Elegy in Scarlet

by BV Lawson

“Prints?”

  “None.”

  “Anything else unusual about her murder? Something that doesn’t fit?”

  Halabi pulled himself up to his full five-eleven and folded his arms across his chest. “As I said, go read the novel. But if you must know, they crammed the victim’s debit card down her throat.”

  Drayco leaned against the wall as he weighed that bizarre detail. Not that he liked second-guessing police officers, but overworked cops plus overzealous prosecutors often added up to mistakes. “Did the suspects wear gloves in those other two robberies? The ones caught on camera?”

  “Noooo. But they could have this one time. Got the idea from old Law and Order episodes or some other TV show.”

  “Let me get this straight. Someone wearing gloves brings a bat with them to a bank, waits for the victim, bashes the victim over the head, steals her money, and then crams the ATM card down her throat. That’s a pretty big M.O. change for our two young ‘moron’ thugs. Seems much more like a copycat and premeditation, not random.”

  “Still—”

  “Plus, seems like the killer planned the attack specifically to stay out of range of the security cameras. What did her autopsy reveal?”

  “Cause of death was blunt force trauma. Plus asphyxiation—the killer inserted the card while the victim was still alive.”

  Drayco pictured the crime scene in his head. Did the killer know Ophelia was alive at that point? If so, the card was what—malice? A statement? Torture for the fun of it? “Did you ask Maura McCune if she had an alibi for that night?”

  “You kidding? She refuses to tell us anything about where she’s been for the last thirty years, let alone one itsy bitsy night.”

  Halabi moved toward the door and held it open. “Look, I can’t order you not to talk to people. Note that I said talk, not interrogate and not harass. If you come across something, anything, I expect you to let me know. I can still charge you with impeding an investigation.”

  Drayco fingered the key in his pocket from Jerold Zamorra’s fish tank. “If I come across anything important.”

  Halabi’s brow was a furrowed field of suspicion, but he waved Drayco on.

  When Drayco located Sarg, he wasn’t surprised to see Sarg was successful in helping Lauralee get released on bail. Luckily for her, the watch she stole was under two hundred dollars and “only” a misdemeanor in Virginia. If it were her first offense, Lauralee could probably plead guilty in exchange for restitution and community service.

  They decided to buy her a drink before dropping her off at her room at Ashley’s house. They grabbed a table at Northside Social and let her get settled with her Masala chai latte and cheddar chive scone. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee mingling with fresh-baked bread made for an olfactory orgasm.

  After a few tentative bites, she wolfed down the scone and made quick work of the latte. Drayco took note of her appetite, coupled with her waif-like frame—despite her penchant for high fashion, it was clear she wasn’t spending much money on food.

  She took one last bite, then spied a crumb on the table, picked it up and swallowed that, too. “If this gets back to my parents, they’re going to kill me. You don’t have to tell them since I’m an adult, right?”

  Drayco shook his head, and her shoulders relaxed. “My parents adopted me when I was a baby. They took good care of me. Well, physically. They’re very strict. It’s an Apostolic church thing.”

  She gave a short laugh, then reached into her purse to pull out the tube of coconut-scented lip balm, making liberal use of it. “They disapprove of everything I do, even the string quartet because it’s not church music. Too frivolous. Loathe the way I dress. And the cigarettes? I’m going straight to hell.”

  Sarg got up to get her a refill of her latte, leaving Lauralee alone with Drayco. He asked, “What kind of watch did you shoplift?”

  “What kind of watch? Oh, it’s rose-colored gold. At Nordstrom’s. Starving musicians can’t buy stuff like that. Oh, Gawd, if Gogo knows, Ashley does, too.”

  As she said Ashley’s name, a smile played about her lips, and she fiddled with the necklace around her neck. The necklace was also rose-colored gold, with what looked like a small ruby pendant. Maybe that watch wasn’t the only thing Lauralee had filched.

  Her little smile made him remember her comment to Gogo at Kicks and Sticks, about not liking testosterone types. More like male types in general—Lauralee had a crush on Ashley, or maybe more than a crush.

  Sarg returned with the latte which she accepted and started sipping immediately. When the lid popped off, causing some of the liquid to spill onto the table, she said “Damn,” and almost looked like she was going to lick the table. Sarg pushed over a napkin and gave Drayco a fleeting “WTF” look before asking, “Miss Fremont, how well do you know Gogo and Ashley?”

  “How well do I know Gogo and Ashley?” She had a habit of repeating what someone said and then answering as if she wasn’t sure what she’d heard. Or was buying some time.

  Maybe a little shock therapy would take care of that. Drayco asked, “Could they be capable of murder? They both hated Jerold and had reason to want him gone, permanently.”

  She put the unfinished drink down, her eyes flashing with a spark he hadn’t seen before. “Ashley wouldn’t. She couldn’t.”

  “And Gogo?”

  She licked her lips and looked at the door as if she wanted to bolt. “Why are you asking me this? They know who did it. Look, I’m grateful you bailed me out and all, but I don’t feel comfortable answering these questions.”

  “You like Gogo, don’t you?”

  “Do I like Gogo?” She hesitated. “He’s a skilled musician. And good at that whole martial arts stuff. I mean, we all have our faults. I smoke, he gambles, whatever.”

  Her comment reinforced the betting slips Drayco had seen on Gogo’s music stand. “Did Gogo owe Jerold money? For his gambling habit?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Everybody’s been acting weird lately. Must be something in the air.” With the excuse of having to “recycle some latte,” she headed for the bathroom.

  Sarg waited until she disappeared. “Gambling? Those betting slips you told me about?”

  “Killing someone you owed a lot of money is one sure-fire way to clear the books.”

  Drayco filled Sarg in about his hypothesis about Lauralee’s crush on Ashley, which Sarg mulled it over. “If she told Jerold, I’ll bet that went over well. I mean, if Jerold didn’t want an Asian son-in-law, don’t think he’d appreciate a woman hitting on his daughter. But would Lauralee have killed him over that?”

  Drayco leaned back in his seat. “Maybe. Then there’s her five-fingered discounts. Could indicate a pattern. She says she has no money, yet all her clothes look new and expensive. Maybe she stole something from Jerold and was discovered.”

  He sighed. “What is it with women and fashion? I guess pink-gold’s one of the hot crazes right now. First Rena’s watch, now Lauralee’s.”

  “It’s like those Caveman Ugly boots all the women drool over. Tara had a pair. I asked her why the hell she’d want something that looked like kids made it at a summer camp.”

  “The soul of tact, you are.”

  Sarg grinned, patted his pocket, and took out the little notebook. “By the way, I checked those lottery ticket numbers. The ones from Jerold’s condo.”

  “Didn’t win, did they?”

  “You already looked? Should have known, Mr. Eidetic Memory. I guess it was an inside joke of Jerold’s, after all.”

  “Possibly. Although did you notice how few tchotchkes he had lying around? Each one should carry more emotional weight, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Touché.” Sarg gave a longing look over at the pastry counter. “After we drop Lauralee off and I return to my Quanticube, what’s on your agenda the rest of this lovely day?”

  “Got a meeting with Benny. We have to go over the upcoming hearing.”

  Sarg and Drayco both stood at the same time, but
Sarg placed a hand on Drayco’s shoulder, holding him back. “About that hearing thing. We’ve never really discussed it—Gilbow’s shooting. Self-defense, mercy killing, whatever it was. Just want you to know you did the right thing.”

  Drayco smiled. “Thanks.” Having Sarg and Nelia’s vote of confidence meant more to him than anything the review board could say. Technically, he hadn’t quite gotten Nelia’s yet, but her visit to his townhome the other day spoke volumes.

  What he didn’t tell Sarg was that the nightmares he’d had over the past several months of shooting the burning man in the warehouse were morphing into ones starring a middle-aged woman with graying auburn hair—as she stabbed Jerold Zamorra, over and over, while mystery man Iago stood by and laughed.

  Chapter 18

  Iago narrowed his eyes as he caught sight of his target in the dim light of a near-dead street lamp. He’d tailed him for blocks, through some of the back alleyways of Logan Circle. He thought he’d lost the guy until the other man ducked down a half-flight of stairs, disappearing into a basement garage. Perfect. Iago followed him into the space.

  Ulysses Porro was not a particularly well-suited name for a bookie. As far as Iago knew, the only heroic act this Ulysses had taken was beating the spread on a longshot NFL team. The man didn’t even look the part dressed in a pair of brown polyester pants and a tan shirt from Discount Whatever that sported a mustard stain on the pocket.

  Ulysses’ eye twitch went into overdrive when he spied Iago. “I’d remember your face if I’d seed it afore, and I ain’t, that’s a fact. If it’s money you be after, you got the wrong guy. Must be some other poor schlub. You can scuttle right back out the way you come.”

  Iago stepped closer. Twitch-twitch-twitch-twitch. It was like watching a pair of caution flags flapping in the breeze. “Not here about any bets.”

  “There, ya see? Wrong place, wrong guy.”

  “Right place, right guy. Or so says a good source who pegged you at the Glencroft Shores condos in Arlington. Night of February thirteenth.”

  “Glencroft Shores? Arlington? Not my usual stomping grounds. I got no reason to be there, then or now.”

  “My source says you were. And that you saw something and phoned it into the police. In disguise.”

  “Police? Now, why would I do that?”

  “Maybe because you knew the guy who’d just been whacked. Jerold Zamorra. Name ring a bell?” Iago took a step closer, within inches of Ulysses.

  The guy didn’t back up, to his credit. But Iago was pretty certain from the smell coming from those brown polyester pants that Ulysses wasn’t as tough as he wanted Iago to think. “Zamorra? I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Let me give you a refresher. You handled some bets for Jerold Zamorra. Several bets, as a matter of fact. Dating back a year or two.”

  Ulysses licked his lips. “Now you mention it. Yeah. Guess I might’ve. The guy was a true addict, you know? The kind that’s easy to suck dry. But I don’t know nothing about no murder.”

  “Funny, that. Because my source swears he saw you in that area that night.”

  “So what if I was? I’m a businessman. And it’s a free country.” Ulysses uttered a horsey laugh. Iago didn’t join in.

  With one swipe of his big paw, Iago grabbed the other man by the throat and lifted him high into the air. Ulysses gurgled and coughed, the spittle dribbling down his jaw. After thirty seconds, Iago let him go, and the man sagged against the concrete wall behind him.

  “One more time. You sure you didn’t call the police that night? You sure you didn’t see who killed Jerold Zamorra as they left his condo?”

  Ulysses’ hoarse voice replied, “I didn’t see nobody. Honest.”

  Iago frowned. His source was usually correct. But if Ulysses was seen near the area of Jerold’s condo, then the source hadn’t been entirely wrong. “Were you there taking bets with Jerold earlier that night? Is that why you were there?”

  Ulysses nodded and croaked out, “An addict, I tell you.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone else there? Before or after?”

  Ulysses shook his head.

  Well, that was that. Another dead end. Time to give his new “friend” a little extra incentive not to mention Iago’s visit to anyone. “Okay, then. Just remember one thing—I was never here.” Iago whipped behind Ulysses, circled his arms around the man’s trachea, and squeezed both sides of his neck.

  Ulysses did his impression of mercury on a cold day and dropped, all the way to the ground. Iago took the opportunity to stroll out of the basement, back up to the alleyway above. The guy would only be out for maybe thirty seconds, sixty tops. No need to hang around any longer than necessary.

  It took a bit over twenty minutes to walk back to his car, and once inside, Iago dialed up his employer. “It was a bust. The so-called witness didn’t see anything. He just happened to be there earlier handling some bets for Jerold, but that was the extent of his involvement in the murder.”

  The baritone voice on the other end said, “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “When was the last time I did that? Besides, you said to keep a low profile.”

  “And I trust you will take that command to heart. Making yourself a target of the police won’t help Maura. You would do well to remember that.”

  “You wound me. You know no one wants her freed more than I do.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. “We all want this nonsense behind us.”

  “And Drayco?”

  “Which one?”

  “The younger.”

  “Keep a close eye on him, as usual. If my instincts are correct, he’ll be our best hope of success.”

  “You that sure he won’t spend all his time trying to nail Maura?”

  “His father might. But our young detective, I believe, is on our side.”

  “And if it turns out he isn’t?”

  Another long pause. “We’ll deal with that if and when it happens. Keep me posted.”

  After they had hung up, Iago pulled a photo out of his wallet and rubbed his finger over the picture of the woman with the graying red hair. He didn’t relish the idea of harming her son. Still, if it came down to a choice ... He replaced the photo and drove off.

  Chapter 19

  Monday, February 18

  Drayco yawned and looked at an online cookbook. Who knew there were so many types of omelets? Spanish, Japanese, Dutch, French, Southwestern. He found his target, a recipe for a tarragon omelet, but his hopes of making one to shock the hell out of Sarg were cooked as soon as he read the instructions. He flipped off the monitor. McBreakfast to the rescue.

  The meeting with Benny last evening had turned out to be more of the same rah-rah legal coaching session. But despite Benny’s outward show of confidence, Drayco had known Benny long enough to sense the attorney was worried and not just about the upcoming board hearing. Benny’s first meeting with Maura McCune was about as enlightening as Drayco’s. She was angry; she didn’t kill him. No info on why she was there or why she was upset with Jerold.

  Benny was already considering a plea of involuntary manslaughter. More than ever before, Benny was counting on Drayco’s ability to hunt down witnesses, evidence, anything he could use to defend his client.

  After dropping some melatonin last night, Drayco felt a little better rested this morning. He briefly entertained the idea of stopping by O’Greavy’s for one of their gourmet omelets as a substitute brag fodder for Sarg the next time he saw him, but he didn’t have the stomach for it. He couldn’t remember the last time he was truly hungry.

  After his drive-through breakfast, he headed to the Rebekah Hasendahl House, one of the oldest buildings still standing in Fairfax County. The original log-cabin school, later remodeled and expanded, now served as a shelter for battered women.

  It was also, as he’d learned, Ashley Zamorra’s “day job.” For once, he wanted to get Ashley alone, apart from Edwin or Gogo. Of all the possible suspects so far, she alone
had the strongest motive and greatest access to her murdered father.

  She was surprised to see him but welcomed him in. He’d only taken a few steps inside the place when someone lunged at him from the left. His instincts kicking in, he twisted away to the other side, and that’s when he saw he was facing a woman holding a kitchen knife. Her voice was as cold as the Potomac waters in February. “I told you I’d cut you if I ever saw you again.”

  Before he could react a second time, Ashley slid in front of him, putting herself between him and the woman. She said slowly and calmly, “Belinda, this is Mr. Scott Drayco.” She sounded out his name again, slower this time. “Scott Drayco. This isn’t Tomás. Mr. Drayco is our guest, and he won’t hurt you.”

  Belinda blinked her eyes, lowered the knife to her side and whispered, “Sorry. So sorry.” Dropping the knife, she ran off toward the back. Ashley nodded at another staffer who retrieved the knife and hurried after Belinda.

  Ashley ushered Drayco into a small side room with soothingly bland, blue walls where they could talk in private. “Belinda ran away from home when she was twelve. It’s been one abuser after another, although Tomás was the worst. Guess you reminded her of him. That’s the thing about sexual violence. Never leaves you alone as long as you live.”

  Drayco nodded. He’d seen it all too well in other people before. He looked around, taking note of the frayed edges of the camel-tan carpet and the cracked window blind. Funds for the shelter must be tight.

  Ashley settled into a brown metal folding chair that squeaked when she sat down, and he sat across from her. She wore the same neon-red lipstick as when he last saw her and the same earrings that he could now tell were astrology symbols. Scorpio, to be exact—the scorpion.

  She studied him with a look of suspicion in her eyes. “Why are you here? Uncle Edwin and I told you everything we know.”

  “I just had a few more questions.”

  “Couldn’t it have waited until after work? Belinda was doing so much better, and I hope her little relapse won’t set her back.”

  “If you’d like me to meet you later—”