by BV Lawson
Drayco leaned back in his chair. “I asked you before if you and Jerold were lovers. You didn’t answer.”
“We weren’t lovers like you think. It was just one time. And no, this wasn’t a lover’s tiff.”
“Do you even know anything about love? Why did you marry Brock?”
She smiled a sad little smile and avoided answering the question.
Benny shot him a “stick to the case, you idiot” look. Drayco gritted his teeth and pressed on, “Describe this work partnership, this scheme of yours and Jerold’s.”
She clenched her jaw. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“Of course it matters now. It can help prove or disprove your case. Is it that you don’t trust me, either? You’re afraid I’ll use the information against you?”
A sigh escaped her lips. “Ah, Scotty. Please don’t ask me that.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Don’t you owe me that, at the very least?”
“I can’t. Don’t you see? I don’t want to exchange a sentence for a murder I didn’t commit for a sentence for something else.”
“You’re all but admitting you have done something illegal. Look, if you don’t help us on the murder charge, nothing else will matter. You’ll be put away for life.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Tell me how we’re supposed to help you?”
“Find the person who did this.”
Drayco counted to three and took a couple of deep breaths. “It will be a lot easier if you’ll help me. For instance, Ashley and Edwin Zamorra, Jerold’s daughter and brother. Did you meet either one of them?”
“I saw Edwin once, from a distance. Ashley, no.”
“Did Edwin or Ashley know of your partnership with Jerold?”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t say.”
“How long were you partners with Jerold?”
“About six months.”
“Did he ever mention his deceased wife, Ophelia?”
“I’m sorry, Scotty. We didn’t talk about much other than our plans. Even when we made love that one time, I didn’t feel like he was there. Like his mind was on other things. Things he chose not to share.”
Drayco almost said takes one to know one. He tried to read her body language but wasn’t sure if he was seeing her as she was now or how she was three decades ago. “You’ve been in the area two years. What have you been doing all this time?”
“Making a living. Trying to stay busy.”
“Does that living have something to do with Tarot cards?”
Her eyes widened, and she paused before answering. “You and I used to play cards when you were little. Do you remember? But you always beat me. You had such a remarkable memory, even as a lad. Always knew what everyone else had drawn or discarded and could guess what was left in the deck.”
He remembered. Even then, he’d suspected she cheated a little. “I could use your various ID cards as a deck, there are so many. Want to tell me about them?”
“The police haven’t asked me about those.” She blinked at him then smiled as the light bulb went off. She knew he’d been to her apartment, but the PD hadn’t—and Drayco hadn’t told them. “It’s just a game, Scotty. That’s all.”
“Like Guess-Who-You?”
“Exactly.” Her smile grew wider.
He’d have to explain to Benny later about Guess-Who-You, the role-playing game he and his mother had made up, where each had to pretend to be someone else while the other guessed their identity. But at least, he and Maura seemed to be connecting a little again. “It seems fraternal twins run in the family. Casey and me, you and Alistair. I’ve been talking to Iago Pryce and—”
Her demeanor changed immediately. “On second thought, I’ve said everything I have to say. You don’t need to help me any further. Consider yourself off the case, both you and Mr. Baskin. You can just leave me alone from here. Besides, I stopped caring about you or anyone else long ago.”
She pressed a button to signal for the warden to come and take her to her cell, leaving Drayco to stare at her now-vacant seat. The warden returned a few minutes later and motioned for Drayco and Baskin to be escorted back to the front desk. Turning his head to look at the impassive face of the warden, Drayco hauled himself up and picked his way out of the building, with Baskin following closely behind.
“What was that all about?” In addition to sounding like a bull terrier, Benny even looked like one with his hands on his hips and his stocky legs splayed out to either side. “You think it’s related to this shady Brisbane guy you told me about?”
“Not sure, but I aim to find out. And Maura’s still your client until I tell you otherwise.”
“Sure, sure, boy-o. You Draycos are such fun to work with.”
Drayco scowled in reply. No one wanted him on this case, not even his mother. That should be a sign, right? He wasn’t superstitious and certainly didn’t believe in divination, but he had a sudden compulsion to pay a visit to a cemetery.
Chapter 25
The trip south on I-95 to Fredericksburg was a helluva lot easier in the early afternoon than during rush. A mere ninety minutes later, and Drayco was in front of his target. He’d changed his mind at the last minute, not about going to the cemetery, but about making another stop first to a place he hadn’t visited in eighteen years.
It would look almost the same as when he’d last seen it, if it weren’t for the boarded-up windows, peeling shingles, and overgrown yard filled with brown ivy, shotweed, purple deadnettle, and lichen-covered fallen branches. The tilted “For Sale” sign looked like an afterthought erected half-heartedly by a ghostly hand that wanted the place left as is.
Drayco had been on one of his European concert tours when he’d heard from Brock his father was selling the place and moving his son’s belongings to the new digs. Then came the carjacking. Then it was in the FBI, then out of the FBI, and he’d never had the chance to say goodbye.
Maura was the one who’d chosen the home, making it surprising Brock didn’t dump it soon after she left, just as he’d dumped everything else associated with her, except his children. At least, technically.
The crumbling front door was about as secure as Drayco’s townhome these days, and he easily shouldered his way past. The place didn’t look half-bad on the inside, not unlike how the Draycos left it years ago. The families who’d lived there since had done little to change the interior. Even the paint in the living room was the same pale green he remembered.
Why was he here? That question dogged him all the way up the stairs to the second floor, where he peered into his empty boyhood room before heading to the attic. Happy memories, sad memories, or something else altogether?
A thick layer of dust coated the attic, and any previous insulation was long gone. That made it easier for him to find the little compartment in the wall above the floorboards, partially obscured by joists. This attic is where he’d hidden for an entire day after his mother left because he didn’t want to be found, wanted to be left alone. During his “escape,” he’d stuck something inside that little hiding place. Surely it couldn’t still be there after all this time?
He reached into the hole and grabbed a yellowing sheet of paper, the type of wide-ruled paper schoolchildren use. There was a crude drawing of a woman with red hair, and a child’s handwritten scrawl spelled out the words, “She said I will always be with you. She lied.”
The day before Maura left them, she was extra nice to him and Casey. Taking them to the county fair, his first time ever on a Ferris Wheel. They ate so much ice cream and hot dogs and cotton candy, he threw up. It was that night she’d said those words to him, I will always be with you.
Why had he hidden the little paper here? Why had he not wanted Brock or Casey to see it? His reasons were long forgotten. But he’d always liked hiding places, which is why he often looked for secret compartments on cases, a habit that had come in handy more than once. He started to put the paper back into its former coffin but thrust it into his pocket instead.
Feeling a bit silly for having come here on some psychic mystery quest he couldn’t identify, he made his way back down to the living room. With one last look around the place, he turned to leave but stopped when he spied something under one of the windows.
He knelt down next to the floorboards and picked up the little pieces scattered there as if they’d fallen out of someone’s pocket. He’d seen those before and recently, at that. Iago’s pepita seeds.
§ § §
Still mulling over the possibility—or rather, the likelihood—Iago had been to the Drayco childhood home for some unknown reason, Drayco drove to the cemetery with its familiar low brick wall topped with an arching gate made of concrete and wrought iron. He’d been here a lot more recently than his old homestead.
But on his last visit, it was in the mid-90s and people were already setting off firecrackers in the distance, preparing for the Fourth of July celebrations later that day. If only the drive to Fredericksburg from D.C. weren’t so long, he’d come more often. At least, that was what he told himself.
He bent down on one knee to trace his finger over the engraved letters on the headstone, Casey Isolde Drayco. He said, “Sorry I haven’t been here in a while.”
He looked at the flowers on a grave over to his right. Plastic. He hated those. He wished he’d brought some lilies, her favorite flower. He’d never bothered to wonder why Brock didn’t purchase a grave marker for Maura, but now he knew.
“Mom’s alive, Drasee.” When they were quite young, he thought it was funny to call her Drasee Drayco. She hadn’t seemed to mind, but he was the only one who got away with it.
“Turns out, she may be a murderer. Or at least, a criminal. You can imagine how Brock is taking it. Oh, and she has a twin brother, just like us. Name’s Alistair, and it appears he may be a bit shady, too. I haven’t told Brock about that tidbit yet.” Why hadn’t he? He wasn’t even sure himself. Maybe it was all the lies in the air taking their toll.
The cold from the ground seeping through his slacks made Drayco stand up and dust off blades of yellowed grass. The truncated shadows falling in parallel lines behind the grave markers were like rows of soldiers standing at attention waiting for a call. To what, life? Resurrection? Someone to remember them?
“I could use a little advice, Drasee. I don’t usually have problems committing to a case, seeing it through. But I’ve dragged some friends into this, putting their reputations on the line. The deeper I dig, the more it appears she’s guilty.”
Maura McCune’s story, unless she skillfully fabricated the whole thing, did check out on one level, though—that she stabbed him once, likely after he was dead. But why did Maura suddenly clam up at the mention of Iago’s name? And had she really spent that much time in Jerold’s company and bed without him saying anything about his daughter and brother or other personal details?
The mild weather from the first two weeks of February was morphing into a chilly reminder it was indeed still winter. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to warm them as he gazed at the tombstone. He started to walk away when the largest crow Drayco had ever seen swooped down from a tree and landed a few feet from him.
It seemed totally unconcerned by Drayco’s presence, even looking up at him and emitting a loud cry that might sound like a simple “caw” to most, but sent lines of mulberry-colored metallic chain loops to Drayco’s ears. Small chains like on a necklace Ophelia wore in one of the photos displayed in Edwin Zamorra’s home.
He squinted at the crow. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Edwin again.” The crow flapped its wings and flew away.
Quantico was on Drayco’s way back to D.C., but he decided against bothering Sarg. The man was likely knee-deep in paperwork with a phone glued to his ear, anyway. He’d already helped out quite a bit using his contacts and databases to follow-up on several of the suspects and leads in the case. Not to mention volunteering his valuable time.
Even after three years away from the Bureau, Drayco sometimes looked over at the passenger seat en route to questioning a witness or client, half-expecting to see Sarg sitting there. He was surrounded by ghosts from his past everywhere he turned. As he left the cemetery, he turned to take one last look at the small grave. “Thanks, Drasee. Next time, lilies.”
Chapter 26
Drayco had to wait until Edwin closed his pharmacy at six before meeting him at his house. Edwin explained the timing, “It’s only me and one clerk most times. Occasionally, it’s just me. Small business, small staff.”
Drayco sat near the fireplace, with a good view of the witch doctor’s mask and antique apothecary box on the mantel. They weren’t the only artifacts in the room—unlike Jerold’s Spartan condo, every surface and wall sported a photo, painting, art piece, or some other knick-knack.
Edwin sat on the edge of a chair opposite Drayco. “You didn’t say why you wanted to see me, Mr. Drayco. Not to appear unwelcoming, but I don’t see how I can help you further with Jerold’s murder case. If that’s why you’re here.”
“Just a few questions to clear up a thing or two. Shouldn’t take much of your time.”
Edwin shrugged. “The police have my statement.”
“According to the police report, you were working late the night of Jerold’s death?”
Edwin fiddled with the buttons on his white lab coat he was still wearing. “My clerk had left for the day. And it was after we’d closed. No customer witnesses if that’s what you’re implying.”
“We ran into one of your customers the other day. Mrs. Imogen Layford. She was a neighbor of Jerold’s at his condo.”
Edwin pulled an e-cigarette out of his pocket and started vaping as the green apple aroma swirled around him. “I have several customers who live in that complex. But yes, yes, Mrs. Layford is a customer and a fine woman. Lost her husband ten years ago to Parkinson’s or ALS. Or possibly MS. One of those hideous neurological conditions.”
A quick image of Nelia Tyler flashed into Drayco’s mind. He’d never met her MS-stricken husband, Tim, or seen a picture of him. Just heard his voice over the phone when he was in a drunken stupor—the same night he’d left bruises on Nelia. Hopefully, Mr. Layford had never hit Mrs. Layford out of frustration.
“Did you know about any fraud schemes Jerold was involved with?”
Edwin pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Fraud? What, like a pyramid thing?”
“Not sure yet. I have a source who says he may have been involved in something illegal.”
“First I’ve heard. The police didn’t mention it.”
“They will. And when they do, they might suggest you wanted a piece of the action. He refused, so you killed him.”
Edwin’s laugh was a staccato goat bleat. “I assure you, I knew nothing of it.”
“What about Ashley?”
Edwin’s eyes flashed. “What about Ashley? Surely you don’t think she was involved in something fishy. Not our Ashley. And don’t wave that inheritance thing around, either. She’s a sweet girl—she’d never get involved in fraud or murder.”
“Ever hear the name, Alistair Brisbane? or Iago Pryce?”
“Don’t ring any bells.”
Edwin jumped at the sound of a knock on the door. He got up, looked out the window, and unlocked the door long enough to grab a pile of rubber-banded mail. “He’s late today.” Edwin didn’t look at the envelopes and tossed them onto a table, next to a copy of the PDR Drug Guide for Pharmacists.
Drayco wasn’t ordinarily jumpy, himself, but Edwin’s late mail and his reaction to the knock were reminiscent of the night Iago “dropped by” his townhome. He started to touch his neck but stopped himself. Fortunately, the bruises were fading, and he’d stopped getting funny looks from other people.
Drayco could see the top envelope on Edwin’s pile, not the address, but it was hard to miss the all-red Past Due lettering. “Was the lawsuit you filed against the TSA the beginning of your estrangement with your brother? Or did it start long before?”
; Edwin cleared his throat. “I’m truly sorry about Jerold and me. About our relationship going south. Despite what you said about that fraud thing, he was a good dad to Ashley and a fine musician. Even Rena Quentin, his former colleague who filed that harassment charge, told me she respected him.”
“Before or after she filed the charges?”
“She called the other day, to see how I was doing. She’s feeling horribly guilty now that he’s dead. That’s what happens after people die, isn’t it? We appreciate them more.”
Edwin rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Rena told me something else interesting. She researched you. Wondered why you were asking questions after the police had already done the same.”
“And she found out the accused murderer is my mother, is that right?”
Edwin nodded. “Rena got curious. Once a security wonk, always a security wonk. But after learning that, not sure I should be talking to you.”
“I’m more estranged from my mother than you were from Jerold. I’m only seeking the truth, and if she’s the murderer, so be it. You told Agent Sargosian and me you’d seen the suspect, Maura McCune, with Jerold once?”
Edwin chewed on his lip and seemed to be considering Drayco’s words. Finally, he replied, “Once, yes, from a distance. She’s an attractive woman. I can see why Jerold would succumb to her wiles.” Unlike the last time Drayco had visited, the man was fidgeting, with his right foot tapping out a rapid rhythm on the floor.
Drayco looked around the room, noting unusual glazed clay pots with Matisse-style patterns. He pointed them out. “Local artist?”
“My sister-in-law was very creative and not just at interior design. She made those for me.”
“You and your sister-in-law were very close.” Drayco got up and walked over to one of the pots with vivid purple, green, and orange shapes, holding it up to the light. “Were you in love with her?”
Edwin stopped the perpetual foot motion. “Now see here, Mr. Drayco—”
“Jerold didn’t have any photos of her at home. Yet, you do.”
