by BV Lawson
The other man tilted his head. “You think he could do something like that?”
“If he’s as good at science as his grandmother thinks, why not?” Drayco added, “I don’t think I caught your name ...”
“Washington Gaines. But everybody calls me Wash.”
“You’re a friend of the family?”
“I help out now and then. Odd jobs, mostly.”
“They must be grateful.”
“I owe ’em. Mrs. Mecko, she let me stay here when I got booted from my hotel job—one of those big chains bought up the place and changed out all the staff. Took me three months to find another gig.”
“So you got to know Leon pretty well.”
“Kinda like a kid brother to me. And I owe him, too.”
“How so?”
“That’s how I know Leon didn’t whack that woman.”
“What do you mean?”
Wash looked around and lowered his voice. “I got in over my head with some dealers. Percs, Oxy, Dillies. Leon knew I was taking some heat. And between jobs, ya know? How was I gonna pay?”
Drayco connected the dots. “The bank ATM robberies? He gave you some of the money?”
“He gave me all the money. Not only that, he came straight to me after he’d knocked off the bank that night. No way he coulda killed anybody.”
“You were afraid to go to the police?”
Wash snorted. “Think they’d believe me?”
“Then why are you telling me all this?”
“You’re not a cop. And I can’t let Leon take the rap for something he didn’t do. You told Mrs. Mecko you were goin’ to help. You a man of your word?”
“Always.”
Leon held out his hand, and Drayco shook it. “Mrs. Mecko told me earlier your name was Mr. Drayco, that right? Well, Mr. Drayco, you play poker?”
Drayco nodded.
“Just make sure you wind up with a royal flush. Otherwise, Leon’s out of the game. For good.”
Chapter 40
Monday, February 25
Following his chat with Mrs. Mecko, Drayco had considered doing some flying as a consolation prize for being denied his relaxing weekend. To get above it all, just him, the plane, and the sky, had seemed so blissfully ideal.
Instead, he’d spent the rest of Sunday making calls, trying to put more of the picture together of his mother and her case. He didn’t touch the piano. Not once. Maybe that’s why he woke up this morning with a headache—piano withdrawal. More likely, it was the first two meetings lined up on his schedule.
After stumbling into the bathroom, he looked at his blood-shot eyes in the mirror. Worse than Nelia’s. “You look like you’ve been on a bender for a week.” His reflection stayed silent.
He forced down coffee and fluffernutter toast—flipping Sarg a mental bird—then got dressed and headed to an office he hadn’t visited in a while, partly out of avoidance, partly out of necessity. Both of those partlys helped keep his blood pressure down, for the silver-haired man who greeted Drayco was better than caffeine for a systolic boost.
Brock was uncharacteristically wired and even greeted Drayco with a big grin. Too bad it didn’t last long. “Heard the news about Edwin Zamorra, Scott. Great work on your part. You bagged a lowlife scumbag. And may have nailed Maura’s partner in the process.”
“Aren’t you celebrating a little too soon?” Not that Brock was the celebratory type since here he was working on President’s Day.
“I need to move on, you need to move on. Bet you haven’t taken on any new clients since this whole thing started.”
“Was Halabi the one who called you about Edwin’s arrest?”
“What? Oh, no, it was Agent Sargosian. He phoned me this morning.”
There went the systolic with a diastolic chaser. Drayco was accustomed to Brock going behind his back, but Sarg?
Brock didn’t seem to notice the gathering clouds on Drayco’s face, adding insult to injury, “Sargosian also told me about that Iago Pryce fellow. I’ve put some feelers out on him.”
Still stung by Sarg’s apparent breach of trust, it took a moment for Drayco to process Brock’s words enough to reply. “Pryce is Maura’s bodyguard. He may be heavy-handed when it comes to taking his duties seriously, but he’s not the main player.”
Brock turned away to look through the window blinds. “Oh? And who would that be?”
“Alistair Brisbane. A high-powered shadow man who happens to be Maura’s twin brother.”
Brock’s ability to hide his reactions had helped make him a successful FBI agent then consultant. But through the years, Drayco had learned to tell when Brock lied by the almost-imperceptible twitch on the left side of his jaw.
“Brisbane? Don’t think I’ve heard of him.” The jaw twitch was as quick as a Nolan Ryan fastball. Blink and you’d miss it.
The extent of Brock’s duplicity enveloped Drayco in a heavy blanket of bitterness—the note from Maura after she was declared legally dead and now this. His father’s tangled web of deception had a lot of threads.
Two quick strides took him face to face with Brock. “When did you find out about Brisbane and Maura and her shady past? Before or after you married her?”
A rare flicker of guilt passed across his father’s face. “I told you the truth when I said I didn’t look into her disappearance. But I did research her background. Anger, curiosity, pride, don’t remember now. Regardless, I couldn’t dwell on it. Not with two small children I suddenly had to raise on my own.”
“Then you knew all along about the note found on her, with BRISBANE on it.”
Brock nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me all this?”
“Would it have mattered? Would you really have wanted to destroy any positive memories you had of your mother?”
“Was this about destroying my memories of her or protecting my memories of you?”
Brock looked briefly at Drayco, then out the window again. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
Drayco pushed further, “Do you know I didn’t even recall she had a scar on her neck? Did she have it when you met her?”
Brock’s shoulders barely nudged an inch, but Drayco took that as a yes. Well, this was getting him nowhere. One way to change that. “I spoke with Alistair Brisbane.”
Brock’s head swung around and his eyes bored into Drayco’s. “When? What did he say?”
“That Maura didn’t kill Jerold Zamorra. And that he was counting on me to prove it.”
“And that’s all?”
“Pretty much, yeah. It was over the phone, not face to face.”
“I’m not surprised he’d think his sister was innocent. Or that he’d try to cover up for her.”
“I wasn’t sure I believed him then. I believe him now.”
Brock scanned his son’s face. What was he looking for, signs of deception? Takes one to know one, Brock?
Brock said, “This man Brisbane. He’s more powerful than a senator and twice as dishonest. His connections are fiercely loyal or fiercely afraid. He’s a master at self-preservation and won’t hesitate to toss you under the bus and happily roll right over you, son.”
“Does he have ties to organized crime?”
“Too independent. He’s an entity unto himself and doesn’t like to be tied down.”
“You should have told me. About him and her both. I had a right to know.”
“Truth works both ways. When exactly were you going to tell me about Pryce and Brisbane if Sarg hadn’t beaten you to it?”
Brock had him, there. Perhaps it was partial payback for Brock hiding the truth about Maura’s “death.”
It was Brock’s turn to sigh. “You know, the main reason I wanted you to drop by today wasn’t to argue. It was to apologize. For my drunken rant the other night. Didn’t want you to see me like that.”
“Maybe if you’d let me see that side of you more often, the ocean between us wouldn’t be so wide.”
Brock’s clenched jaw
loosened a fraction. “I think I should have encouraged your piano thing more.”
“Why is that?”
“Angry conductors and audience members are a lot safer than the Brisbanes of this world.”
In his own camouflaged way that was the closest Brock came to admitting he was worried about his son. That he cared.
“I have to see this thing through. You know that.”
“Yeah. You’re as stubborn as ...” Brock shook his head. “I was going to say you’re as stubborn as your mother. But I think you got the stubborn gene from me.”
“Could have been worse. At least, it wasn’t your love for karaoke.”
A sliver of a smile returned to Brock’s face. “Agent Sargosian’s a good man. He’s got your back. But if you’re right and Maura and Edwin aren’t behind Jerold Zamorra’s murder, the killer is still out there. Keep me in the loop.”
Drayco nodded. He could do phone calls. Iago’s words rang in his head, “Family is what we make it. Maybe you should remember that.”
Chapter 41
An hour later, Drayco was plunged into his second dreaded meeting of the day, a luncheon. He hated luncheons. Lame jokes from clueless speakers, presentations that looked as if they were crafted by a second-grader—no, a second-grader could probably do better. And everyone was always so afraid to offend anyone else, even handshakes were tactical.
He’d wanted to talk with Rena Quentin again, so she’d arranged this particular time and place. What she neglected to tell him was that she was an honored guest at this soirée, seated upfront, and that she was using him as her “date.”
The male half of the couple who was supposed to join them at their table was a doctor called away to an emergency and neither the doctor nor wife were present. It was just Drayco and Rena. He looked at the place card in front of him. It read “Mr. Quentin.”
Rena patted her hair, pulled up into a chignon. “People will call me a cougar. I love it.”
She did remind Drayco of a cougar and not in a good way. He felt a little like growling, himself.
With a smile, she added, “They’ll think I’ve gone to the other end of the spectrum, since my late husband was twenty years older than I. God bless him. And his generous divorce settlement, of course.”
Drayco pulled out his wallet and opened it to show the lack of big bills. “I doubt I’d make a tasty meal for a rich cougar.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Ah, but there are other ways in which I think I’d find you quite tasty.”
Before he could change the subject, and he really wanted to change the subject, she added, “You know, I underestimated you. Thought you were just another one of those dumb cop types. And believe me I’ve worked with a lot of them. Of course, some dicks are better than others.”
Subject change, commencing now. “Edwin Zamorra was arrested yesterday. He ran a drug-tampering scheme. Watered-down drugs or used counterfeits, then pocketed the difference.”
He’d waited to tell her in person rather than over the phone, because he wanted to see her reaction. He was surprised. After an initial look of shock, she laughed and shook her head.
“I’m glad you find the news amusing.”
“It’s just I never imagined Edwin could do such a thing. Always strait-laced and dull. As I mentioned before, a prude.”
“You saw no signs whatsoever?”
“Not a one.” Rena re-arranged the salt and pepper shakers on the table until they were perfectly parallel. “Poverty can do funny things to people. I saw it first-hand—I was raised in poverty by my grandmother, and I like to think that’s why she beat me. Some say poverty is society’s cancer, but I say it’s more like an ugly birthmark you want to keep covered up.”
“Edwin wasn’t exactly rich, but he wasn’t poor, either.”
Rena frowned. “How horrible this must be for Ashley. Her mother and father dead, her uncle in jail. I would say I’m glad she has that young Asian boyfriend of hers ...”
“You don’t like Gogo Cheng, I take it?”
“I got a funny feeling about him the one time I met him. Guess it comes from my years of being a suspicious TSA sort. I’m probably just being paranoid.” She hesitated. “He reminds me of a guy we put on our watchlist.”
Rena wasn’t exactly batting her lashes, but she switched easily into her cougar role, scanning his body with her eyes. “You clean up real nice, Scott Drayco. That blue-violet shirt matches your amazing eyes.”
Nelia Tyler said something similar to him once when he wore the same shirt. He made a mental note to stop wearing it. “You didn’t see any signs of Edwin’s crimes. And you also didn’t know about Jerold’s gambling. What about a lottery scam aimed at elderly women?”
“Like brother, like brother? Well that’s disappointing, I must say. Despite my differences with Jerold, I can’t imagine the circumstances that would lead him to get involved in something so mean-spirited.”
“It’s possible they were in on it together.”
“And your mother? What was her role?”
“She may have been right in the middle. We don’t know yet.”
Rena picked at her fish and turned it over, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the silvery skin on the bottom. “If I were in charge of this shindig, there’d be no fish. Chicken is neater. And who in their right mind would pair yellow squash with pearl onions?”
She took a dainty sip of her coffee. “I hope they have crème brulée for dessert. Or something caramel.”
“Did you know Edwin and Ophelia had an affair?”
Rena looked at him over her coffee cup. “You don’t pull any punches, do you? Next you’ll be telling me Ashley is Edwin’s love child.”
When he didn’t respond, she slowly put her cup down. “You aren’t serious?”
“We’re a little short on proof—for that and for other odd behavior from the Zamorra clan.”
“Like that lottery thing you were telling me about?”
He nodded.
“You don’t suppose the entire Zamorra family was involved in this? Ashley and Gogo included?”
That was pretty much the same comment Sarg had made about a “scamily.” Drayco replied, “That would make Ophelia the wild card.”
“Oh, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown.” Rena twirled her fork on her plate, then put it down, giving up on the fish.
“Shakespeare’s Hamlet?”
She smiled. “The poor, mad Ophelia.”
“Some Shakespeare scholars claim Ophelia was murdered. That Hamlet’s mother Gertrude witnessed Ophelia fall into the brook and did nothing to save her. Or even helped break the branch Ophelia was standing on when she fell and drowned.”
“Of course you would know that.” She laughed briefly. “Although it’s funny you should mention it.”
“Why?”
“Because I had a similar conversation with Jerold once. Before his wife was killed. And he said pretty much the same thing.”
“I didn’t know Jerold was a Shakespeare expert.”
“He wasn’t. His idea of a good read was Zane Grey. But he knew a lot about Hamlet and Ophelia.”
The waiters in their white shirts, gold ties, and maroon vests buzzed around the various tables like a hive of bees in Washington Redskin uniforms, with plates appearing and disappearing at a quietly frantic pace. As the remains of the ill-fated salmon were whisked away, Rena’s eyes lit up when a ramekin of golden crème brulée took its place.
The top of the dessert reminded Drayco of burned skin. That thought segued to his evidentiary hearing and the reason for it. He pushed his untouched crème brulée over to Rena. “Why would Jerold compare his wife Ophelia to the character in Hamlet? Both were doomed loves? Or both were collateral damage?”
Rena finished the second crème brulée in record time and licked the spoon clean. “Maybe it was that affair you alluded to. Between Ophelia and Edwin. It’s also possible she started showing signs of mental illness, but Jerold never mentioned it other tha
n the Shakespeare thing—the mad Ophelia and all. Does it matter now?”
That was the question. Everyone had written off Ophelia’s death as a random act of violence, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe Ashley was right and Jerold did kill her mother, yet another love triangle gone awry. Nothing to do with Jerold, Edwin, Maura, or any fraud scheme.
But one detail kept hammering Drayco over and over, the thing that made the least sense. Why was that ATM card crammed down Ophelia’s throat?
Chapter 42
Sarg greeted Drayco with crossed arms and a scowl outside the entrance to the Sackler Gallery. As Drayco approached, Sarg drained the last liquid from a cup in his hands and hurled it into the trash.
Drayco checked his watch. “I’m five minutes early. You been here a while?”
“Got a call from Halabi a half hour ago. After listening to him rant for five minutes, I think it’s safe to say we won’t be invited to the police ball anytime soon. At least, you won’t. Or Brock.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, just a little conversation he had with Brock about your mother and that letter she sent to him after she was declared legally dead. Brock neglected to mention it when he was first interviewed by the PD.”
Drayco stared at Sarg, hardly blinking. “Looks like you can add yourself to the forgot-to-mention club. Brock told me you called him. About Iago and Brisbane.”
Sarg leaned against a tall trash can beside him. “And I’m not going to apologize for it. You’ve already got one sword of Damocles hanging over your head. And I have a feeling Brisbane could nail you if he wants, uncle or no.”
Drayco glanced over at the multi-colored banners hanging on the front of the Sackler. The lettering touted an exhibition on ancestor veneration in Asian cultures, with objects from family shrines. He wasn’t feeling the veneration love right now. “Did Brock tell you he knew about the existence of Brisbane already?”
“No, he didn’t.” Sarg frowned. “Exactly how long had he known about Maura’s notorious twin?”
