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  DIES IRAE

  A Scott Drayco Mystery

  BV Lawson

  Crimetime Press

  Copyright © 2015

  Dies Irae is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For information, contact:

  Crimetime Press

  6312 Seven Corners Center, Box 257

  Falls Church, VA 22044

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978-0-9904582-7-2

  Hardcover ISBN 978-0-9904582-8-9

  eBook ISBN 978-0-9904582-6-5

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  TO MY READERS

  OTHER BOOKS BY BV LAWSON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART ONE

  Seek not to know what must not be reveal’d,

  Joys only flow when hate is most conceal’d.

  Too busy man would find his sorrows more

  If future fortunes he should know before.

  —From the song “Seek Not to Know,” poem by John Dryden

  music by Henry Purcell

  1

  Wednesday, 15 October

  The chiming wall clock filled the room with swirled purple ovals that felt like grainy silk. Almost seven o’clock. How long had he been pacing? It only took five steps up, five back to cross the room. A sixty-step-per-minute rate that would wear a groove on the hardwood floors, if he kept it up.

  He cast an eye over at his piano. Maybe pounding out a Prokofiev sonata would be more constructive. His arm would cramp up, but it would be worth it. Decision made, he headed toward the piano but was stopped by a rapping on the front door.

  The man framed in the entryway must have come straight from work, wearing a traditional FBI suit and tie. Unless something had changed, those regulation-looking shoes were a pair of Justin cowboy boots disguised by the man’s slacks. His jute hair still sported a military cut, grayer at the temples, but everything else was the same as Scott Drayco remembered.

  Neither of them moved for a moment as a jump-cut-movie of memories played in Drayco’s head. What would the soundtrack for that be? Something noirish with shrieking violins, to match the staccato beats of the pouring rain outside.

  He waved Agent Mark “Sarg” Sargosian inside. “Better come in before you melt.”

  Sarg entered and stood just inside the door as he looked around. “Think I’ve come to the wrong place. A Spartan would feel comfy here. And is that pine air freshener?” Sarg’s tone was joking, but his right hand curled and danced at his side as if fingering a hat.

  “Got tired of tripping over things. I have a piano, sofa, refrigerator and microwave. What more do you need?”

  “According to Elaine, quite a bit. We traded in a perfectly good bed for one of those giant four-poster canopy things. With matching dresser and nightstand.” Sarg tugged on his ear, a nervous habit that also hadn’t changed.

  “How did you get here? I didn’t see your car.”

  “In the shop. Took the train to Union, then a cab. It’s waiting down the block.”

  “Don’t expect to be here long, I take it?”

  “Depends on you. And your answer.”

  Sarg’s call earlier in the day was cryptic, short on details and long on rambling non-sequiturs, unlike the blunt partner Drayco once knew. “You could have told me over the phone. Cheaper and faster. The train from Quantico to D.C. is what, an hour?”

  “I owed you more than that.” Sarg shifted his feet in place. “And this is too important. I need your help.”

  How many people had lived, fought and died over those four words? I. Need. Your. Help. Such simple words. Dangerous words. No-going-back words. Drayco’s feet felt glued to the floor as Sarg continued to tug on his ear.

  Drayco took a deep breath, then turned to walk in the direction of his living room, looking over his shoulder to see if Sarg followed. Should he make coffee? He hesitated a moment, then bypassed the kitchen and dropped onto his frayed red sofa.

  Sarg lowered himself onto the chair opposite. Both legs bounced in rhythm as he looked everywhere but at Drayco. Ten seconds turned to thirty, then sixty.

  Drayco leaned forward. “All right, let’s hear it, Sarg. You said you needed my answer. What’s the question?”

  Sarg’s legs stopped bouncing as he morphed into professional mode. “The BAU’s assisting on a D.C. police case. I’m the lucky guy given the assignment. Two months ago, a Parkhurst College student, Cailan Jaffray, was walking home after a late-night lab project. Never made it. Her half-nude body was found in Kenilworth Gardens, though the MPD thinks she was carted there after her murder. A knife through the heart, no weapon found. Signs of cauterizing around the wound, like the knife was heated.”

  Drayco sat up straight. Stabbing deaths were common, not so much heated murder weapons.

  Sarg continued, “It was mid-August, so most of the campus was on summer break. A few people still around had motives. A former boyfriend. The victim’s rival. A college groundskeeper accused of being a stalker. Shaky alibis, no concrete evidence.”

  “This type of case doesn’t usually prompt the Park Police or MPD to draw in the Bureau.”

  Sarg nodded. “Most of ’em would rather swim in a pool of cottonmouths.”

  “Then I don’t see why—” Drayco caught Sarg’s glance over at him, the way he bit his lower lip. “Which important person’s daughter was she?”

  “Niece of a Parkhurst religion professor, her legal guardian. Not particularly important per se, but Parkhurst is an elite school. Progeny of senators, grandchildren of Supreme Court justices, other illustrious alumni.”

  The type of circles BAU Unit Chief Jerry Onweller liked to hang around in. If Drayco won the lottery, he’d bet his winnings Onweller was friends with someone in the Parkhurst administration. “All right. I see why they want Bureau help. Scandal-abatement. Why do you need me?”

  Sarg pulled out a piece of crinkled paper from his pocket and handed it over. “The girl was a music student. Rather promising. She received three unsigned letters in nine-by-twelve white envelopes with no return address. She threw away the first two. This is a copy of the third.”

  Drayco unfolded the paper and studied it. It looked like an excerpt from ordinary sheet music with a treble line for soprano—or violin, since there were no words—and a piano accompaniment. Oddly, no dynamics or tempo or pedal markings. The key signature had no sharps or flats, yet the unfamiliar tune wasn’t in either C major or A minor.

  He played the piece in his mind, drawing out the notes slowly at first, hearing each chord, each arpeggio. The accompaniment was uninspired, and the dissonant melody wasn’t musical in a traditional sense. More of an exercise or a joke, or possibly some sort of code.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t check with the music faculty at Parkhurst.”

  “The MPD did. Some had no idea, most didn’t want to get involved.”

  “You said this was the third music puzzle. The MPD couldn’t have known the victim threw away the first two unless someone told them.”

  Sarg cleared his throat. “That would be Tara.” His eyes locked with Drayco’s. “My Tara.”

  Dear God, Sarg’s daughter would be college age now. Three years ago, she was a senior in high school. Now she was a student at Parkhurst? Where naturally, the bubbly teenager had made new friends, and among them, one murdered music student.

  The ex-Army Ranger Sergeant would never beg, but the message in his eyes was clear. Whatever it took, whatever bitter pill he had to swallow. This was his
little girl, and he was worried.

  “You think I can help because I play the piano?”

  “Partly. You were always the best at solving puzzles. And there’s another connection you have with the case.”

  Drayco was still absorbing the news Tara might be involved in a murder, so Sarg’s postscript took a moment to register. “And that is?”

  “The lab project. The one the victim was killed walking home from. Some guy’s dissertation. It’s about that sensory thing of yours, seeing colors and shapes when you hear music.”

  “Synesthesia?”

  “Yeah, the girl had synesthesia, like you. The MPD doesn’t think there’s a connection, but I thought you’d find it interesting. Maybe help you get inside her mind better.”

  Drayco studied the piece of paper before handing it back to Sarg. “This is similar to twelve-tone music. To most people, it sounds like cacophony. To me, it’s like blue-orange branching twigs with a rough bark feel to it. But no two synesthetes are alike, so I can’t tell you what the victim experienced.”

  Sarg took the paper but didn’t fold it up. He was in danger of falling off the chair, perched on the edge. After another good half-minute of silence, he muttered, “Three years.”

  Drayco didn’t have to ask what he meant. He knew full well how long it had been.

  “Three years and I keep replaying the same day over and over.” Sarg looked briefly at Drayco, then away.

  Drayco knew this man well. To Sarg, guilt was an invading force to be vanquished, not allowed entry. “I was thinking of leaving anyway.” Drayco lied. “You had a family to support.”

  “Wouldn’t have lost my job. Probably.”

  “Yet, if I had to do it all over …” Sarg rubbed his boot tips together. “Hasn’t been the same since.” He cleared his throat. “I meant to call you.”

  “Me, too.”

  The silence descended on them again as Drayco considered his options. He could offer his services, only to find they weren’t needed. Some would say refusing to help was justified payback. Or Sarg and the MPD might solve the case on their own, with or without the music puzzle.

  But then, there was Tara. “Onweller won’t want me consulting on this.”

  “I’ve thought of a way to smooth it over, make him see how much we need you. All nice and official, with pay.”

  The fusion of contrition and hope on Sarg’s face sent a shiver through Drayco. He’d thought that bridge long burned, the ashes cooled and scattered. Yet here it was stretching out in front of him, inviting him to cross over. Should he take the chance?

  The look on Sarg’s face turned to disappointment when Drayco said, “You’d better not keep that cab waiting too long, or your fare will cost a year’s salary.” Then Drayco added, “And if I’m going to help, I’ll need a copy of that puzzle.”

  Sarg passed the puzzle back and stood up, moving like a man ten years younger than the one who’d arrived. He paused, then thrust out his hand. Drayco shook it.

  “I’ll arrange everything with Onweller so we can get going first thing tomorrow.”

  “I’d like to start by talking to Tara. If that’s okay with you.”

  “Done. And Drayco …” He opened his mouth to add something, then stopped himself in mid-speech. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You coming via Union Station again? If so, I’ll pick you up.”

  The details settled, Sarg left to finish his expensive taxi ride. Drayco resumed pacing, but with a glance at the music puzzle, he headed to the piano instead.

  Ordinarily, he’d use Chopin to relax. Right now he needed black-and-blue jagged rocks tinged with an iridescent burgundy, the coastal wavelines of Prokofiev. He massaged his right arm first to stave off the stiffness and pain, then launched into the color-tsunami of Prokofiev’s fourth piano sonata. It soon carried him onto a distant shore where the only thing broken was the silence.

  2

  Thursday, 16 October

  Drayco awoke to a cascade of light pouring through the window. Hadn’t he closed the blinds before he went to bed? Then a soft, warm body slid into bed beside him, and he remembered. Darcie Squier stopped by last night. Well, he had invited her to visit him at his townhome, hadn’t he? Just not to show up on his doorstep as a “surprise.”

  After finally succumbing to Darcie’s relentless seductions on his trips to the Eastern Shore over the past few months, it was almost a relief to wake up and find her there after a night of lovemaking. A relief? He didn’t have time to dwell on that thought as Darcie started nibbling on his ear before working her way farther south.

  When it came to sex, she was like a reluctant nun trapped too long in a convent, doing her best to “Make up for lost time,” as she’d told him. And perhaps she’d summoned up his inner caveman as she talked of years spent in her loveless marriage crying alone in her room—although her ex-husband’s riches seemed to dull the pain.

  Drayco still wasn’t sure what his feelings for her were. He knew his Cape Unity friends didn’t approve of her—their words “shrew” and “alley cat” came to mind. But after Sarg’s visit last evening, having Darcie here was better than a Cacao Espresso Stout from the Fiddler’s Green Tavern. He needed this.

  But his mind just wouldn’t shut off, and his meeting with Sarg kept coming back to him. Sarg’s baffling music puzzle poked at his subconscious, demanding he pay attention. He’d even had dreams of it last night, the staves leaping off the page and forming a knife headed straight for his heart.

  No more avoiding the inevitable. He headed to the shower to clear mind and body of distractions, but Darcie had other ideas. She followed him inside, helped him dry off, then made him breakfast before he dressed because “she liked watching him walk around nude.” He was going to protest for equal time, but she looked rather fetching in the kitchen wearing only lacy red panties.

  She was disappointed when he told her he couldn’t take her sightseeing because he was meeting Sarg. Her pout lasted only as long as it took for a friend of hers on the phone to mention Saks Fifth Avenue and something about Saint Laurent croc-embossed leather booties. When she squealed to him they were on sale for “only” nine hundred dollars, he spit out some of his coffee and grabbed for a paper towel.

  The last shoes he’d bought were black garden-variety loafers. If Darcie didn’t have her ex’s money to play with, Drayco had a feeling she wouldn’t be hanging around him long on his crime-consultant salary. She needed a senator or lobbyist and a mansion in Georgetown or McLean. Humble Cape Unity and its coastal small-town life must feel like a death sentence to her.

  As Darcie babbled on the phone with her friend, Drayco grabbed his copy of Sarg’s music puzzle and played it in his mind again. What could it mean? But the tuneless line kept morphing into Prokofiev and then to Bach. Soon his thoughts were in Cape Unity on the Eastern Shore inside the Opera House he’d inherited. His life, as always, seemed to be surrounded by musical puzzles.

  Darcie finished her conversation, grabbed one of the egg sandwiches she’d made and plopped onto the couch beside him. “What’s that?” She peeked at the puzzle.

  “Part of that case I mentioned. And why I’m meeting Sarg later.”

  “So that’s the reason you can’t take me to see the First Ladies’ dresses.” She peered over at the paper. “Doesn’t look terribly interesting. Is it important?”

  He held up the paper to the light. “Possibly. It was sent to a college student before she was murdered.”

  Darcie put her plate on the coffee table and slid closer to him. “What was she like?”

  “What?” He turned to face her.

  “The girl who got killed. Tell me about her.”

  She had a way of surprising him like that. Showing a deeper side of herself to him than she did to others.

  Last night, Drayco searched the Web for traces of Cailan Jaffray’s social media footprint. She’d appeared like a fairly normal college-age girl at first. Then he noticed a more pensive, darker turn
to her online posts in the weeks leading up to her death. Premonitions? Or hidden secrets?

  He replied, “Well, music was a passion of hers. So much so she didn’t have a lot of time left over for her friends.”

  “Kind of like you were at her age?”

  He nodded. “Being a classical soloist is like having a lover who demands all your time. And you gladly give it. Once it gets a grip on your soul, it won’t let go.”

  “I’d love to have you think of me that way.” She reached up to stroke his hair. “But you make it sound like I’d always be playing second fiddle. Or whatever the piano equivalent is.”

  “I can’t perform anymore, remember?”

  She winked at him. “Only the piano, Darling. But you can still play, can’t you?”

  “For short periods. Until my arm cramps.”

  Darcie moved her stroking to his right arm. “Was the murdered girl a pianist?”

  “A singer. Opera.”

  “Oooh, now there’s more my thing. All those lovely dresses and jewelry and gorgeous sets. Was she any good?”

  “Quite good, by all accounts.”

  “Then why would anyone want to kill her? Unless it’s a rival.”

  He blinked at her. “She did have a rival, for love more than music.”

  “Then where does that puzzle come in? A form of musical death threat?”

  And there she was again—much sharper than she let on. “That’s what we aim to find out.”

  “How was she killed?”

  “Stabbed.”

  “Ah, now see, that screams a crime of passion.”

  Drayco didn’t think Sarg or the MPD would want some of the details of the murder made public, like the wound cauterizing, so he didn’t mention that. Yes, a crime of passion might involve a stabbing. But to take the time to heat the knife first? That screamed premeditation, not spur-of-the-moment passion.

  It wasn’t often his thoughts were so vivid they translated into sensory links, but he could swear he smelled something burning. Darcie sniffed the air and jumped up, running over to the kitchen. As he got up to join her, she met him at the archway holding a blackened blob speared with a fork.