Dies Irae Page 6

  Gary tipped back in his chair and looked up at Drayco. “You enjoy making people squirm? I’ll bet you were the kid who aimed a magnifying glass on insects and watched them burn for the hell of it. I mean, why else do your kind of job?”

  Drayco took a step forward, towering over the younger man. “Because my job is a hell of a lot better than making light of people’s suffering. You should try that sometime.”

  Sarg finished his call and rejoined Drayco and Gary. “Onweller. An update. We through here?”

  Drayco replied, “We’re through.”

  The two men let themselves out, where Sarg immediately breathed in a deep lungful of smoke-free air. “That boy is not getting anywhere near Tara.”

  “She has better taste than that. Although he’s right about having plenty of money to burn. Did you get a good look at his watch? A Breitling. Costs five grand.”

  “So you’re a watch connoisseur now, good for you.”

  Some things about Sarg hadn’t changed, although his “mockservations” were usually aimed at people low on Sarg’s esteem-ladder, not his former partner. Drayco said, “It has a chronograph and E6B flight computer, two features he probably never uses.”

  “But he could have used all that computer gear to create the music codes. The MPD is putting their money on him.”

  “Yet they didn’t mention the stain.”

  Sarg stopped in his tracks. “What stain?”

  “That couch you were sitting on. It’s been moved recently, judging by rug indentations. But it doesn’t quite cover a rust-colored stain on the side nearest the wall.”

  “Blood?”

  “Psychic detective I’m not. Got a test kit and search warrant on you?”

  “When the MPD questioned Gary, it was at the second district station. Not enough cause for a search warrant, what with Gary’s alibi and attorney-daddy.”

  Sarg paced along the sidewalk. “This might be probable cause. We should call the MPD.”

  “What would that accomplish? There could be a dozen reasons for that stain. A Bloody Mary, red wine, ketchup, all required homework for Party 101.”

  Drayco had spent many a night in the UMD library when he was a student, looking for some peace and quiet to get away from the Garys and their parties that lasted until God a.m. “The MPD isn’t going to touch Gary unless they have a stellar reason. Besides, I’m supposed to focus on the music puzzles, remember?”

  Sarg sighed. “Okay, so what next?”

  “A talk with Reed Upperman about that lab project. There’s hardly anything in the MPD reports.”

  Sarg headed toward the car. “Upperman and Gilbow are both on my ‘next’ list. But it’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning. There’s some big department confab this afternoon.”

  Drayco slid into the driver’s seat. “Ninety minutes until your train. My townhome isn’t far away. Beats sitting on one of those hard chairs at Union.”

  Sarg hesitated, then climbed in. “They are pretty hard. My ass stays numb for hours afterward.”

  Drayco turned on the engine as Sarg tugged on his ear hard enough to rip it off. Maybe this wasn’t a MENSA-grade bright idea, but Drayco pointed the car in the direction of his home, anyway. Crawling, baby steps, walking. That was the usual order of things.

  10

  Sarg had barely set one foot inside Drayco’s townhome, when he picked up the mail pushed through the slot in the door. His “maid” instincts must be kicking in, even in Drayco’s newly Spartanized digs. At one time, Drayco would be amused. Right now, it was as welcome as an invitation to a tuba recital.

  “Bill, bill, bill. Second notice?” Sarg lifted one envelope up to the light. “Here’s a legal looking something addressed to Scott Ian Hoover Drayco.” Sarg waved it in the air. “Ian I knew. But Hoover?”

  Drayco snatched the letter from him. “Blame Brock. If it were up to me, I’d change it. I may still.”

  “He would name you that, wouldn’t he? How’s your dear ole former G-man Dad doing these days? Still consulting?”

  “We did a case together not long ago.”

  “Bet that was as much fun as an impacted wisdom tooth. Or my shitty crown. You tell him you were back with the Bureau, at least temporarily?”

  “Not unless absolutely necessary.”

  Sarg tugged on his earlobe, making Drayco ask, “Okay, out with it. What’s on your mind?”

  “Guess I was just wondering if your father blamed me for you leaving the FBI.”

  “I never told him why I left.”

  Sarg stopped in mid-tug. “You didn’t? Nothing about me and—”

  “I didn’t think he needed to know.”

  The flashing red light on the answering machine Drayco kept for business purposes got his attention. When he pressed PLAY, a high-pitched male voice came out of the speaker, “Mr. Drayco, this is Rick Paddington with Topol Global Security. We were wondering if you’d had time to consider our offer—” Drayco pushed the stop button.

  “Topol Global Security? What offer?”

  “For a full-time job. I was recommended.”

  Sarg put the bills down on a table by the door. “I thought you liked the consulting thing?” Then Sarg glanced at the stack of bills. “I read about that case over on the Eastern Shore, where a client bequeathed you that Opera House. Why don’t you sell it and live off the proceeds?”

  So Sarg had kept tabs on him? Drayco shook off the surprise and moved toward the refrigerator, with Sarg trailing along behind. “I enjoy helping people. But the townhome, the office rent—D.C. isn’t cheap. Insurance, taxes, it all adds up.”

  “So again, I say, why not sell that Opera House? It’s not like the dead client who gave it to you would raise a stink, pun intended.”

  “It’s tied up in legalities, for one. And …” How could he forget the faces of the people who’d come up to him, bursting with gratitude he was going to restore the historic building and bring more jobs to the depressed area? One woman cried as she gave him a hug, others volunteered for one committee or another. “And it may be a while before it can be sold.”

  He reached into the fridge and pulled out a Manhattan Special. Drayco chugged down some of the espresso soda, enjoying the bittersweet tang.

  Sarg looked over his shoulder and exclaimed, “Ha!” and pulled out a bottle of his favorite beer. “You hate this brand. Don’t tell me you’ve kept these since the last time I was here?” Sarg shot him a suspicious stare.

  Drayco took another swig of his soda and grabbed Cailan’s music puzzle. After staring at it for a few moments, he strode to a bookshelf to snag one of the volumes and bring it to the chair. He flipped through the pages until he found the section he was looking for, then compared the book and puzzle side by side.

  Sarg pushed a newspaper aside on the sofa, sank down on the leather cushions and put his feet up on the coffee table. “I know that look. You’ve got something.”

  Drayco studied the paper. “Schumann.”

  “One of those German composers, right? Sending puzzles beyond the grave?”

  “Schumann read a book on cryptography and allegedly tried his hand at creating a musical cipher-wheel. Three rows of the alphabet, with the letters in one row all natural, the next row all flat, and those in the last row, sharp. Turning the wheel yields forty-two settings—the number of all possible arrangements of accidentals in the seven white-note scales.”

  “So you’d need a copy of the wheel to decode it.”

  “Or this book.” Drayco compared the wheel in the book to the music notes in the melody on the letter-puzzle. He grabbed a pen and envelope from the coffee table and wrote something down, then handed it over to Sarg. “If our letter-sender used Schumann’s scheme, this is what it says.”

  Sarg read the two words aloud. “CAILAN AVENGE,” and put the paper down. “Someone taking revenge on Cailan or Cailan needs to avenge something else?”

  Drayco got up to get another soda, and Sarg yelled out to him, “Bring me a refill wi
ll you? I’m not driving.” Sarg picked up the newspaper and scanned the headlines. “Huh. There’s been another one.”

  Drayco handed him the beer. “Another what?”

  “Warehouse arson. Wouldn’t make big news, except—”

  “Except these warehouses are owned by a U.S. senator. It was on the TV news, too.”

  Sarg tipped the bottle. “This is the third fire, same MO, gasoline accelerant. An ATF agent I know says Senator Bankton calls them every day, putting on the big squeeze. Big surprise.”

  “Thankfully, you’re not working that case.” Drayco stared up at the ceiling. “Getting back to ours, are we sure all the music faculty at Parkhurst were cleared in Cailan’s death?”

  “All faculty, spousal units and kidlings were at a retreat in August when Cailan was murdered. No students around, either. Last big hurrah before fall classes.”

  “Except Gary, the composer.”

  “And Shannon, the singer.”

  A knock on the door startled both of them. The mail had already come and he rarely got visitors, unless it was Mrs. Wiseman, his neighbor. Drayco hopped up to respond. He opened the door and stood there in shock before a slow smile spread across his face. “Tyler. What a surprise. Do come in.” Two extraordinary visitors in two days, but this one was an unexpected pleasure.

  “Thanks. I’m in town for a conference and had a little free time before it starts.” Her voice still had the same unusual coppery shimmer, like tinkling wind chimes. She stepped into the living area, and it was Sarg’s turn to jump up. The woman paused when she saw him. “Is this a bad time?”

  Drayco pointed at Sarg. “This is FBI Agent Mark Sargosian.”

  “Your former colleague?” She held out her hand to Sarg, who shook it. “Drayco’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Really?” Sarg looked askance at Drayco, and then his gaze dropped to the ring on Nelia’s left hand.

  “And this is Deputy Nelia Tyler, with the Prince of Wales County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Right. That Opera House case in Cape Unity. Is your husband in law enforcement, too, Deputy Tyler?”

  Nelia shook her head. “An attorney. Up in Salisbury, Maryland.”

  “You don’t sound Virginian. Transplant?”

  “The Eastern Shore accent is a little different.”

  “It’s enchanting. To go with a very lovely lady.” Sarg smiled. “You’ll have to tell me all the dirt you have on this guy. I need blackmail material.”

  Nelia laughed. “It’s a deal.”

  Sarg looked from Nelia to Drayco. “I can take a cab to Union … ”

  Drayco said, “Nonsense. I’ll drive you to the station. Tyler, ever been to Union Station?” When she shook her head, he added, “Host to several presidents, kings and World War I troops.”

  “I’d love to go, if you don’t mind me deadheading.”

  Drayco certainly didn’t and was glad to see Sarg and Nelia getting along, making small talk along the way. The snatches of conversation were about the sheriffs’ conference and one of the scheduled speakers Sarg knew from the Bureau.

  After a promise to meet tomorrow and tackle Andrew Gilbow, Drayco dropped Sarg off at the station and asked Nelia, “Had supper yet?”

  “No, but I’m not sure I feel like a fancy restaurant.”

  “Then I’ve got just the place for you.” Drayco pushed the music puzzle to the back of his mind for now, and refused to dwell on Sarg’s disapproving look as he’d headed into the station. He’d gotten that from Sheriff Sailor, too. And he was getting more than a little irritated by it.

  * * *

  Drayco stopped by Thai Tanic and ordered carryout, then drove Nelia to the Jefferson Memorial. It was past peak tourist season on a late afternoon, so they were by themselves.

  He guided Nelia to the top of the stairs, with the Jefferson statue behind them bathed in a haloed spotlight as dusk approached. The Tidal Basin lay in front where the first hints of fiery red and orange dappled the leaves on cherry trees across the water. Could be a painting hanging in the National Gallery of Art.

  Enough daylight remained for him to make out Nelia’s warm, intelligent brown eyes and the sprinkling of tiny freckles across her nose like facets on her diamond-shaped face. A light wind blew strands of her blond hair into her eyes, and she pushed them away so she could see to eat her Pad Thai.

  “Not used to being sans hat?” He’d only seen her without it on a few occasions.

  “Honestly, I hate hats. Especially brown ones.” She slurped up a few noodles.

  “It looks nice. Your hair, I mean.”

  “And here I figured you were going to say brown deputy hats are a real turn-on.”

  He laughed, and dug around in his curry, trawling for the last shrimp. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes and watched the black squirrels scampering around. Drayco pointed at them. “Believe it or not, those are descendants of eighteen Canadian squirrels released at the National Zoo while Theodore Roosevelt was president. They’ve taken over the capital area.”

  “They look like they’re wearing tiny uniforms. I’ll try to remember to take a picture while I’m here for my conference.” She finished her meal and set the container down. “The National Sheriffs Association Conference. They’re combining the summer and winter events into one this year. It’s a big deal.”

  “Where’s Sheriff Sailor?”

  “Important court case where he has to testify. I’m his designated replacement. Frankly, I think he’d break his own leg to get out of the conference. Except the golf tournament part.” She pantomimed holding a golf club and making a putt. “Tim suggested I play hooky if the weather was nice.”

  “How’s Tim doing?”

  She stared at a pair of squirrels chasing each other. “He’s stable. MS is unpredictable, so he has good days and bad days.”

  When Drayco worked with Nelia before, he’d been able to tell when it was one of the “bad” days. They must be frequent on those weekends the commuter-marriage-couple got to see each other, because Nelia seemed most withdrawn on Mondays.

  He filled her in on the details of Cailan’s murder, prompting her to say, “You are a magnet for bizarre cases, aren’t you? I got the impression you never wanted anything more to do with the FBI. Does this mean you’re thinking of going back?”

  “I’m not sure they’d take me, even if I wanted to.” With Onweller near retirement, it might be possible. As he’d laid it out for Sarg, going solo cost money. Having autonomy and not having to deal with bureaucracy was worth it, at first.

  Maybe the happiest people weren’t the ones who wanted to make a difference. Cailan Jaffray wanted to make a difference through her music, a difference with her life. Making plans for what she wanted to do on her forty-seventh birthday, the day she would have lived longer than her mother.

  The wind picked up and blew ripples across the Tidal Basin. Nelia said, “It’s lovely. Much better without all the tourists around.”

  “The day tourists, you mean. The night tours are just getting started. You can see all the monuments lighted up at night from boat, trolley, car, Segway, bike, or the old-fashioned way, on foot.”

  “Guess the locals are jaded, but I get thrills every time I come to the Mall.”

  “I used to. This is the Disneyland part of D.C. Then you have the underbelly, the part that most tourists never see. Drugs, gangs, shootings. And the part I deal with more often than not, the middle belly.”

  She smiled. “Middle belly?”

  “Where most people live. Where the most crime and illegal activity occurs but is rarely reported. There’s a hell of a lot of stress, jealousy and anger in this town. The veneer of civility is there. Parties and teas, charities and back-slapping. I’ll wager there’s as much drug use, sex crimes, and fraud. And a whole lot of back-stabbing.”

  Nelia said, “I read a study recently. Middle-belly fat is the most dangerous kind, the type that causes heart disease. And kills more people.”

>   “There, you see?”

  “So this case of yours is a middle-belly murder?”

  He grinned at her. “A good title for a bad novel. Or a self-help book on how to lose weight.”

  Nelia grabbed their empty cartons and got up to throw them in a garbage can. Then she held out her hand to help him up from the steps. “Let’s go play tourist. I could use a nice long walk by those lighted monuments.”

  He took her hand and bounded up. Okay, so he might be a tad jaded about the monuments. His thoughts wouldn’t be on them, anyway, with part of his attention on the music code and the other on the woman next to him. He hadn’t realized until she showed up on his doorstep how much he’d missed her.

  11

  Saturday, 18 October

  The Chesapeake Bay Bridge was the technological equivalent of a sea serpent. The weekend car hordes streaming across were like fish getting eaten one by one until they backed up inside the sated bridge’s gut. He’d wanted to fly himself over, but the FBO where he rented a plane was booked solid. So here he was, driving into the beast, getting swallowed.

  When he was finally disgorged on the other side, he drove down U.S. 13 into Cape Unity. There was something about the Eastern Shore that helped him de-stress. The tang of salt air, the heron sightings, the much slower pace of life. Besides, Sarg practically commanded him to take the weekend off.

  He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d come. Guilt? Loneliness? Anger? The triad of useless emotions. If Drayco were honest with himself, he’d admit working with Sarg was harder than he’d thought it would be. That triad of emotions was happily munching away at the walls of his mental lockbox where he kept his darkest memories, and those memories were trying to break out. He didn’t like it one bit.

  He pulled up in front of Cypress Manor and was a little surprised nothing had changed since Darcie’s divorce from Town Councilman Randolph Squier. Darcie had defended the name of the place when Drayco poked fun at it. Yet even she had to admit it didn’t make any sense after the last cypress tree died off years ago.

  Darcie, to her credit, didn’t let him wallow in angsty mud. She’d barely let him put his overnight bag inside the door before she dragged him upstairs to the bedroom for a refresher course on why she was such a good tonic for his mood.