by B. V. Lawson
Soon, her Facebook page would be deleted, her belongings packed up and returned to her family. One seven-billionth of the planet’s voices silenced forever. Few would notice or care about the lane mechanic who wanted to be a singer.
Reed’s voice had dark blue edges it hadn’t before. “Well, gentlemen. If I have any hope of avoiding my PhD meltdown, guess I need to get back to work.”
As Drayco and Sarg headed down the hall, Sarg asked, “You’re in a mood. Gilbow cooties?”
Drayco stopped in front of the stairs. “Psychology, religion, music. Supposedly, three of the four pillars that enlighten the human condition. We’re up to our necks in all three, but they’re hardly enlightening. If we run across a poet, we’ll have a complete set.”
“Would it help if I quoted one of my famous limericks?” Sarg held open the stairwell door.
“Over a beer later. Beer and limericks, the real solution to all of life’s problems. Can religion come close to that?”
“You may be right, but don’t let Elaine hear you.”
Sarg’s joking made Drayco less gloomy, but it didn’t explain his mood in the first place. He hurried to beat Sarg down the stairs rather than pull a Gilbow and psychoanalyze himself.
29
They walked from the psych lab to the humanities building as Drayco cataloged every college landmark to add to his mental map. Mostly, he watched the students. The Parkhurst vibe wasn’t like UMD or other schools in the Metro region—Georgetown, GWU, Catholic U.
It felt more like Stepford U, with students who were stand-ins for the real thing, tolerating their four-year sentence as a mere formality. The stamp of legitimacy to access the parental bank, now and in the future.
Sarg’s pocket buzzed, and Drayco watched with fascination as Sarg pulled out the cellphone and typed furiously with both thumbs. When he finished, he pocketed the phone. “Tara. Can’t keep in touch with either of my kids, otherwise. They don’t know what a letter is, they don’t e-mail and making a phone call is so twentieth century. It’s all about texting.”
“You’re good, for a geezer.”
“Careful, junior. You’ll be there soon.”
On those mornings Drayco hadn’t gotten much sleep, he felt he was already in full-fledged geezerdom. “Tara doing okay?”
“Seems to be. Says she is. Doesn’t mean I still don’t wanna send her to her grandparents in North Dakota until this thing is settled.”
Troy Jaffray’s office was familiar to Drayco now, but the man sitting in his chair was barely recognizable. Jaffray’s jacket was as rumpled as if he’d slept in it. His hair had a greasy shine, and the circles under his eyes were dark craters on a barren moonscape.
He seemed to sense who they were without looking up. “I’m surprised you want to talk to me. None of the others does.”
“The others, sir?” Sarg took a seat, while Drayco remained standing.
“After Cailan’s death, the police kept me informed on everything. They were sympathetic, helpful. Now I’m persona non grata.”
Sarg placed his hands on the edge of the desk. “Sir, you want to tell us why you didn’t mention your visits to the Potomac Pleasure Palace? Where Shannon worked?”
Jaffray lifted his head. “Shannon?”
“The same girl who bullied, and possibly killed, your niece. Shannon Krugh, the girl who was found dead night before last at Kenilworth, like Cailan.”
Jaffray shook his head. “The police asked me about the Krugh girl. I didn’t know about the bullying until after Cailan’s death. And I don’t remember seeing Shannon before.”
“Isn’t that a bit coincidental, sir? You hid the fact you went to a strip club where this girl worked, but don’t remember her. Even though you were seen talking to her, and her best friend slashed your tires?”
The professor opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. They waited for the better part of a minute until he replied. “That dancer—Happy, I think was her name. She accused me of being a hypocrite. She attacked my tires in a fit of pique. But I had no idea the other girl worked there. Perhaps I would recognize her if I saw a picture.”
Sarg pulled one out of his pocket and held it up. Jaffray squinted at it and sank into his chair. “She looks familiar. I didn’t know her name at the club.”
“Did you date any of the dancers, sir?”
Jaffray’s lips tightened into a straight line. “Is this why the police won’t talk to me except to ask my whereabouts? I’m a suspect in this girl’s death?”
“We’re not ruling out possibilities right now, sir.”
“Why in the name of all that’s good and true would I do such a thing?”
“Revenge for her behavior toward Cailan. Or when she spurned your advances.”
“I didn’t date any of those women, Agent Sargosian. Nor was I interested in so doing. It’s been a long time since my wife died and I … I wanted a little fantasy of being with a woman again.”
Drayco uncrossed his feet where he’d been leaning against a wall, which caught Jaffray’s attention. He stared at Drayco for a moment. “The man with the Buddha eyes. Do you still feel wise, Mr. Drayco? Because I’m finding that I don’t.”
“I believe the Buddha said, ‘Chaos is inherent in all compounded things. Strive on with diligence.’”
Jaffray smiled briefly. “The Buddha also said, ‘Just as a candle can’t burn without fire, men can’t live without a spiritual life.’ And I’m finding it hard to strive or to burn.”
Drayco stepped over a pile of books and reached up to one of the rare empty slots on the office bookshelves. “The book with examples of ceremonial double-edged knives. It’s missing.”
Jaffray pursed his lips. “That’s the least of my worries at the moment.”
“Troy, did the police tell you how Shannon Krugh’s body was found and their theory?”
Recognition dawned on the man’s face. “There was a knife again, wasn’t there?”
“The police haven’t traced its origins yet, but it was an Athame knife.”
“Ceremonial. Yes, that would make sense. I recall the police saying something about suicide.” He raised an eyebrow. “But if it’s suicide, why am I a suspect?”
Drayco replied, “I can’t speak on behalf of the MPD or FBI. But I don’t buy the suicide angle.”
Sarg piped up, a note of irritation in his voice. “It’s a solid theory.”
Drayco glanced sideways at the dark shadows that came out of nowhere to dance across Sarg’s face. Shadows that connected with the drum-tight upward pull of Sarg’s shoulders. Drayco had a good idea why Sarg was upset, but the impending blow-up would have to wait.
Jaffray propped his elbows on the desk. “In the interest of full disclosure, I spoke with that young man. Liam Futino. He called, wanting to talk about Cailan. He loved her deeply, and for that I am grateful. Even if she didn’t appreciate it.”
Drayco said, “Did he mention Shannon at all?”
“My memory isn’t the best right now. Stress does that to the mind.”
Jaffray’s bloodshot sclera and the slight tremor in his hands made him look a decade older since Drayco last saw him. Jaffray was correct, stress can induce those symptoms.
But a yellowish tinge to his skin hinted at something else. It was the same sickly pallor he’d seen on Jaffray at Gilbow’s party, but the significance hadn’t registered then. Drayco asked, “Are you referring to stress from your niece’s death or something else?”
Jaffray traced his finger up and down the spine of a book in front of him on the desk. “Statistics are funny things. For instance, even when surgery is possible, only fifteen percent of people with pancreatic cancer live five years. That’s what my doctors tell me.”
Troy Jaffray, professor of religion, had out-Job’d the biblical Job. “How long have you known, Professor?”
“Two weeks. The doctors want to shoot both barrels at me, surgery and chemo. For what, I ask? Pancreatic cancer is the same as a death sentence. You delay
it for a few years, but you still die.”
Drayco didn’t know what to say to that. He had the sudden urge to go tackle some Beethoven sonatas.
30
The Basement jazz club in Georgetown lived up to its name. Hidden away on Cady’s Alley, far from the trendy restaurants and boutiques of M Street, it lay beneath a building left over from the industrial water-district days.
Drayco stopped short at the top of the stairs that led to the entrance. Taking separate cars only postponed the inevitable confrontation. “Okay, out with it. What’s rattled your cage?”
Sarg thrust his hands in his pockets and paced back and forth. “You. And this insane quest. It’s like one of those infinity strips, folding back into itself. We haven’t found anything that proves this wasn’t a murder-suicide. In fact, all arrows point in that direction. As much as I hate to admit it, and I really, really do hate to admit it, the Metropolitan Police and the college are probably right.”
“Even the dead are innocent until proven guilty. Those puzzles—”
“Shannon could have done those puzzles. Maybe Gary helped her, thinking it was all one big joke.”
Drayco half-expected him to add, “And I didn’t need to bring you in on this.” He looked up at the sky, but the vast expanse of infinite universe was no match for light glare from the District. “Why did you ask my help, Sarg? The music background angle was an excuse, wasn’t it?”
Sarg stopped pacing. “When I said it hadn’t been the same since you left, I meant it in more ways than one. I second-guess myself all the time. Worse, then I ask myself what you would have done.”
“You’re second-guessing your decision to bring me on board?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” Sarg headed toward the entrance. “Ah hell, let’s get this over with.”
With the tension hanging in the air like an unresolved tritone, Drayco led the way as they descended into the bowels of the club. It was deep enough to lie below the level of the C&O Canal that lay just beyond. The walls were quarried rock, the same blue granite and fieldstone on the District’s oldest structure, the Old Stone House up the road.
Except for two men at the bar putting away shots of Jim Beam, Liam Futino was the only person in sight, warming up his violin on the micro-stage. As they approached, he stopped playing. He twirled the bow in his hand at his side, then planted both bow and violin on the piano.
Sarg motioned to a table in the corner, complete with blue tablecloth and oil lamp. Liam trailed them to the corner and tripped as he stumbled into one of the seats. He looked as bad as Troy Jaffray, minus the yellow pallor.
Sarg had told Drayco he wanted to beat the afternoon gridlock on I-95 down to Fredericksburg and didn’t waste any time. “Troy Jaffray said you called him to talk about Cailan. Is that true, sir?”
Liam nodded, picking at his one gold stud earring. “I thought he of all people would know what I was going through.”
The barking tone Sarg used earlier in the day with Gilbow and Reed was becoming more of a growl. “And what are you going through, Mr. Futino? Guilt? Remorse? Fear of getting caught?”
Liam shrugged off Sarg’s accusations. “I don’t date a lot. Too much like war. Little battles and strategies. Winners and losers. When I met Cailan, none of that mattered because I knew—” His voice trailed off, and he swallowed twice. “I knew she was the one.”
The pianist in Drayco was interested in hands, which gave away a lot more than people realized. Liam rubbed his hands together, the fingers on his callused left hand interlaced with the fingers on his other. He wasn’t fidgeting or covering, the hand versions of lying.
When he looked into Drayco’s eyes, he was on the verge of tears. “You could tell how talented she was, Mr. Drayco. I saw it when you listened to that recording. I was connected to her in a way I never felt with anyone else.”
Drayco motioned for a waitress and had her bring over a glass of water, which Liam sipped while draining his emotions. “She got pregnant. She didn’t tell me right away, but did eventually. Said she was about two months along.”
Sarg said, “So you told her to get an abortion, is that right?”
“She asked for some money to buy a nice dress for an upcoming recital. I handed it over, gladly. Only afterward did she tell me she’d used the money for an abortion.” Liam rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Maybe she guessed I’d have wanted her to keep the child. Hell, I would have even raised it on my own, if I had to.”
A man with a large instrument case slung over his shoulder walked into the club, looked at Liam, and frowned. The man opened the case, pulled out a sax and started tuning. The amorphous teal paramecia it emitted contrasted with the smudged, brass exterior of the instrument itself.
Drayco said, “Was that why you argued with Cailan the night she was murdered?”
Liam grimaced. “She said we were through. For good. That I was too old for her. Made me feel like some dirty pervert.”
Sarg uttered a “Huh,” and added, “Guess you took that hard. Hard enough to kill her?”
“I could never hurt Cailan.” Liam leaned back. “And I have an alibi.”
Sarg leaned in. “You told us you were alone at the time, sleeping.”
“That was a lie. Couldn’t face my disgust, I suppose. For where I really was.”
“Yeah? And where was that?”
“I was angry with Cailan, hurt and confused. I wanted to ease the pain. Forget her.”
Liam pushed the glass away as if looking at his reflection in the water offended him. “There’s this woman I’ve seen hanging around the club. I was pretty sure she’d be available. So we went to a hotel. Had a marijuana appetizer followed by a vodka chaser and then sex. I don’t remember a lot, but that’s what I wanted. To be numb.”
Drayco asked, “Available because she’s for hire?”
“I’d never done that before. First time for everything, right? I don’t know her name or where she lives.”
“Can you describe her?” Sarg pulled out his notebook.
“Tall, thin, long red hair. With a pierced nose. One of those silver rings that goes through the nostrils.”
“Were you also with her two nights ago?”
Liam rested his head in his hand. “Two nights ago? I was at a jazz concert at the Kennedy Center.”
“Anyone see you there?”
“Two thousand people, or however many that place seats.”
“I’m talking about someone who could ID you personally, sir.”
“Didn’t see anyone I know. Got there right before it started. And we had a late-night weekend gig here, so I left the concert early. Not sure why my social calendar is of such interest to you, Agent.”
“Were you aware Cailan was harassed and bullied by one of her colleagues?”
“She talked about it a bit, sure.”
“Well, two nights ago that colleague, Shannon Krugh, was found dead in the same location where Cailan’s body was recovered.”
Drayco waited for the moment when Liam would realize what Sarg was potentially implying, but Liam just shook his head. Finally, he replied, “I guess what goes around, comes around.”
A drummer and a pianist joined the saxophone player in warming up, all three casting curious looks at Liam and his companions. As patrons started filing in, Drayco nodded to Sarg. He left Liam to his sorrow and his music as he and Sarg headed up into the light-polluted skies over Georgetown.
Sarg grumbled about wasted efforts and how it was going to take him an hour and a half to get home. Drayco didn’t feel like arguing and let him go. But he wanted to hang around a little longer.
People-watching was one of his favorite hobbies. Not on the same level as the piano, but it was probably a better psych experiment than any touted in Gilbow’s classroom. He collected good watching spots like others collected places to watch the Fourth of July fireworks on the Mall.
He had spots everywhere, from Capitol Hill to Adams Morgan to Anacostia. Each session created
its own socio-symphony, each person a different instrument, each snatch of conversation a separate melodic line. The only way to truly understand a symphony of people is to learn all of the various parts.
At this moment, though, he wasn’t people-watching per se, more like person-hunting. And when he spied his target, he moved in.
* * *
Except for her five-eleven stature and pierced nose, the auburn-haired woman wearing a white ruffled top tucked into black jeans could blend in with shoppers at Mazza Gallerie. Or in this case, people walking the streets of Georgetown. As he approached, her vacant expression morphed from blank canvas into secretive Mona Lisa, exhibiting an eternal, knowing hint of a smile just for him.
“Looking for someone?” She leaned in closer and twisted the plain silver chain around her neck.
“That depends. You fill the bill, but I’ll need to ask you a few questions first.”
“You’ll love my answers.”
“Let’s find out.” Drayco guided her off the main street onto Cady Alley, away from curious stares by pedestrians. He spied a half-hidden bench nestled between black chokeberry bushes.
She gave a quick look around as if nonchalantly checking out the scenery. He recognized a tactical survey. Women on the streets who survived knew they were one careless mistake away from being a crime statistic and newspaper headline.
She turned her full attention back to him. “My rates are competitive and I’m very flexible, in more ways than one. My one rule is no glove, no love.”
“I’d like to ask you about one of your clients.”
She scooted away from him and folded her arms across her chest, with a scowl. “A cop. Just great. You’re losing your touch, Alice.”
“Is that your name—Alice?”
“Look, when I was talking rates, I meant my manicure and pedicure business, okay? That’s not against the law.”
“Even if it were, I wouldn’t arrest you because I’m not a cop.”
She loosened her self-hug, but one foot was still poised in front of her, ready to run. “Far as my bank account’s concerned, same difference.”