Dies Irae Read online

  He tilted his head. “That doesn’t look like an egg sandwich. In fact, I’m not sure what the hell that looks like.”

  “It was supposed to be a cinnamon roll. If you like them well done, there are five more in the oven just like it.”

  He started laughing. She was a worse cook than he was, and that was saying a lot. He grabbed the fork and tossed the blob into the sink. Then he wrapped his arms around her and captured her lips in a deep, slow kiss. She tasted like egg and coffee and cream, and right now, it was like a little taste of heaven.

  3

  The morning drizzle tightened the District’s notorious braided-knot commute into a noose of traffic. But true to his word, Drayco picked Sarg up from the train station in his faithful blue Starfire, and they headed toward Parkhurst College. Their only conversation in the car was Sarg reading snippets from the case file he’d made and answering Drayco’s questions.

  No talk of the upcoming Washington Capitals season opener. None of Sarg’s tirades over his Fredericksburg neighbor, the one who staged Civil War re-enactments in his yard—with action figures as Confederates and garden gnomes as Union soldiers shot to smithereens with a BB gun.

  When they pulled into a Parkhurst lot, it didn’t take long to spy signs of the college’s deep-pocketed endowments. The campus coffeehouse where Drayco and Sarg were meeting Tara at ten-thirty had gleaming new everything. Pop-art light fixtures that looked suspiciously like Chihuly, crisp red shirts on the baristas, and a spotless self-serve espresso machine next to a case of pastries a French chef would envy.

  “No crumbs.” Drayco examined the floor around the table he’d chosen, the most isolated one in the back.

  “What?” Sarg slid into the booth opposite and placed his caramel macchiato and éclair on the table.

  “I thought this was a college, not a five-star resort.”

  “From what these kids pay, might as well be. One of the lessons Elaine and I learned when the kids started applying to colleges. And why it costs so much these days. No more barracks dorms. Gotta have satellite TV hookups, WiFi, and sushi made to order in the dining hall.”

  Sarg wrinkled his nose as Drayco picked up the salt shaker and sprinkled grains into his plain black coffee. “I don’t care what you say, Drayco, salt does not make bitter coffee taste sweet.”

  Those were the exact words Cape Unity’s Sheriff Sailor had said to him a few months ago. Sailor and Sarg might get along like gangbusters. Or maybe like magnetic poles, they’d repel each other.

  Drayco sniffed the coffee. Maybe not quite plain java, because he caught a whiff of hazelnut. “You must have picked the right stocks. Because I doubt most FBI agents can afford a college like this.”

  “Stocks? What are those? Nah, Tara’s the market winner. Got a full scholarship due to her overall brilliance and superiority.”

  “So she’s taking after Elaine, then?”

  Sarg smiled briefly, and Drayco almost smiled back. At least they were talking.

  He said, “That case file you read to me. It screams a love-affair-gone-wrong scenario. The victim’s recent breakup with a boyfriend, Garrington ‘Gary’ Zabowski, plus the victim’s rival, Shannon Krugh. And there’s the fact Cailan had the date-rape drug Rohypnol in her system. Illegal in the U.S., but legal in Mexico, where Gary traveled over the summer.”

  “Yeah, but then you have those odd burns around the edges of the wound.”

  “And why was she moved to Kenilworth Gardens, of all places, after the murder?”

  “Beats me. Didn’t find anything like it in ViCAP records or checking with area PD sex-crime units.”

  Drayco thought about that for a moment. Where did Tara fit into this, if at all? Tara, a friend of Cailan and acquaintance of Gary and Shannon. Although Drayco didn’t have kids, he felt protective of Tara. Last time he’d seen her, she still had braces, was smartly sarcastic and liked challenging him to word game duels. He hoped three years of college hadn’t remade her into an über-sophisticate type dropping Ayn Rand and Sylvia Plath into every other sentence.

  He reached for the salt shaker again but jumped up as something hot and wet spilled onto his leg. A hand with a pile of napkins frantically dabbed at the spot.

  “Oh, dear Falkor, I am so sorry.” Tara’s face wrinkled up into a wreath of embarrassment, as she continued to blot his trousers.

  He reached for her hand to stop her and smiled. “This must be an experiment for sociology.” He wanted to put her at ease, despite a nagging thought—was the dousing intentional? He had no idea what her father had said about him in the three intervening years. He sat back down and motioned for her to take the seat next to Sarg.

  Her long hair was still naturally blond and crowned with a plain headband, and she wore little makeup. Her sweater had swaths of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. The colors of the rainbow.

  And she’d called him Falkor. Her nickname for him when she’d first met him and learned Drayco’s name was from the Latin word for dragon. She’d promptly dubbed him Falkor, the dragon from her favorite Never Ending Story.

  Drayco looked to Sarg, who nodded, giving his tacit approval to start. “It’s good to see you again, Tara. Although it’s still hard for me to believe you’re old enough to be a college student. How are your studies going?”

  She rewarded his question with a small smile. “Oh, you know. Full of declensions, derivations, and learning how to dump coffee on people.”

  “Ah, so I was a project. I hope I helped you get an ‘A’.”

  “The easiest one I’ll ever get.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “As much as I appreciate you helping me with my ‘project,’ Dad said you needed to ask me about Cailan’s murder? I mean, I’m not sure how I can help.”

  Sitting there, watching the young woman in front of him looking confident and vulnerable at the same time, he had a sudden insight as to how Sarg must be feeling. Ready to pack her up and send her to a convent. Preferably one with a fortress and a moat.

  He said, “I’m sorry to have to discuss such an unpleasant topic, Tara.”

  “The police have already grilled me, right Dad?” She glanced at Sarg.

  Drayco said, “I’m mostly interested in those music letters Cailan received.”

  She stared down into what was left of her latte. “Cailan was a singer. Guess you know that. She was a finalist in the Met Opera Regionals, which is kinda big for someone her age. Anyway, she didn’t think it was all that weird when she got the first letter. Creepy, maybe. She was angry when she showed it to me. And after she got the second one, she was furious.”

  “Did they look like this?” Drayco pulled out his copy of the third letter and handed it over.

  Tara the A-student took a few minutes to study it. “I don’t read music like a pro. But after calc and chem equations, you get a knack for memorizing stuff. It’s close to the other two letters she showed me, though each was different. She sang the tunes for me. Well, mostly, ’cause part of it was out of her range.”

  That’s one of the things Drayco had noticed right away. The top line of music jumped around too much to be intended as a singable melody, making it less likely the “gift” was from a composer sending Cailan recital fodder. “Why did she throw them away?”

  “She thought they were from Gary. That he was ragging on her.”

  “Gary, the ex-boyfriend. Gary’s also a music student, a composer, which is why Cailan suspected the letters were from him?”

  Tara nodded.

  “Why did she and Gary break up?”

  Tara bit her lip. “Shannon.”

  “Gary’s current girlfriend.”

  “Ex. They broke up last week, too, or so I heard. I haven’t had much to do with them since … ” Tara looked away for a moment. “Gary is a spoiled rich brat and Shannon’s mental.”

  Drayco asked, “You mean her bipolar disorder?” Sarg’s case file was very thorough, complete with bullet points.

  “That’s not her fault, is it? C
hoosing not to take her lithium sure is.”

  Drayco exchanged looks with Sarg. Bipolar disorder left untreated could lead to some strange and erratic behavior. “Why not take her meds?”

  Tara adjusted her headband. “Self-destruction is easy. Self-creation is hard. That’s what Professor Gilbow says. I think it was more than that. Shannon likes being a bully. She gave poor Cailan no end of grief.”

  “Gilbow. That wouldn’t be Andrew Gilbow, would it?”

  “I’ve got him for psych.”

  Sarg interrupted, “Onweller arranged for us to consult with him on the case.”

  First Onweller, now Gilbow. Definitely not reconnect-with-your-favorite-people week. “We’ll discuss him later. Tara, who besides you might be familiar enough with Cailan’s schedule to know she walked to her apartment after her lab project?”

  Drayco caught a slight movement from Sarg, whose voice dripped with blue icicles as he said, “Tara didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  Tara looked from one man to the other, wrinkling her nose. “He meant do I know any other suspects, Dad.”

  Drayco nodded. “Other suspects and potential stalkers.”

  Tara continued to pass dark glances at her father as she answered Drayco, “I thought that, too. There was that weird hippy stalker guy. I mean, hello—the ’60s were decades ago.”

  “The college groundskeeper?”

  “Yeah, he followed Cailan around. I think he’s this big opera fan.” Tara giggled. “His name is Elvis, can you believe it?”

  The sound of maple cloud-like tones seeped out of a small fanny pack case Tara wore. She pulled out her smartphone and stared at the calendar on the screen. “Ohmygod, I’m going to be late for Gilbow’s class.”

  She drank the last half of her coffee in one gulp, grabbed her backpack, and started to slide out of the booth. She gave Drayco a quick look and said, “Cadet Tile.”

  Drayco scanned the room until he spied a young couple at a table, drinks in front of them. He replied, “Iced Latte,” and Tara grinned.

  Sarg stopped her before she left. “I want you to add Drayco’s number to your phone. In case you can’t get me for some reason.”

  Tara rolled her eyes. “Dad … ”

  “Humor me, will ya? And put a screen lock on that phone like I asked you to.”

  Tara stuck her phone out at her father but dutifully typed the numbers into her phone contact list as Drayco recited them. Sarg added, “Don’t be calling him unless it’s an emergency.”

  Tara’s pale face showed off her sudden red splotchy flush as she gave her father a quick kiss and waved at Drayco before hurrying off. He watched her go, then asked, “What was that all about?”

  “You mean my overreaction or Tara’s schoolgirl crush?”

  Drayco’s jaw dropped as he processed that last part. “What, me?”

  “As my wife once pointed out, you have no idea the effect that dark hair and those purplish-blue eyes of yours have on women, do you? Especially the married ones for some reason.”

  “She’s like a kid sister. Or surrogate daughter.”

  “There’s only fifteen years between you. Hey, don’t tell her I said anything, ’kay? I’ll be crossed off her Christmas list. And her wedding list. And added to her shit list.”

  Drayco shook his head and took another sip of coffee. Should he be flattered or horrified? To him, Tara would always be the little girl who liked chocolate sprinkles on her gummy-bear ice cream. Sarg’s pointed reference to married women, on the other hand … No, he was not going to think about the charming deputy he hadn’t seen in months. He didn’t need another awkward personal relationship in his life right now.

  Sarg lightened his tone of voice as he asked, “Cadet tile?”

  “Anagrams, one of the word games Tara and I used to play.” He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table.

  Sarg stared at Drayco’s hand for a few seconds. “Whatcha got?”

  “The usual counterpoint at the outset of a case. Different lines and voices entering, demanding attention, only to be turned backward and upside down.”

  “That music letter thing?”

  “If you want to call it music. Unsingable melody, dissonant harmony, obviously created using a computer program. I doubt it was intended to be performed.”

  “So, a code.”

  Drayco switched to twirling his spoon. “A good guess.”

  “That should narrow it down, right?”

  “Anyone anywhere can download music software from the Internet. And every student, every professor, every secretary or janitor has access to a computer.”

  Drayco gulped down the rest of his coffee. “Has Cailan’s apartment been cleared out?”

  “The lease was for a year. The uncle hasn’t been able to bring himself to see it. Let alone remove her stuff. So he told the police to use the key he gave them whenever.”

  Sarg licked his fingers as he finished the éclair, then added, “The cops picked the place apart.”

  “Still … ”

  “I got Onweller to agree to bring you on board, provided you only work on that music angle. Don’t think he’d be pleased for you to go beyond that.”

  “I don’t have to worry what Onweller thinks anymore, do I? You’re the one who wanted my help.”

  Sarg pursed his lips into a scowl, and Drayco braced himself. Here we go. But Sarg just slid out of the booth and turned toward the door. “You comin’?”

  * * *

  Tara was angry. She raced to her next class as if there were rockets in her shoes, but those rockets weren’t fueled by the clock as much as embarrassment. God, could she have been any more lame? She’d called him Falkor like she was in fifth grade. And dumped coffee all over him! Definitely a lame-oid.

  Not that she was trying to impress him or anything. As if. Besides, it’d be a lot harder to impress a Scott Drayco than John or Gary. Tara stopped in her tracks and grabbed hold of a nearby bench as she took a deep breath. Gary, Shannon, Cailan. How had it gone so wrong?

  When an image of Cailan singing “Climb Every Mountain” from Sound of Music popped into Tara’s head, she blinked back tears. It was so unfair. Cailan losing her parents but still somehow managing to dream big. And then this happens.

  Tara would never forget the first time she met Cailan. In orientation before their freshman year, when Tara promptly dumped coffee all over her, too. Maybe that had been an omen. Falkor—Mr. Drayco—had better look out.

  She’d never understood why Mr. Drayco left the FBI. And whenever she asked her father, he always had some non-answer. “He wanted to start his own business” or “It was just time.” She wasn’t that dense. She saw the way Dad tensed up every time Mr. Drayco’s name came up and caught that funny look in his eye.

  It must have been big. Something so horrible that he and Dad hadn’t spoken in three years. Maybe it was better for her not to know. At the same time, she was disappointed Dad didn’t respect her enough to tell her the truth.

  He’d probably withhold information about Cailan’s murder, too. Worried how she might take it, maybe. But damn it, Cailan was a good friend, Tara had a right to know what happened.

  Tara fingered the case with her cellphone. She’d saved the last text on her phone Cailan sent before she died. “Meet u @ gb @ 7.”

  They’d been looking forward to trying out the new Ethiopian restaurant ever since it opened. When Cailan didn’t show up, Tara knew something was wrong. And when Tara couldn’t get Cailan on the phone, she’d called everybody they knew, even Gary. But nobody had heard from her. That’s when Tara called Campus Security.

  Tara had never told Cailan about Dad’s “threat assessment” rules. Maybe if she had, Cailan would still be alive. What if, what if, what if. She wasn’t going to go down that road because it only led to insanity.

  But why hadn’t Gary or Shannon seemed all that upset by Cailan’s death? Tara had started avoiding the “Deadly Duo,” as she dubbed them, after the murder. Maybe t
hat wasn’t being fair, but Gary had dumped Cailan and started dating Shannon not long before Cailan was killed. Coincidence? Mr. Drayco used to say how much he hated coincidences.

  Tara sighed and continued her way to class, walking this time. Why hurry? Another boring Gilbow lecture about some trivial abstract thing. She’d have to wait until after class to dwell on the important kind of psychology. The kind she’d been asking herself over and over since Cailan died. What leads a person to kill someone else like their life had no meaning? No textbook in the world held the answer for that.

  4

  Drayco was surprised to see Cailan’s apartment located in a pricier neighborhood, on the third floor of a rowhouse. The line of renovated brick and stone rowhouses was left over from days when D.C. had more of a community feel, lost during the government box-building of the ’60s. The blight of office cubes housing lawyers and lobbyists popped up like chokeweeds in the manicured lawn of the family homestead.

  Old building, no elevator. Sarg took the stairs two at a time, whether to prove he was still fit or due to nervous energy, it was hard for Drayco to tell. Sarg opened the door with the key Cailan’s uncle gave the MPD. Even after Sarg flipped the light switch, the end-unit apartment on the third floor was dim. The heavy burgundy blackout drapes over the window shades likely had something to do with that.

  When Drayco pointed them out, Sarg put his hands on his hips and gave the drapes an accusing glare. “Thought I’d learned to know her from her file. But nothing that would explain this. A sleep disorder?”

  “Or she wanted to practice and needed to dampen the sound.”

  Drayco’s townhome didn’t need sound muffling, thanks to being on the end and having a partially deaf neighbor. Otherwise, someone might have called the cops by now. Most people don’t appreciate a live piano concert at five in the morning.

  He said, “Did your case file include all the notes from the police investigation? Because they didn’t find much in here. Or from her social-networking sites or cellphone records, for that matter.”