He’d betrayed my trust, and now he’d robbed me of my chance to get back at him and his new partner.”
