by B. V. Lawson
Jaffray blinked away his tears and stared long and hard at Drayco, finally giving him a curt nod. “I hope you find more resolution than I have.”
Drayco picked his way through the boxes toward the door and looked back before heading out. Jaffray placed a hand on Futino’s shoulder, and they concentrated on Liam’s photo of Cailan, as if doing so would magically bring her back to life.
36
Drayco stood very still in the dark, grateful the rain had stopped. After leaving Jaffray and Liam, he’d walked the entire length of the path Cailan took from the psych lab to her apartment and was almost back at his starting point.
Two minutes ago, someone began following him.
Thorn-covered bushes that lined a sharp right turn in the path hid Drayco as he waited for his follower to come into view. Whoever it was didn’t seem to know anything of the art of tailing. Too much foot scuffling and a near-stumble or two. When the culprit lurched around the turn, Drayco saw why.
Gary Zabowski appeared, spinning around in all directions to spot his suddenly missing prey. The smell of beer surrounded him in a cloud as if he’d been doused in Eau de Frat Boy cologne.
Drayco maneuvered behind Gary, waited a moment, and loudly cleared his throat.
Gary stopped spinning and would have fallen to the ground if Drayco hadn’t caught him by the elbow and hoisted him up. “Think I just had my first heart attack,” Gary slurred.
Drayco said, “Skulking around will do that to you. Why are you following me instead of staying at the bar you left?”
“I was at that bar, ’cause I can’t come here, without going to that bar first.”
“You do this … whatever this is, often?”
Gary pulled his arm out of Drayco’s grasp. “Whoever took Cailan did it while she was walking home. I used to walk her home.” He deflated like a balloon. “My breaking up with her got her killed.”
His words were slurred, but Drayco could translate easily enough. Swaying in the winds of his guilt, Gary was in no condition to walk, let alone drive. Drayco anchored a firm grasp on Gary’s shoulder. “I’m taking you home.”
Gary didn’t argue and allowed himself to be shepherded to Drayco’s car, staying mute all the way to his apartment. Drayco walked him to the door to be sure he made it inside. But their path was blocked by a man wearing a confidence-cut suit and a frown of annoyance.
Gary squinted at the man in concentration. Then he put a hand to the side of his mouth and attempted a whisper so loud, it scared a cat on the stoop next door, who hissed at them. “That is Mister Lawrence G. H. Putnam, Esquire, Attorney-at-Law, and mouthpiece. That’s what they call ’em in those black-and-white movies, right? Mouthpiece?”
Gary fumbled for his key and managed to open the door, then made a sloppy salute with one hand as the other arm waved them inside. Putnam didn’t bother looking around, like one who’d been there before.
“I’ve been trying to get you on your cellphone all day, Gary. Your father is very upset. He says you called President Thackeray at his office and threatened him with a lawsuit if you were thrown out of school. Something about being a murder suspect. That’s preposterous, Gary. Thackeray himself told your father one of the two dead girls was behind it all.”
“She didn’t do it.” Gary flopped down onto a chair and belched.
“I daresay the police know what they’re doing, Gary. And your father doesn’t have time to deal with these games of yours. He’s a very busy man.” Putnam pulled out his wallet. “It is money you’re after? Your father told me to give you whatever you need.”
Gary folded his arms over his chest and didn’t answer.
Putnam pulled out several hundred-dollar bills, so crisply new they lay as flat as if they were fresh off the Mint assembly line. “If you need more, let me know. And don’t be calling Thackeray or anyone else in his office.” The attorney turned to leave, pausing a moment. “You don’t want to disappoint your father, do you?”
Gary waited until the attorney was gone, then mimicked him in a sing-song voice, “You don’t want to disappoint your father, do you? Too late for that. I was born, wasn’t I?”
Drayco left Gary long enough to duck into the kitchen. He spied what he was looking for, a jar of instant coffee he combined with water heated in the grease-encrusted microwave.
He handed the cup to Gary, who peered up at him with scrim-covered eyes. “I gotta be the only bum on campus with a lawyer stand-in for a daddy-o.” Gary took the coffee and gulped down a sip. Drayco doubted he was the only one. Not at Parkhurst.
“I didn’t know if you take milk or sugar,” Drayco said.
“Depends. This tastes different from when I make it. S’okay.”
Drayco didn’t tell him he’d also found the salt shaker on the counter. “You argue with your father much?”
“Hell, that would mean we talk. You heard mouthpiece. Daddy-o is a very, very busy man who can’t be bothered with little, what do you call ’em? Annoyances. And I’m one of those annoyances.”
Gary gulped down some more coffee and sounded fractionally more coherent. “They’re divorced. My parents. Mom spends all her time shopping, partying, high society stuff. Guess she didn’t like all those young women throwing themselves at my father because of his moolah.”
Drayco got up to make himself a cup of coffee, trying to ignore the filthy microwave. What were those red blobs in there? A new life form? Smelled a little like rotting pizza. “I’m familiar with difficult father-son relationships. But he must care about you on some level.”
“He cares about himself. I’m a reflection of him and his genes. Therefore, he cares about me. How’s that for a sillo … stillo … what’s that jismy thing?”
“You mean syllogism.”
“Guess I learned something from Philosophy 101.”
“How did your father feel toward Cailan? Or Shannon? Or any of your friends?”
“Doesn’t care, as long as I don’t get into trouble. Trouble meaning something he can’t fix. Arrests he can fix. Short of murder, there’s little I can do to get kicked out of this place. Ole Daddy Fixit will see to that.”
“Is that what you were trying to do? Get yourself thrown out?”
Gary smiled briefly. “See, I’ve only talked to you twice before, and you already know me better than he does. Better than my so-called friends who think I’m an ATM machine. Hell, you may be the one person who doesn’t want anything from me.”
“Except the truth.”
Gary’s laugh was tinged with bitterness. “The truth? Okay, the truth is I lied. Not about murdering anybody. About my alibi. I wasn’t with Reed at the club when Cailan or Shannon was killed. Well, not at the time they were killed.”
“What do you mean?”
Gary swung his feet up on the couch. “We were together at Reed’s place later the night Cailan was killed, after midnight. In bed.”
“You and Reed slept together?”
“Just the one time.”
“So you’re gay, and Cailan and Shannon were a cover?”
“If I were truly gay, I’d be a nicer person. How many gay mass murderers do you see walking around? Okay, Jeffrey Dahmer.”
“There’ve been other gay serial killers. Spree and serial killers run the gamut—female, young, old, educated, uneducated. One reason I’m not a fan of profiles.”
“Well, I’m not gay. It’s all the rage to swing both ways. S’called being ‘fluid.’”
Drayco made a note to ask Andrew Gilbow that, when he ran into him again, if for no other reason than to see the expression on his face. “You might regret telling me all this in the morning when you’re sober.”
Gary rubbed his temples. “I regret that last beer right now. You don’t have any aspirin on you, I ’spose?”
“The coffee will kick in soon. You told Putnam, Esquire, Shannon didn’t kill Cailan. You sounded quite confident.”
“She was back on her meds. After we broke up, she decided to take them again. I
don’t remember seeing her happier or more together. She wouldn’t have killed herself. And she didn’t have any booga-booga cult friends who would’ve helped her do it. As for killing Cailan—would a girl who faints at the sight of blood be able to stab somebody?”
“You saw her faint, or she told you this?”
“I gave myself a deep gash on my hand after I broke a glass. Right here where I’m sitting.” Gary held up his hand to show Drayco a fresh scar. “Shannon took one look and was flat out on the floor.”
That explained the stain on the carpet under Gary’s couch. “Yet she cut herself, routinely.”
“She wasn’t very good at it. Said she’d make one cut and faint. Did one a week.”
“If not together, where were you and Reed when Cailan and Shannon were killed?”
“I was here working on my music. No one would have seen me. Reed said he was at the lab working late. No one saw him, either.”
“Both times?”
Gary nodded. “That’s why we cooked up our alibi. Mutual dee-fense.”
Drayco guzzled down his coffee. “You realize this means you don’t have an alibi for the murder of either girl? Maybe you should have stuck to your guns.”
“Don’t care.” He twisted the coffee cup around in his hands. “Don’t care what the police think, don’t care what my friends think, don’t care what my father thinks.”
“That’s a lot of not caring.”
Gary patted his computer equipment. “I care about that. Music won’t let me down.”
Maybe music wouldn’t let you down. Everything surrounding it might, and music could become another casualty. Maybe Gary would get lucky, and it would be different for him.
Drayco said, “So if Reed doesn’t have an alibi, he would have had time to follow Cailan, kill her, dump the body, and still meet you at midnight. And if he doesn’t have an alibi for Shannon’s murder …”
Gary stood up, slurped the last of his coffee and headed to the kitchen. Drayco took the time to look around while he was gone. Gary’s computer setup was impressive, easily capable of generating those music codes.
But you didn’t need to be a skilled composer to use the types of software Drayco had researched at home. Type in notes representing the clue-words and have the software add some harmonization. Send the finished copy to a standard laser printer and voila.
Gary returned with a cup for himself and another for Drayco, who was surprised, but accepted it. Gary took a sip of his and looked at the cup, puzzled. “Doesn’t taste the same. Guess my beer buzz is wearing off. Enough to tell you you’re way off target if you think Reed’s a killer. Brow-beaten by his wife, maybe. If every husband like that turned into killers, there’d be a lot more corpses.”
“Cailan and Shannon were both in his dissertation project.”
“Yeah, but with them both dead, puts his project in jeopardy, doesn’t it? It’d be insane. Always did think it a weird idea for a dissertation.”
“Where did he come up with it?”
“Don’t know. Don’t talk school much when we hang out. He’s the closest thing to a normal friend I’ve got. We drink and chill. Cheap anesthesia.”
Drayco said, “You didn’t date any of the other students in that project, did you?”
Gary laughed and struck a male-model pose, grabbing his crotch. “A sex machine I’m not. If they had it as a major, I’d sign up. Gigolo 101.”
Drayco tried not to think of Darcie.
Gary’s face grew pensive. “It is kinda odd that project was the only thing Cailan and Shannon shared in common. Outside of music. Think there’s a connection? If not Reed, then, what the hell?”
Gary’s cellphone on a table went off, with a Rocky movie theme ringtone. It filled Drayco’s brain with blue circles chained together like links in the Kenilworth fence, and that made him think of Tara Sargosian. Sarg was rightfully proud of the way she handled herself after finding Shannon’s body. What would Gary have done under the same circumstances? Called Putnam, Esquire?
The young man returned from a bedroom where he’d excused himself to take the call, and collapsed down onto the sofa. “That was Reed. Making sure I got home okay. Told him what I told you. Wasn’t happy.”
“If Reed’s innocent, he won’t have to worry.”
Innocent or not, Drayco agreed with Gary the only other thing Cailan and Shannon had in common was Reed’s project. Which made it a dead certainty Drayco would pay a visit to Reed in the morning.
And how long would it take for the proverbial feces to hit the fan when word got back to Onweller Drayco was still working the case? When—not if—that happened, his window of investigative freedom would slam shut if Onweller made good on his threats. Drayco needed something to happen and soon.
* * *
Tara knew it was a mistake when she went into the bar and saw a cloud of cigarette smoke hovering near the ceiling, threatening to rain down into her lungs. She hated cigarette smoke and the way it clung to her hair and clothes. Like anti-perfume.
Since Dad had relaxed his recent smothering, she was willing to give John another chance. Despite what happened on their last date. But where was John? Standing her up? Great, just great. Maybe she should just turn around and go home.
Jessica grabbed her arm, yelling above the clash of loud music and chattering voices. “John’ll be glad you made it. He was here, left, said he’d be right back. Told me to tell you to hang tight. Here,” she handed Tara a beer. “I bought this one, but you can have it and I’ll get another. This is organic amber on tap. You’ll love it.”
Tara regarded the glass dubiously as Jessica disappeared into the crowd. The bouncer was chatting up a pretty blond girl when Tara arrived, allowing her to slip in without being carded. She shouldn’t drink, technically. But twenty and four months was almost twenty-one. Still, what if there was a raid? Oh well, when in Rome …
She looked around in vain for a table. When her phone chimed, she put her beer down on a railing and checked the text. Not John, just Cyndi asking about some class notes.
Gary and Cailan used to go to Tuchman’s, but Vertigo was closer to campus and easy for Tara to walk to. It was also packed every night. How did all those students manage to get any studying in? She grabbed the beer, gave up on finding an empty table, and headed to a spot under an air vent where she hoped the smoke would be less thick.
Jessica joined her, a frosty glass with amber liquid in hand. “Maybe this will help me sleep better. I can’t shake the nightmares about seeing … about that whole Kenilworth thing. You been having nightmares, too?”
Tara didn’t want to shout like everyone else, so she moved closer to Jessica. “Not really. I mean it was horrible, sure, but she was already dead.”
Jessica rolled her eyes. “I should have known a cop’s daughter would take it all in stride.”
“He’s not a cop, he’s FBI. And I do feel sorry for Shannon.”
“I guess like I should pray for her soul or light some candles or something. You’re Catholic, right? Isn’t suicide like, the worst? And murder on top of that.”
Tara had long since stopped talking about her religion or any other religion, for that matter. She wasn’t sure what she believed—maybe a cross between her mother’s deep faith and her father’s skepticism. Or none of the above.
And try to tell someone she was raised in an Armenian Apostolic Church and she could see their eyes glaze over. Or they’d try to convert her to their flavor of God. As her Dad used to say, “Vanilla, strawberry, chocolate—it’s all ice cream.”
She kept turning to the entrance, looking for John, but he was still AWOL. Maybe she’d been stood up, after all. Maybe she didn’t mind.
John had caught her attention in World History II, lean and lanky with curly black hair and a smile that had a hint of bad-boy charm. As was often the case, the bright shiny package was empty inside when you opened it up. Unlike her Dad’s former partner.
After Jessica had stopped screaming when the
y found Shannon, she’d pulled herself together enough to notice when Dad and Mr. Drayco showed up. The next day, she’d asked Tara for Scott Drayco’s number. As if.
Tara didn’t have a crush, truly. Despite what her Dad thought. She was protective, that’s all. That relaxed air wrapped around Falkor was like a black hole, drawing in everything around him. He’d had a lot of pain in his life. She could tell.
Someone handed Jessica a carton of chili-cheese fries, which she shared with Tara. Jessica had to yell at Tara to be heard though she was standing a foot away. “A friend of mine who sat next to Shannon in art history said Shannon didn’t seem upset after her breakup with Gary. Why would she kill herself, do you think?”
Tara shrugged. Then regretted it. The motion seemed to have awoken her insides to the realization the cigarette smoke, beer and chili-cheese fries weren’t sitting all that good. Waves of nausea burbled up, and she felt hot and flushed and a little unsteady.
Handing Jessica her beer and excusing herself, she headed toward the bathroom. She spied an emergency door leading to the alley behind the bar that was propped open. Fresh air sounded a lot better than the smell of urine and sickly sweet air fresheners.
She ducked out the door and walked several steps along the dark alley, holding her stomach and bending over in case she had to puke. But the cooler, fresher air was helping. Until a cloth bag was pulled over her head.
Someone grabbed her wrists tightly and half-dragged her down the alley, and she heard an idling car engine they were getting closer to. In her mind, Falkor’s voice was telling her what to do in an emergency. Stay calm, take deep breaths, be aware.
She went as limp as a rag doll, her knees sagging to the ground, which made her assailant stop and ever-so-slightly loosen his grip. Tara used a technique Falkor had shown her to twist her wrists free, and then she screamed.
That did it. She heard the steps of the man—for she could tell it was a man from the heavy shoes—as he ran in the direction of the waiting car. As it raced off, she pulled the cloth bag from her head.