by B. V. Lawson
“Glad you took my call, sweetie.”
“Oh, Dad, like I’d block your calls.” She smiled at Drayco. “I promise not to spill anything on you this time.”
“Deal.”
Sarg reached for the salt shaker that he passed over to Drayco in anticipation of the arrival of coffee.
Tara looked around the room. “Never been here before. I love the ceiling, it’s so retro chic. Faux pressed-tin tiles from the nineteenth century. Did you know they were only used in North America? Well, mostly.”
Sarg said to Drayco, “Nice to know those tuition dollars are paying off. My daughter, the next Martha Stewart.”
Tara punched him in the arm. “It’s from my art history class. We did a unit on architecture.”
“Okay, then you’re the next—what’s that guy’s name? The one who designed Disney Hall?”
“Frank Gehry, Dad. He did the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, among others. A real star-chitect.”
Drayco said, “Are you majoring in art? Your father’s been keeping your major a secret. Please tell me it’s not Bowling Industry Management.”
“Any business degree is a good career move. Parkhurst doesn’t have you declare a major, except for music, until you’re a junior. So I had to pick one this fall. I considered physics but went with biology. Should help me get into grad school.”
“Already picking out grad schools?”
“Not the place, just the degree. I can’t decide between pharmaceutical research and criminal forensics. My heart says forensics, but the other pays way better.”
There was a certain irony in that—one path would create drugs, the other would nail people for abusing them. He wouldn’t try to influence her decision, but forensics could sure use more Taras.
Drayco waited while IQ dropped off two coffees and an Italian Tarocco soda, then apologized to Tara for interrupting her schedule. In reply, she took a loud slurp of soda. “Buy me lots of these, and I’ll make time.”
“Gary told us Cailan was in a relationship with a man named Liam Futino. And they argued the day she died.”
The blood-orange soda was turning Tara’s lips red. “Was this recently? ’Cause after Gary dumped her, she said she didn’t want another boyfriend. Never said a word about dating anyone.”
“What about cults? Voodoo, witchcraft?”
“She would have laughed herself silly instead. Now, Shannon, on the other hand. She dabbled in everything.”
It was the exact opposite of what Gary had said. Drayco had no problem taking Tara’s word over his.
Tara had matured so much, and he compared her to the man sitting next to her. Same oval face, high forehead, hazel eyes, and a hawk nose. Researchers who claim they can tell personalities from nose shapes say owners of hawk noses prefer to carve their own path. And don’t care what other people think.
“Tara, Troy Jaffray hinted he and Cailan were having problems. Did she discuss it?”
“They’d had a falling out. Cailan wanted to be a singer, her uncle didn’t approve. Mr. Jaffray’s dead wife was a musician. Don’t think he wanted to be reminded of that.”
She looked stricken. “I just realized he’s lost his wife, brother, sister-in-law and now his niece. Oh, that poor man.”
Her face grew pensive as she took sips from her Italian soda. “He wanted Cailan to have a double major. In case the music thing didn’t work out. He got steamed. Threatened to cut off money for her degree when she wanted to concentrate on her music career.”
She bumped her glass, spilling some soda.
Drayco pushed a napkin over. “Was she afraid of him?”
“Maybe some. Guess he was a little overprotective. He really cared about her.” She flashed a quick glance at her father.
Drayco smiled at her. “Fathers, and father-figures, worry about their daughters. Good ones do, that is.”
“But I’m careful.”
Sarg shifted in his seat. “You’d better be careful. A friend of yours got herself murdered. Let that be your wake-up call.”
“Threat assessment, Dad. You and Mr. Drayco taught me that.”
Drayco winced at the “Mister” part. “Then you remember that in an emergency, you should take deep breaths, don’t panic and stay focused.”
Tara huffed and wagged her head from side to side. “Now I’ve got stereo fathering.”
“Listen to what he said, Tara. Good advice.”
“Yes, Dads.”
She slurped up the last of her soda and slid out of the booth. And when I get a hangnail, I’ll give you both a call to let you know how I’m doing.”
Sarg watched her as she left. “I’ve faced down enemy soldiers and all flavors of criminals and not thought anything of it. But a twenty-year-old daughter … that terrifies me.”
As Tara strode confidently out the door, she reminded Drayco of the self-assured Cailan in her photos. Evil so often preyed on the weak, but not so much in this case. And that was what terrified him.
15
After a call to The Basement Club in Georgetown to see if Liam Futino was there, Drayco learned he’d called in sick. “Change of plans, then,” Sarg noted. “You got his home address, too?”
In reply, Drayco pointed the car in that direction. He hadn’t gotten far when he pulled over to a curb and rolled down the window.
Sarg said, “What are you—” Then he saw the woman on the sidewalk, wearing a brown uniform.
Drayco called through the open window. “Tyler, aren’t you supposed to be at a conference?”
“I am. There was a three-hour gap with nothing to do. So I hopped on Metro to Foggy Bottom and picked up the shuttle bus for a walking tour of Georgetown.” She held up a bag. “And a souvenir, naturally.”
“Are you headed back?”
“There’s a workshop on cybercrime I’m signed up for. Starts in an hour.”
“Hop in. We’re headed to Petworth. The Conference Center’s on the way.”
She looked at Sarg and hesitated. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea. I mean, if you’re on the clock … ”
Drayco waved her inside. “Nonsense. And it’s an easy route via K Street.”
She relented and slid into the back seat. “Nice to be with law enforcement types who aren’t in brown suits. Well, mostly brown. A few black and blues. Lots of hats.” She must have opted not to wear hers today, her blond hair twisted into a French braid.
Sarg turned around from the front seat. “How long have you been a deputy?”
“Six years. First in Gloucester County, then Prince of Wales.”
“How’dja get into deputying?”
In the rear view mirror, Drayco saw she was clenching her jaw, probably not aware of it. “I was in law school for a semester. I met my husband there, we got married. I think the average law school tuition is twenty to thirty thousand dollars. Per year. Per person. Police Academy was a lot cheaper. One of us had to work to pay the bills.”
“Drayco here tells me you’re a damned fine deputy. Helped him out on a couple of cases over in your neck of the woods.”
She laughed at that. “We do have woods, I agree with you there. And Drayco is also very good at what he does. Sheriff Sailor is not easily impressed.”
“Drayco also told me of your husband’s illness. I was sorry to hear it. I thought I read about a promising new treatment for MS?”
Tyler looked out the window, as if sightseeing. “He has the worst kind. Primary progressive. Most treatments are aimed at the intermittent, relapsing form. He had to walk on crutches first. Now it’s a wheelchair.” She added quickly, “But some patients live for a long time, we’re told.”
They pulled onto Mount Vernon Place and in front of the Washington Convention Center, and Nelia hopped out. It wasn’t until they’d pulled away that Sarg pointed out Nelia left her shopping bag behind. “Looks like you have an excuse to see her again while she’s in town.”
“I’ll see she gets the bag, if I have to mail it to her.”
Sarg’s face was skeptical. “What is it with you and married women?”
“Sarg, you know very well I don’t—”
“Yeah, a regular Boy Scout.” As they headed up New Hampshire Avenue, he added, “A lovely woman. And an unhappy one, if I can still read women right.”
“What is happiness, but a lone mourning dove singing after the rain.”
“More of that philosopher guy you quote all the time? Bertrand Russell, right?”
“Pure Drayco, by way of Confucius or Buddha. You’ll have to ask Troy Jaffray.”
Sarg pulled out the case folder. “So, Cailan kept her relationship with Futino enough of a secret nobody knew except Gary. Who found out by accident. Wonder why Gary would tell us and not the police?”
“If he feels threatened, more of a suspect, he may be trying to focus our attention elsewhere.”
“Even with attorney-daddy ready to pounce?”
Drayco hadn’t imagined that brief, wistful look on Gary’s face. “Perhaps on some level he still cared for Cailan and was jealous of Liam.”
Their route took them past Rock Creek Cemetery. Drayco was drawn to cemeteries and had visited this one before. It was the crème de la crème of the dearly departed, the final resting place to justices, congressmen, actors, Civil War veterans and author Upton Sinclair.
Historically interesting, but he preferred small, isolated cemeteries, where the un-famous spent their eternity in the same anonymity in which they lived. Each unadorned tombstone held a story, a lesson, a reminder—don’t take anything for granted.
Futino’s house was one of the sand-and-brick rowhouses built in the 1920s and ’30s, with a front porch above street level. Two small children with blond hair rolled by on silver scooters, trailed by a purebred Pomeranian. Signs of the changing D.C. demographics. Petworth was eighty percent African-American in the ’60s.
Looming across the street, a larger building took up three lots including extra parking. Drayco immediately dubbed it the “Psycho House,” looking like it had jumped out of the classic Hitchcock film. A thirtyish woman in a pumpkin-colored dress and matching hat got out of her car in front of Psycho House. She stared at them for a few moments, then walked over. “You here to see Liam?”
Drayco smiled at her. “Are you a neighbor of his?”
“No, I work for Monument Catering. As our slogan says, ‘Big or Small, We Do it All.’” She pointed across the street. “That house is a rental. For parties, weddings, whatever. I’ve got a retirement dinner there tonight.”
“Are you a friend of Mr. Futino?”
“He’s often sitting out on his porch when I’m here for an event. We’ve chatted.” She smiled as she said the words and moistened her lips. “I was hoping he’d be here today, but I don’t see his car.”
Drayco took a stab in the dark. “Did you happen to have a catering event on the night of August thirteenth?”
She thought for a moment. “I have parties here once a week, sometimes more.” Her face brightened. “The thirteenth. Yes, I remember thinking how unlucky it was to have a baby’s christening party on Friday the thirteenth.”
“Did you talk to Liam that evening?”
She gasped. “Oh my God, he’s not in any trouble, is he?”
Sarg always kept his ID in his pocket. His hand was there, too, as if ready to flash his badge any minute, but he didn’t haul it out. “He’s not been charged with anything, ma’am. Routine info gathering.”
“He wasn’t home on the thirteenth. I remember because … not to be superstitious, mind you. I was hoping nothing bad had happened to him. On account of the day.”
“What time was this, ma’am?”
“Around supper. Maybe he had a hot date.” Her face made it clear she wasn’t thrilled with the idea. She brightened when she saw a car headed in their direction. “There he is now. We’re all in luck.”
Liam got out of his car like a man decades older than his years, stiff, shuffling. He didn’t pay any attention to them until their female companion called out to him. That made him look up, and he smiled. “Hello there, Janet. Wouldn’t get too close if I were you. Cold, flu, some microscopic intruder is munching away on my innards.”
She tutted sympathetically. “If I’d known that, I would have brought you chicken soup.”
He replied, without much enthusiasm, “Wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all. Let me set up for tonight and I’ll be back to take care of you.” She waved at Drayco and Sarg and entered the house across the street.
Liam looked at the two men with foggy eyes. “Do I know you?”
Sarg held out his badge. “Can we talk with you for a few minutes, sir?”
Liam scrunched his face into an expression of pure misery. He didn’t shoo them away, motioning for them to follow him inside, where the air smelled unusually sterile, with hints of ozone. Drayco spied a large air filter in one corner.
The living room’s buttermilk-colored walls and parquet floors were accented with framed prints of famous jazz musicians. The only color came from mini-explosions of red in one lone throw pillow, a red and beige checkerboard area rug, and a potted plant with a flower called bleeding heart, if Drayco remembered it correctly. A violin lay on a table in a corner.
Sarg sat on the edge of the sofa and pulled out his notepad and pen. “Mr. Futino, we’re told you were friends with Cailan Jaffray.”
Liam leaned against a table but didn’t sit down. “Friends? Sounds so ordinary. Like a mere house window instead of stained glass.”
Sarg said, “Yes, you were friends or no, you weren’t?”
“Yes, yes, yes, we were friends. We shared a love—no, make that a passion—for music.”
“According to our source, you shared a lot more than that. And you argued with her on the day she died.”
“We had sex, if that’s what you’re asking. But that’s not all it was. I loved her.” Liam rubbed his hands over his face. “Totally unrequited. She was getting over a breakup, and I was the rebound remedy.”
“Is that why you argued, Mr. Futino? You wanted something more from your relationship than she did?”
“We never argued over that.” Liam slumped even further. “We were arguing about—I don’t recall. It hardly matters now. Her uncle or something.”
“When you learned of her death, why didn’t you go to the police?”
Liam took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “A guy I jam with had a run-in with the law once. Mistaken identity thing. Attorney fees bankrupted him.”
“So you felt sure you’d be a suspect?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Liam put his glasses back on.
“What did you do after that argument with Cailan the day she died? Did you go to work?”
“I came home. I was home all night. Safe, sound, sleeping, all the while Cailan was going through what must have been sheer terror.”
“So you were home at what time?”
“We usually met at the Café Renée around five. So, I guess I was here from seven or so onward.”
Sarg exchanged a quick look with Drayco and made some notes in the pad. Was Janet the caterer mistaken?
Drayco took the time to make mental notes, studying the open violin case on the floor that held spare strings, a box of rosin, a mute, a tuner. The lid held a few photos under the bow holder, and Drayco recognized Cailan in one. “How did you and Cailan meet, Liam?”
“She came to a club with a few friends one of the nights I was playing. We got to talking and we really connected. Or so I thought at the time.”
Drayco noticed a cellphone lying on a table and pointed to it. “How did you and Cailan arrange meetings? Your phone number didn’t show up in any of her records.”
“I loathe phones. I only use that thing for emergencies and gigs. If Cailan and I wanted to talk, I showed up at her place. Or she showed up here. Old-fashioned, I guess. But kinda nice.”
“You said Cailan was up
set with her uncle. Did she say why?”
“The usual things. Money. And he was none too pleased with her being a musician. I can imagine how he’d feel knowing she was dating one.”
“He didn’t know?”
“She wanted to keep our relationship secret. Maybe that was the reason. Or maybe she hoped her ex would come crawling back.”
“Her ex being Gary Zabowski?”
“Yeah.” Liam’s eyes held the first spark Drayco had seen in him. “A pampered prince. From the kind of family who thinks an honest day’s work is to call their inside trader.”
The spark turned to fire as he added, “Cailan showed me a couple of Gary’s compositions. Sad thing is, the kid has real talent. He might have a big career if he wasn’t such a slacker. He didn’t love Cailan. Or appreciate her.”
Liam got up and headed to a media cabinet. He bent over and fiddled with a few settings, then straightened up as a piano transcription of the intro to Puccini’s aria “O mio babbino caro” sounded through the room. Moments later, a soprano voice began to sing.
“That Cailan?” Sarg asked, and Liam roused himself from listening with an annoyed expression. But he nodded.
Drayco had heard plenty of singers, and though he wasn’t an opera fan, he could tell Cailan possessed a rare gift. A lyrical tone and radiant warmth not unlike a young Renée Fleming, with interlocking violet triangles
Liam started coughing, a slight cough at first that soon turned into a violent spell, as he gasped for breath, tears streaming down his face. Drayco made a beeline for the table with the violin and picked up something he’d spied earlier, an inhaler, which he handed over. The other man shook the canister, forced it into his mouth and pressed the pump.
When he settled down and was breathing normally, Drayco asked, “Asthma?”
The other man fiddled with the inhaler. “I can control it most of the time.”
Drayco had seen his cousin in the throes of an attack, often during D.C.’s notoriously pollen-heavy spring. Stress was another common trigger. The cold or flu Liam was coming down with would make it worse.