Elegy in Scarlet

by BV Lawson

  “Not much, but I have a friend in Scotland working on that end.” Drayco peered at Sarg over his glass. “Have you?”

  His former partner smiled. “You knew I couldn’t not try, didn’t you?”

  “Would have been surprised if you hadn’t.”

  “Too bad I’ve been every bit as productive as you. Bupkis. She doesn’t exist as far as the databases go. Pretty rare these days. Especially with zero social media presence. And Brisbane is so clean, he probably doesn’t have fingerprints.”

  Sarg took a swig from his soda. “Maura mentioned a new partner, eh? Maybe Gogo’s hatred of Jerold was all an act. Maybe Gogo was Jerold’s new wheeler-dealer.”

  The cheers at the rear of the bar grew louder as more patrons poured through the door, and the room began to resemble a newly opened can of sardines that smelled as bad. Drayco uttered a laugh that sounded to his ears like it had come from someone else. “She said she didn’t want me to know what kind of person she was.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I mentioned the phrase ‘con woman’ once, and she didn’t correct me. My Scottish ex-Interpol connection told me the Brisbane clan are part of a group known as Scottish lowland gypsy Travellers. And that the Brisbanes have a history of minor run-ins with the law.”

  “We should find out where Alistair Brisbane lives. March right up the front door. Bring him some cupcakes or something.”

  “I already know.”

  Sarg frowned. “Yeah, when did you find that out?”

  “Last night. Just in case I lost Brisbane’s limo after his meeting near the Capitol, I made another call to a well-placed connection—don’t ask me who, he’s allergic to law enforcement types—and dug up the address. It was bought under an LLC based in New Mexico that isn’t tied to Brisbane publicly.”

  “You check out the address in person?”

  “I’d need to hire a helicopter or boat.”

  “He lives on an island?”

  “Private. Sixteen acres with a beach, Federal-style main home, guest house, office, and a boat dock and helipad. Only twenty minutes from there to Potomac Airfield via a chopper. The previous homeowner was a Rockefeller.”

  “Why didn’t Maura live there? That’s one way to keep her out of trouble.”

  “Guess she didn’t want to. Maybe even Brisbane isn’t so controlling he’d be willing to keep his sister a virtual prisoner.”

  Someone bumped into Drayco, but that wasn’t what made him turn around. The fevered pitch from the rowdy group had taken on a different tone, a sound creating bubbling brown blobs of tar to his ears. That sound usually meant one thing—the aural equivalent to him of a dog growling with a mix of anger and fear. Sure enough, the cheers morphed into screams, and fists started flying.

  Drayco slammed his glass down, stood up, and headed for the group. But a bear lock around his chest that rivaled Iago’s held him back, and he felt himself being hauled toward the door and outside into the cold air. Sarg only let go of him to half-push him down the street and into a quieter bar where he deposited Drayco into a chair at a table.

  Drayco rubbed his arm. “What was that all about?” Sarg still had a few impressive moves left over from his ex-Ranger days. Almost put Iago to shame.

  “I saw that look in your eye. You weren’t headed for that crowd to stop the fight. You were going to join in, weren’t you?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Negatively charged energy. You know you’re not an ion, right?”

  Drayco managed a slight smile. “Anion.”

  “What?”

  “If an atom gains electrons and has a net negative charge, it’s called an anion.”

  “Whatever. You’ve got bunches of particles in you, yay for you. But that brain of yours is supposed to have evolved beyond that whole limbic animal stuff. Getting rounded up by cops isn’t going to help your board case or your mother.”

  Sarg signaled for the waitress and ordered a couple of black coffees and some water. “I saw it a lot in the Rangers. Hours, days, weeks of staying focused. Being expected to keep it together despite the world going to hell around you. That pent-up human magma has to blow some time.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Like hell you’re fine.”

  Drayco stared at the table. “Maybe Richard Feynman was right.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Famous physicist who said, ‘The first principle is you must not fool yourself, but you are the easiest person to fool.’”

  The waitress returned with their cups, prompting Sarg to pull a bottle out of his pocket and hand it over.

  Drayco picked it up. “Aspirin?”

  “That beer you were on was at least your third, maybe fourth or fifth. Take the aspirin, drink the coffee.”

  “You don’t usually carry aspirin with you.”

  “I came prepared.”

  That prompted a small smile from Drayco. “You know this bromance thing could never last.”

  Sarg grinned. “Just take the damned aspirin, would you?”

  Drayco did and then grabbed his coffee to pour some salt into it. He stirred it in and took a sip. Just right. When he reached for the aspirin bottle again, Sarg said, “Two’s enough.”

  “I know. This made me think of something the veterinarian said.”

  “That Dr. White guy you almost missed your hearing for?”

  “He said he wondered how you knew what you’re really getting, thanks to Chinese fakes. And that he almost accidentally mixed up some meds once.”

  “Not following. Drink more coffee.”

  “I’m not drunk. It’s something Jerold Zamorra’s elderly neighbor said. And putting two and two together, I’m getting five.”

  “Drink. Now. You’ll feel better and think better in the morning. And try some of that melatonin when you get home. You need your sleep. Maybe we’ll stop by the grocery on the way to your place. Elaine swears by tart cherry juice. Even better than melatonin.”

  Drayco relaxed and felt the negative energy draining away. Sleep sounded pretty good. And while five might sound like the wrong number, he had a sinking feeling it would turn out to be the right answer in the end. He took another sip of the coffee and plotted a con artist scheme of his own.

  Chapter 33

  Friday, February 22

  Drayco took big gulps out of the thermos of black coffee he’d filled up at the 7-11 and checked the time. He didn’t want to start knocking on doors before nine. As he sat in his car waiting, he thought about his less-than-steller evening after Sarg dropped him off last night. He’d been up late again doing research and then a little attempt at the piano. A failed attempt.

  He’d needed a strong dose of Bach, but found he still couldn’t bring himself to play anything. Not one teensy little scale. He’d just sat there staring at the thing until he almost fell asleep on the keyboard.

  One thing was sure—he owed Benny and Nelia big time for working their magic yesterday with their effective stalling. After the hearing, Benny was grumpily optimistic and Nelia cautiously worried about the outcome. In answer to their questions as to whether his plane-chasing side trip paid off, Drayco had hedged with his reply.

  He couldn’t give them an answer until he dug a little deeper into his new hypothesis. And for him to be able to answer that, he needed to get closer to his roots and use some of those Maura Brisbane McCune Drayco Whatevername genes to play con artist.

  At the dot of nine, he drove past Edwin’s small pharmacy building, within walking distance of the condos where Jerold had lived and died. He parked and headed for his first objective and knocked on the door. While waiting, he checked his image in the window to make sure he looked professional, no dandruff, no wrinkles. He’d even donned one of his hated ties.

  Imogen Layford opened the door, her smile hesitant at first. Then, as recognition glinted in her eyes, she opened the door wider. “You’re one of those folks who was looking at Jerold’s place the other day.”

  �
��Scott Drayco, Mrs. Layford. I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time?”

  She guided him to a green and blue paisley-print chair and poured him a cup of something amber. After all that coffee, he didn’t want anything else but accepted it politely.

  “Yerba mate,” she pointed at the cup as he took a tentative sip of something that tasted a little like a cross between weak coffee, smoky wood, and flavored hay. “It’ll put hair on your chest. A good sex tonic, too.”

  He almost choked but gulped another sip down. “Last time we spoke, you mentioned a Canadian lottery notice but hadn’t kept the envelope. I don’t suppose you’ve received another one since?”

  She motioned for him to wait while she disappeared into a back room. He could hear drawers being opened and closed, and then she returned and handed him a letter. “It was sweet of you to remember that. I haven’t gotten another, no, but I did find the one I told you about. I’d so appreciate it if you’d look into it for me. Jerold said he was going to.”

  She sat on the sofa and stared at her teacup. “I guess he wasn’t able to before he died.”

  Drayco put down his cup and looked over the form letter. A typically worded sham notice, “You must act now or the winnings will go to an alternate,” and “Send money to cover taxes and processing fees,” with instructions on where to send the money. But those instructions said to put a money order in the enclosed envelope. An envelope long gone now, and there was no address on the actual letter.

  “Mrs. Layford, did any of your friends receive a similar notice?”

  “Well now, I don’t recollect as such. Least, they didn’t say.” She put her feet up on an ottoman, where it was more obvious she was wearing high-heeled boots. When she saw him staring at them, she grinned. “If you wear heels for decades, you can’t just stop, or you won’t be able to walk. Besides, everyone has their little vanities.”

  “I must confess I know very little about women’s shoes.”

  “Most of my friends wear ugly flat things. And they complain all the time about their feet. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s belly-aching old people. If you make it to seventy, you’ve had a pretty good go at it, so stop complaining, I say.”

  He reached over to grab the cup of yerba matte but decided against it. If he wanted a sex tonic or any kind of tonic for that matter, he’d use the old standby, alcohol. “Are you feeling any better? You said you’d taken a turn for the worse lately.”

  “No U-turns yet, I’m afraid. Need to ask my doctor about upping my dose. Not that I’m complaining.” She winked at him.

  “You switched to Edwin Zamorra’s pharmacy recently, isn’t that right?”

  “Such a kind man. Calls me whenever my refills are ready, without me having to ask.”

  “I passed by that pharmacy on my way here. It’s certainly convenient. Do a lot of people at these condos get their meds there?”

  “There’s Twyla Sweet, for one. She lives in 208. And Inez Bruce. She’s in 316. Oh, and Marta Aguayo. She’s on the first floor in 119.” She rattled off a few more names. Drayco filed each one away in his memory.

  “You know, Mrs. Layford, maybe that medication of yours is just a little out of date—having to be shipped long distance, sitting on a shelf for a while. While I’m doing some checking, I’d be happy to have a friend of mine who works at a lab look into it for you. If you wouldn’t mind parting with one of your pills that is.”

  She didn’t hesitate to retrieve her medicine bottles. She had three with her and gave him one from each bottle. He noted the names on the bottles and pulled a little notebook out of his pocket. Grateful that Sarg wasn’t here to see him with that notebook, he copied the name of each prescription and the dosage and then placed one of each pill in a little baggie he’d brought.

  She sat back down again and drank some of the now-cold tea, not seeming to mind. Drayco handed her a photo from his wallet. “Did you ever see this woman with Jerold?” He’d gotten Benny to make him a copy of Maura’s mugshot.

  “That nice police detective asked me that, too. I did see her once, coming out of Jerold’s place. She was angry and said if he ever did that to her again, she’d grab the nearest knife and cut him into pieces. The police seemed very interested in that.”

  Drayco could see the self-satisfied look on Halabi’s face now. If it were up to the detective, Maura McCune would already be on death row.

  Drayco chatted with her a little longer about those “obnoxious” boys on their skateboards at all hours, and then she surprised him with a cogent and insightful take on the latest stumbling blocks in Mideast peace initiatives. Most of all, she just seemed happy to have someone to talk to.

  It was the same with all the other women he visited after he left Mrs. Layford’s condo. Like her, they were elderly and lonely and would have kept him there all day if he hadn’t maneuvered his way on to the next woman as politely as he could.

  He briefly stopped by the rec room in the complex, where a group of mostly senior women were playing bingo. Lots of disposable income, lots of time on their hands. They were the throwaway people, so easily preyed on. One baitfish after another in a silver sea.

  His next “interviewee,” Twyla Sweet, had the same complaint about her medications not seeming to work as well after she’d switched to Edwin’s pharmacy. Drayco got her to give him a sample, too, using the excuse he was conducting a survey on the quality of area pharmacies. So did Mara Aguayo, who talked about how her children didn’t call and how she felt like she’d become invisible. Both women had also recently received Canadian lottery notices.

  Inez Bruce, a smoker who’d had her voice box removed and talked via a TEP prosthesis and stoma, greeted him with a lighted cigarette in hand. In her mechanical voice, she told him he was such a handsome pup, he’d never have to worry about getting the ladies. That prompted him to draw up his sleeve on his right arm to show her all the scars. She was silent at first, then said with a wicked grin, “You got more you can show me?”

  All the women gave him medicine samples, and he carefully cataloged each. As he did, he recalled Edwin’s comment the first time Drayco and Sarg met him, about Edwin switching to his own independent pharmacy for more control, less red tape. No bean counters always looking over your shoulder. No corporate oversight wonks checking your books.

  Maybe Drayco’s hunch was way off, but the weight of coincidences threatened to tilt the scales of both medicine and justice down to earth with a thud.

  § § §

  Drayco met Sarg in a parking lot in Dumfries, not too far from Quantico. Better to keep this part of his investigation from looking FBI-official for now, until if, and when, it needed to become an FBI case.

  Sarg climbed out of his car saying “This is all cloak-and-dagger, junior. What’s up?”

  Drayco pulled out the baggies he’d labeled with prescription types and doses and placed them on the top of Sarg’s Range Rover. “See if you can get these tested. Might need to get the FDA’s OCI involved.”

  Drayco explained how he’d spent the earlier part of his morning, and Sarg looked at him with raised eyebrows. “These little old ladies just let you inside their homes, no questions asked? You’d make a great con artist, junior.”

  “The ole apple and tree cliché.”

  “What, you think Edwin was scamming his clients, Jerold found out, and Edwin killed him? Or he and Jerold and your mother—maybe even Ophelia Zamorra—were all partners in one loving family scam? A scamily, as it were? And where do Iago Pryce and Alistair Brisbane fit in?”

  “When I saw Brisbane and Iago the other day, they were heading into a lobbying firm, one that deals with health industry clients like insurers.”

  “And pharmacists.”

  “Exactly,” Drayco replied, as Sarg handed over a bottle of something reddish. “What’s that?”

  “You remember our favorite diner not far from here? They’re bottling this stuff now. Pomegranate tea. Figured you haven’t been staying hydrated, a
nd that’s why you’re wasting away.”

  “Diner as in the one run by Michael and Michael II?” Or M&M, as they were known—who’d owned the place while Drayco was at the Bureau. Always kept an eagle eye on the wait staff to make sure they lived up to the M-squared’s high standards. Obsessing over every detail, down to the always-fresh white carnations on the tables.

  Drayco held up the bottle. “Good marketing move. The Michaels never leave anything to chance, do they?”

  “Guess not. When you’re in charge of your own destiny—”

  “You mold that destiny to your will. Take our friend Alistair Brisbane, for instance. You might expect him to keep tabs on all the players in his little dramas, wouldn’t you?”

  “From what I’ve learned of the guy, sure.”

  Drayco opened his car door, reached inside, and pulled out a small object he handed it over. He closed the door again, making sure it was tight.

  Sarg held it up to examine it. “A bug?”

  “That one’s deactivated. I found others at home and in my office, in both my cars, and I’m sure there are others tapping my phones.”

  Sarg looked at Drayco’s cellphone on the driver seat of his car. “That’s why you left your phone in there.” Sarg rolled the device around in his hand. “Need help removing the others?”

  “Not going to.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I’ll get a burner phone for times I don’t want my new friends listening in. But the others, no. Let him think he’s doing so undetected. Could work to my advantage.”

  “Better be careful which dames you bring into your love nest, then, lest you end up on YouTube.”

  Drayco nodded at the bug. “You can keep that one as a souvenir. In case something happens to me.”

  Sarg frowned at him. “Don’t like you toying with this Brisbane guy.” He put the bug in his pocket. “Even the little we’ve dug up points to Brisbane being some kind of shadow puppet master. More clout than mere politicians who come and go. You said he’d been in the country for thirty-six years, right?”