by B. V. Lawson
Drayco didn’t have to look at Sarg to guess his pen was poised in mid-air as he digested that bit of news. It wasn’t a smoking gun since both victims shared music classes and acquaintances in addition to Reed’s project. Still.
The college said they were close to getting HIPAA clearance to release all the names in Reed’s project, but hadn’t yet. Drayco suspected they were dragging out the process, hoping it wouldn’t be necessary. If they’d handed it over sooner, could it have prevented Shannon’s death?
That thought made Drayco see red for a moment and not from any sounds he was hearing. “Does Reed know Shannon was faking?”
“I told him last night. Don’t owe her anything now.”
“But you owe Reed.”
“As I said, we’re drinking buddies. A good drinking buddy is rarer than a girlfriend. I can get a date,” Gary snapped his fingers, “Like that. Women hit on me all the time. Even professor’s wives. One of the biology teachers and old man Gilbow’s wife.”
“Adele Gilbow?” Drayco exchanged a glance with Sarg. Drayco refused to admit it was schadenfreude.
“Don’t think she really meant it. Some women play that game to keep their husband’s interest. Get the male protection-property thing going.”
Drayco gave him a small smile. “You’d better watch out. Someone will think you’ve been paying attention in psych class.” He handed the younger man a copy he’d made of the latest music puzzle, the one sent to Drayco. “This look familiar?”
Gary held it up to the light, then reached over to his electronic piano keyboard and tapped out the melody. “This is junk.”
“Can you tell which software created it?”
“A dozen or more could’ve made this.”
“What do you use?”
“Sibelius. Top of the line. Steve Reich, Michael Torke, the best composers use it.”
“This music puzzle is quite basic. A melodic line with piano accompaniment. No key signature, meter signature, no tempo markings. Cheaper software could have created this, right?”
“Sure. You can download a free trial of some programs.” Gary tilted his head as he handed the paper to Drayco. “You into music?”
“You might say that.”
“An instrument?”
Drayco nodded at Gary’s keyboard. “Piano.”
“So why aren’t you playing piano instead of cops and robbers? Music not noble enough for you? If it’s power trips you’re after, you should’ve become a conductor. They have egos the size of a galaxy.”
Sarg didn’t move his gaze from his notebook. “So I take it you’re aiming to be a conductor.”
Gary opened his mouth to retort when Sarg’s cellphone rang. Gary smirked as he heard the same basic ringtone as the last time. Sarg indicated to Drayco he was heading outside, which left Drayco alone with the young man.
Gary stared at Drayco with defiance. “If you tell anybody about the weed or clove cigarettes, I’ll say you planted it. Elvis won’t rat me out.”
“I don’t care. About the weed or cigarettes. I do care that a lot of young people with a lot of potential are being wasted. Some dead and others well on their way.”
Drayco reached over Gary to the electronic keyboard and played the first few measures of Chopin’s “Funeral March.”
“You think that’s supposed to be funny?” Gary said.
“I think you’d better listen to Reed Upperman. Before you get in too deep.”
Gary pulled out a joint hidden behind the computer, lit it and blew smoke in Drayco’s direction. “You my priest now?”
“Confession is good for the soul. Let me know when you’re ready for a little redemption.”
As Drayco left, he heard music streaming through Gary’s speakers inside the apartment. Music Drayco couldn’t identify that he guessed might be a Gary Zabowski original. Liam Futino was right, Gary did have talent, even if his music set off an explosion of chili-red barbed wire in Drayco’s head.
25
Elvis Loomis was one hundred percent sober this time. And a sober Elvis was not a friendly Elvis. He greeted their knock by opening an upstairs window and pouring out a can of beer. They jumped back to avoid getting doused.
Sarg called up to him, “Looks like you drank something that didn’t agree with you. Good thing you weren’t trying to assault a federal officer. ’Cause that’d get you a couple years at FCI in Petersburg.”
A few moments later, Elvis opened the door and headed up the stairs without a word.
Sarg said, “Yay. We’re invited to the party,” and they followed Elvis up, tiptoeing around cans and papers on the floor of the loft.
Sarg parked himself on the edge of a table across from the wobbly lounger where Elvis took refuge. Drayco went on the prowl as he liked to do, looking for the unexpected. Like the little nugget of gold Sarg had dug up and mentioned on the drive over, “Guess who owns the warehouse loft Elvis and Happy live in? Just guess.”
Drayco had earned a perfect score for putting two and two together on the first try. “That wouldn’t be Senator Bankton, would it?”
“One of the many owned by him and his wife. Now isn’t that special?”
Special wasn’t the word for it. Nor did Drayco want to use the word “coincidence,” because it was the same as an expletive to him. But it did add greater weight to his room-prowling. Even if he did find something to tie Bankton to the murders, having a senator involved would be several levels of headaches above Drayco’s role in this case.
Sarg asked, “Know why we’re here, Mr. Loomis?” Sarg didn’t pull out the notebook, maintaining eye contact with Elvis.
“Got a call from Gary, so I can guess. I offed Cailan and now Shannon, right? You’re going to ask where I was. And I’m going to tell you here, drunk, where else?”
“Ah, yes. Your good friend Gary. The same Gary who’s underage and who you’re plying with alcohol and drugs. Maybe you’re headed to the lockup, after all.”
Elvis snorted. “Good luck with that. It’s like that river-in-Egypt thing. De-nial. Gary, me, we know nothing’.”
“Someone else might rat you out. Your gal pal Happy, for instance.”
“You mean Beatrice Meredith Stedner, don’t you? That’s her real name. Thinks she’s going places. Little Beatrice Meredith, from Winchester, Virginia, home of apple butter and Patsy Cline. Used to sing in the church choir and now thinks she’s the next big Broadway star. Reckon that’s the only thing she and Cailan had in common, a desire for their name up there in lights.”
Drayco asked, “Is she here?”
“You just missed her. Beatrice-Happy, that is. She’s over at Signature, rehearsing. Got the part she auditioned for. Goodie for her.”
Sarg frowned. “I’m more interested in the roles you and Shannon played. She give you some of her prescription meds to sell?”
Elvis huffed. “Now why didn’t I think of that? Might could’ve bought me a new muffler for my elderly bug out there,” he nodded toward the parking lot.
“What about your landlord? Are there any unusual roles for him in your little drama?”
“Landlord? Don’t know about any of that. Happy’s the one who found this place, on some website. She writes the checks.”
Drayco bent down in front of a crumbling wooden case filled with compact discs, many still sporting Clayton’s CD Cellar stickers. Elvis hadn’t lied when he said he had hundreds of them. He scanned the titles and pulled out one recording that was totally unexpected and waved it at Elvis. “Reverend Forest Bankton and his Crusade Cavalcade?”
Elvis cackled. “Found it here when we moved in. Almost squashed it with the ole bug. But it had music, so I gave it a listen. That Bankton joker’s wife has some decent stuff on there. You know, those Ave Maria thingies, with Bach and Schubert. Couldn’t bring myself to squash Bach.”
That was something Drayco and Elvis had in common. Bach was eternal, universal. Playing through his counterpoint fired every neuron in Drayco’s brain. “You have
any recordings of Cailan or Shannon singing?”
“I wish, oh man, how I wish I did. Don’t think Cailan made many. Shannon never shared any of hers.”
Sarg growled. “You, Happy, Gary, Shannon. Quite the little play group, weren’t you?”
As Sarg waited for Elvis’ non-reply, Drayco spied a tall cabinet along a wall, with the door ajar. He opened it farther, and it squeaked, catching the attention of both Elvis and Sarg. Drayco pulled out a folded-up tripod and an expensive camera and held them up before stowing them again. “Perhaps the quartet shares nude pictures?”
“So I do a little photog on the side. It’s art, man. All aboveboard. Some of the girls at the strip club want to earn extra moolah. I take their pictures, they use ’em to get gigs.”
Sarg said, “I can imagine the type of gigs nude pictures get.”
“I don’t ask. And I never made out with any of my clients. ’Specially not the young ones. I got a kid of my own, for chrissakes.”
Elvis pulled his legs into a pretzel and leaned on them, resting his chin on the backs of his hands. “You gotta wonder where the fathers of those girls are. Dudes must be AWOL. Like me.”
He looked at Sarg. “You on good terms with your kid?” and answered his own question. “’Course you are. Me, I figure it’s better to be out of sight. Won’t turn into my father that way. In case it’s genetic.”
“You’re afraid you’d hit your boy?” Drayco said.
“Hit?” Elvis let out a loud laugh. “Beat to a bloody pulp you mean. That’s religion for you. Institutional hatred and pre-joo-diss. My God says I can beat you. Or kill you. And I’ll be rewarded in the sweet bye and bye.”
He hopped up, retrieved a hand-rolled joint from a drawer, and lit it. “Hypocrites, all of ’em. Like Cailan’s uncle, the religion prof. You know he’s been to Happy’s club? Yeah, Mr. Godman is right there with the others, ogling the bouncing boobs and booty.”
So the paragon of virtue had a little demon standing on his shoulder. Drayco didn’t have to look at Sarg to know they were thinking along the same lines. This bombshell dredged up a lot of new possibilities—sex, blackmail, vengeance.
The thought of Troy Jaffray as murderer was never appealing to Drayco. Still wasn’t. Maybe it was because Troy reminded him of a wise conductor who’d once taken Drayco under his wing. A man who’d said the reason Beethoven was able to continue to write music even as he went deaf was because his soul could still hear.
Elvis took a few puffs on the joint, then several more. He already acted more relaxed. Drayco felt Sarg stiffen next to him and knew by-the-book Sarg would love to see the police nab Elvis on narcotics charges. But friendly Elvis was helpful Elvis.
Drayco asked, “Did Troy Jaffray know Shannon?”
“Saw him talking to her at the club. Guess that means he knows her. Happy didn’t like him. Slashed his tires.”
Sarg leaned forward. “What kind of knife did she use?”
“Huh?” Elvis was nice and relaxed now and smiling. “I don’t know. Yay long,” he held his hands six inches apart. “A knifey-knife. The kind that cuts things.”
As they let themselves out, Elvis was humming to himself and murmuring the words “prodigal son.” And he didn’t pour beer on them as they left.
26
The last coral slivers of twilight had faded into a bluish-gray sea of washed-out stars when they caught up with Happy Ilsley at her rehearsal. It was Drayco’s first visit to Signature since the move to its new digs—where fine art met dramatic art in an industrial way. Exposed ceiling ducts, curvilinear orange chairs, and giant wall-sized posters greeted them in the lobby. Metal stairway steps glowed with rainbow-colored accent lights.
Once in the main performance space, they watched Happy and her fellow cast-mates in action. Happy, the extrovert, had snagged the lead in the musical. Casting against type, it was a role that called for her to be vulnerable and afraid. She was convincing. Her rich voice was well-controlled, darker than Cailan’s, with a touch of Patti Lupone. It had amber rectangles with crinkly crimson edges.
They’d timed their visit to coincide with the rehearsal wrapping up. Sarg and Drayco corralled Happy into one of the seats at the back of the hall with her face still flushed from the physical exertion of blocking out steps and stage movements.
Sarg positioned himself so that he stood in the row to her right, and Drayco sat beside her to her left. It was an old trick of theirs, assuming counter-angles so they could examine an individual’s body movement for signs of lying or stress. They naturally slipped into that pattern.
Drayco asked, “I understand you’ve been here all day, rehearsing?”
“Isn’t this place amazing? I’m having so much fun, it should be a crime.”
He blinked at her choice of wording. “Have you chatted with Elvis lately?”
“Lord no, I need to focus. I even turned off my cellphone.”
He nodded. “I didn’t think you’d heard the news.”
“News?”
“Late last night, Shannon’s body was found in Kenilworth Gardens. She’d been murdered, like Cailan.”
Her reaction took Drayco by surprise. The glow on her face vanished, and she sat very still. Then she turned to him and started shaking him, sobbing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. Slowly, she gathered her composure and wiped the tear streaks off her face with the sleeve of her navy leotard.
“I’m sorry, Happy. But we need to know if you have any idea of who might have done this or why.”
She answered through her sniffles. “It’s gotta be random. Shannon was a nobody, like me. One of the invisibles. That’s why we got along so well.” She managed a small smile. “I had four older brothers growing up, and I always wanted a little sister. Shannon was like that sister.”
Sarg asked, “A little sister you lured into strip club life, Miss Ilsley?”
Happy glared at him. “Look, she needed the money. Badly. Working two jobs, doing the school thing full time. I made sure no one touched her. It’s not that kind of club. No full frontals, pasties required, no groping and no giving out phone numbers. Just a bunch of lonely men getting away from their nagging wives for an hour. Maybe remember when life was full of promise and dreams.”
Drayco tried to stretch out his legs in the cramped seat, remembering why he didn’t go to a lot of plays. “Yet the Potomac Pleasure Palace does encourage that innocent-young-girl vibe. No staff over thirty and waitresses in schoolgirl uniforms.”
Sarg looked askance at Drayco, but it was Happy who asked, “You been there?”
Drayco gave up sitting in the chair and stood, balancing himself on the back of a seat in front of her. “I called them up yesterday and asked.”
Happy nodded. “I would have remembered a customer like you.”
She gave a quick, wild glance around the hall and lowered her voice. “Don’t tell them about the stripper part, please? Bad enough my mother’s disappointed in me. It broke her heart when she found out. If I end up on Broadway, I’m going to get her a front-row ticket.”
Drayco said, “What does Elvis think?”
“He’s not thrilled about this,” she waved her hand around. “But it’s time he grew up and stopped leeching off me and everyone else. He’s long outgrown that hippie act. Makes it way too easy for him to avoid responsibility.”
“Like being a father.”
“Like being a father who’s not like his father.”
“The same father who turned him against religion and made him think it’s bunk. Do you agree with him?”
She’d stopped sniffling, but her nose was running, so Drayco pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. He’d picked up the habit of carrying them around from his piano days, to wipe his hands. Or in one case, to wipe blood off the keys after a glissando mishap.
“Thank you,” she smiled up at him. “I don’t hate religion. I hate hypocrites.”
“Troy Jaffray, for example?”
She clutched the handkerch
ief. “I admit it—I slashed his tires, all four of them. Mr. God Professor waltzing in paying his money to ogle the naked girls.” She started singing, “Tits and ass” from A Chorus Line, “Where the cupboard once was bare. Now you knock, and someone’s there.”
Sarg didn’t look impressed. “Pretty good reason for bumping off Cailan Jaffray, Miss Ilsley. You admitted you were jealous of her. Maybe jealous of Elvis’ obsession with her, too? And you hated her uncle enough to slash his tires. A triple revenge whammy.”
She looked at him frostily. “I don’t kill. Tires, maybe. Not animals or people.”
“Okay, then, maybe you can show us the knife you used to kill those tires.”
She shook her head. “I threw it away. And yes, I destroyed evidence. But only evidence I slashed Jaffray’s tires. Nothing more.”
Drayco asked, “Elvis said he was drunk at home when both Shannon and Cailan were murdered. Can you verify that?”
She hesitated. “I was here last night until eleven. Went out with a couple of other girls from the cast afterward. Don’t know where Elvis was.”
“And when Cailan was killed?”
When she didn’t reply, he prompted, “Did Elvis tell you to say you were with him at home?”
“I don’t remember. Maybe. I wasn’t working at the club that night.”
They were both lying about alibis, but that didn’t mean it was to cover up murder. And what about Troy Jaffray, what was his excuse? Could Drayco have been so wrong about the man? “Happy, was Shannon having an affair with Professor Jaffray?”
“Oh dear Lord, I hope not. She never said anything.”
“Elvis said he saw Shannon and Troy chatting at the club.”
“We all chat with customers, it’s part of the deal. Look, I was protective toward Shannon. Watched how guys treated her. Made sure she didn’t get harassed.”
Happy took a deep breath, then popped out of her chair. “Look, I have a lot of things I need to do.”
She turned to head out the door, still clutching the handkerchief. Then she whirled around and patted Drayco’s shirt, pasting a smile on her face. “Sorry about the meltdown. If you ever want to return the favor and pound me, you’ve got my number.” And she left, with the same heel-toe catwalk gait he’d noticed before.