Elegy in Scarlet Read online

  “Possibly. And Edwin did have a key to the condo, despite being ‘estranged.’ Motive and opportunity.”

  “I hate love triangles.” Sarg poked his head through the driver’s side door. “Where to next? I got a couple hours before my weekend yes-dear chores suck me back in.”

  “Sucking is a pretty good term for it. We get to meet Jerold Zamorra’s former TSA colleague, the one who accused him of sexual harassment. She said the only time she had available in her busy schedule was at polo practice.”

  Sarg sighed. “I love the smell of horse shit in the morning.”

  “By the way, since when do we have full police approval to go through Jerold’s condo?”

  “After I talk with them, we will. Provided they’ve released the crime scene.”

  Drayco grinned. “Good. I was thinking of breaking and entering, myself.”

  Sarg narrowed his eyes. “You are kidding, right?”

  “Let’s hope that wax job of yours keeps the shit off the Range Rover.”

  Sarg groused, “If there’s so much as one speck, I’m handing you a bucket and sponge, junior.”

  Chapter 12

  Sarg wrinkled his nose as they headed inside the arena. “I suppose it’s better than my uncle’s farm. Barely.”

  The powdered lime and pine oil were doing their best to hide the odor, but the earthy excrement was every bit their match. Drayco watched the two teams of three players each, one dressed in red helmets and jerseys, the other in blue, as horses and riders scrambled around the dirt track as if they actually knew what they were doing.

  It seemed chaotic, a blur of legs, hooves, mallets. In the middle of it all, a tiny ball bounced around and occasionally hit a colored patch of wall leading an official to raise a flag.

  This was a practice match, without an audience. But if people had been in the stands, they’d be applauding number three on the red team who seemed most at ease with her mount and quick reflexes. After she had whammed two balls in fairly quick succession into the painted goal, a whistle blew. From the hand-shaking and dismounting afterward, Drayco guessed the skirmish was over.

  He and Sarg approached a bystander and asked which of the players was Rena Quentin, and the bystander pointed out red number three. They cornered their quarry before she could disappear into the back. When they introduced themselves, she called for someone named Bob, and he took her pony to the stables.

  She wore tall black riding boots, knee pads, and white trousers, the standard polo getup, but everything looked new as if just bought from an expensive catalog. Definitely not Walmart. She wasn’t wearing any jewelry or rings, save for a rose-gold watch sporting a designer label.

  That ostentation didn’t come from any government salary savings. Drayco’s midnight research had uncovered the fact she received a substantial divorce settlement from her late husband several years ago. A very amicable parting or the man must have been dotty about her—the divorce was uncontested, and he later sang her praises in a magazine interview.

  After they made the introductions, Rena looked at Drayco, “You are a crime consultant,” and then to Sarg, “and you’re FBI? I’ve already talked to the police. It’s that sexual harassment thing again, right?”

  She still had the mallet in her hand and twirled it around. “In retrospect, I wouldn’t do it again. Report it that is. And not just because I was strongly encouraged to take a nice bonus package in addition to the standard retirement. Then slink quietly away, of course. Sure, I was furious with Jerold at the time. But I learned later he and his wife Ophelia were having problems. Likely explains his behavior. And certainly made me see him in a more sympathetic light.”

  “Can you tell us more about this behavior, Ms. Quentin?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you, Agent? If you get your jollies that way, fine. He touched my breasts and crotch and tried to kiss me on more than one occasion. And no, I hadn’t encouraged him. Guess he thought since he was lonely, and I was a lonely widow, it would be welcome. Well, it wasn’t.”

  The sound of cheers got her attention, and she glanced at a new group of players on horseback with a wistful smile. “You’re going to ask me where I was the night Jerold was killed because you think I did it in retaliation. I’ll beat you to it. I was shopping at Nordstrom in Tysons Corner. And no, I didn’t buy anything, but you’ll probably find clerks there who remember me. They have such amazing staff.”

  Sarg pulled out his notebook and jotted down the details. “Did you know Ophelia Zamorra well?”

  “She was a fine woman, Agent Sargosian. Lovely, talented. I hired her to decorate my house. Amazing results, like something out of House Beautiful. I recommended her to all my friends. And as for Jerold, I even attended a recital of his after we both retired from the agency. My little peace offering, I suppose. I hate being on bad terms with anyone.”

  Drayco’s ears perked up. “A recital?”

  “He was in a small-time piano quartet. Played the viola. The four of them were together for at least five years, I believe. A pianist, whose name I can’t recall. The cellist, I believe Lauralee Fremont is her name. And the violinist, Gogo Cheng. Gogo dates Jerold’s daughter, Ashley. Gogo is also a martial arts instructor and they practice in a room at Kicks and Sticks where he works. I hear he’s amazing at what he does.”

  Drayco was amazed she’d used “amazing” three times in two minutes. Maybe he’d buy her a thesaurus.

  Rena wrinkled her nose. “Star-crossed lovers, Gogo and Ashley. Neither Jerold nor Ophelia approved of their daughter dating Gogo.”

  “Then I’m surprised the quartet didn’t disband.” Drayco added, “Although music groups can be a lot like families, often staying together despite hating each other’s guts.”

  “You sound like you speak from experience, Mr. Drayco. Other than the Gogo-Ashley thing, Jerold never mentioned any disagreements. Well, nothing serious. And Lauralee ...” She paused. “I’m afraid I don’t know her well.”

  Sarg asked, “And his former TSA colleagues, Mrs. Quentin? Any bad blood there or someone outside the agency who’d made threats?”

  She sighed. “Everyone hates the TSA. Even the TSA. If World War Three breaks out, I suspect the TSA will be blamed. But you might not have to look much farther than Jerold’s own backyard.”

  “Are you referring to Edwin’s lawsuit, ma’am?”

  “Just another reason for Jerold to retire. First, my sexual harassment charges. Then the pressure on him to make his brother retract the lawsuit. How could he stay after all of that?”

  She used the mallet to knock dust off her boots. “We may not have been best friends, Agent Sargosian, Mr. Drayco, but I’m sorry Jerold is dead. If you have any more questions, call my answering service, and we’ll set something up. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get out of these nasty clothes.”

  She headed through the same door where Bob and her horse vanished. Sarg made haste to exit, himself, making Drayco sprint to keep up with him. “Got a hot date, Sarg? Or should I say, an ‘amazing’ date?”

  “As long as it’s not Rena Quentin. Women who are taller than I am give me the heebie-jeebies. And yes, I know it’s sexist. My hot date, as you put it, is my desk at home and a stack of files. Followed by something roof-ish or garage-ish. Haven’t decided which to tackle first.”

  “I appreciate you taking time to lend your FBI air of credibility as a hedge against Halabi. Drop me off at Shady Grove, and I’ll take the Metro on in.”

  “And deny me a chance to take GW Parkway?” Sarg inspected his shoes before climbing into the car. “What’s the next stop on your Quixotic Quest, Don?”

  Drayco opened the web browser on his cellphone and found the page he was seeking. “Kicks and Sticks. Gogo Cheng is listed as teaching Eskrima.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a type of Philippines martial arts. Practitioners use weapons. Like sticks, blades—and knives.”

  Chapter 13

  After Sarg dropped him
off at his townhome, Drayco checked his messages and looked for the little stray tabby he’d been feeding. No messages, no tabby. He looked at his piano, all cold and lonely. Taking the rest of the afternoon off sounded pretty good right then.

  Instead, he grabbed a late lunch of two-day-old corned beef on rye from his fridge and hopped in the Starfire. He pointed the car toward the outskirts of Falls Church and a one-story building with its exterior brick walls painted black. Guess the traditional red paint on nearby buildings, or even white, was too cheery for a martial arts studio.

  Once inside, he couldn’t miss the eye-catching display positioned near the entrance. It immediately drew him to the case filled with lethal-looking knives, each one labeled. They fanned out from the center weapon, a bolo, which resembled a machete. There were two kampila swords with fork tips. Then a parabay, like a small half-guillotine blade, next to a fish-shaped barang and a wavy sundáng.

  He peeked into the large room off the lobby with pads lining the wooden floor and mirrors framing each wall. Two men dressed in red quilted armor pads and plastic head protectors with face masks were sparring with long-handled sticks. The smell of chalk dust mingled with sweat and stale rubbing alcohol.

  After asking a passerby where Drayco could find Gogo Cheng, he made his way to a room in the back where he was met first by the turquoise-tipped spiky amoeboid blobs of tones from a violin and cello playing Beethoven.

  Gogo looked to be a few years older than Ashley Zamorra. His muscular build from the martial arts training made him resemble a tennis player, not a violinist, especially when he lifted his sleeve, revealing a dragon tattoo. The cellist, Lauralee Fremont, appeared to be from a mixed-race background, her blue eyes setting off her smooth, creamy-mocha skin that pegged her as thirty-ish at most.

  The pianist appeared to be AWOL. It took several moments after Drayco entered the room for his presence to register. When it did, he was sorry it made them stop playing.

  Gogo narrowed his eyes. “If you want to sign up for Eskrima lessons, check with the front desk.”

  “My name is Scott Drayco. I’m a crime consultant looking into the murder of Jerold Zamorra. Your former violist, I understand.”

  Gogo exchanged a quick glance with Lauralee, then replied, “We were just discussing that. Have to find a new fourth now. We already put out feelers, but it’ll have to wait until Kegger returns from Japan.”

  “Kegger?”

  “Our pianist. His real name is Olen Vasey, but everyone calls him Kegger. You can guess why. He’s in Japan for a month, a music exchange thing.”

  Gogo sized up Drayco with an appraising scan. “You say you’re a crime consultant? I’m surprised the police haven’t been by yet. You working for them?”

  Halabi’s ears must be burning right now. “I consult with various law enforcement organizations.”

  “So, what—we’re suspects? Because if we’re suspects, I want to talk to a lawyer first.”

  “The police believe they have the murderer in jail. I’m just here to fill in some gaps about Jerold and a possible motive for his death. What was he like to work with?”

  Gogo waved his bow in the air—not unlike the stick-work of the sparring duo Drayco saw earlier—before he tossed it on the stand. “Oh, you know. He was Jerold. Played the viola well. We’ll miss that.”

  Miss that, not miss him. Interesting. “Was he easy to get along with?”

  Drayco addressed the question to both, but Lauralee stayed silent and stared at the floor, while Gogo just shrugged. This was going well. “The two of you still practice without a violist or pianist?”

  “Gotta keep the fingers limber.”

  Drayco studied the piano. It was an upright Yamaha but full-sized. The bass would be stronger and offset the too-bright timbre. The action of the Yamahas he’d played on before were a little stiff, but he didn’t mind.

  He sat on the bench and grabbed the sheet music on top of the piano. “Mind if I jam with you for a little?” He began playing, and it wasn’t long before Gogo and Lauralee joined in.

  They played all the way through the first movement, and when they finished, Gogo had a broad smile on his face. “You played both the piano and viola lines. Damn.”

  Drayco rubbed at a small scratch on the shiny, black finish. “I enjoy Beethoven. Not as prismatic as Bach, but depending on the piece and instrumentation, colorful.”

  “Sounds kind of like synesthesia. I played with a guy who had that once.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Well, I’ve got perfect pitch. From one freak to another.”

  Drayco smiled. Nothing like music to break the ice. “Beethoven by night, martial arts by day. But why Eskrima, Gogo?”

  “Get asked that all the time. It’s Filipino, I’m Chinese. Should be Kung Fu, right? I got tired of people making Bruce Lee jokes all the time, so I finally caved and picked the first martial arts thing I saw. My parents hate it.”

  He looked like he’d swallowed a vinegar milkshake. “It’s their fault. They told me to pick an extra-curricular sports activity when I was a kid. It was either this or tennis. I never saw the attraction of chasing a little ball around.”

  “My parents hate everything I do.” Lauralee spoke for the first time, her voice soft and husky. She grabbed a tube of coconut-scented lip balm from her music stand and jabbed it around her lips.

  Gogo shot her a sympathetic look. “Don’t know what’s worse—caring too much or caring too little. Or about the wrong things.” He quickly changed the subject back. “Eskrima teaches close quarter weapons combat. Let’s face it. Hardly anyone attacks you these days unless they have a weapon.”

  Drayco had researched Eskrima more before he arrived. The discipline was becoming popular in law enforcement training for that very reason. “I spoke with Ashley Zamorra and her uncle, Edwin, yesterday. You and Ashley are dating, right?”

  “For two years. Jerold didn’t exactly give his stamp of approval. Don’t guess our parents were destined to get along, either. Jerold grew up during the Cold War when all Chinese were communists. My parents grew up under communism and don’t trust authority figures.”

  “Like the TSA.”

  “Exactly. Guess some of it rubbed off on me. Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài.”

  Drayco grinned. “Fuck your ancestors to the eighteenth generation?”

  “You speak Chinese?”

  “When I was in China years ago, the timpanist in the orchestra I played with taught me a few swear words.”

  “You toured?”

  “A lifetime ago.” Drayco pulled the keyboard cover down on the piano and leaned on it. “Ashley believes her father murdered her mother. And seems quite convinced of it.”

  “With good reason. Rumor was he had at least one affair, maybe more. Who knows?”

  “Do you believe Jerold killed Ophelia?”

  “I don’t disagree with Ashley when she brings it up.” He picked at the hem of his black t-shirt. “But, I don’t know. I mean, Jerold could be an ass. And combative. And who knows why he wore those Godawful ugly golf pants all the time. Like he wanted to offend people.”

  Drayco tried to banish the thought of those pants getting anywhere near his mother but couldn’t. “Any scuttlebutt about who the ‘other woman’ was?”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Gogo shrugged again. “Didn’t spend enough time with him to find out. And Ashley didn’t care, either. Not after her mother died.”

  “I was a little afraid of him,” Lauralee said, blinking slowly. “He could be a dictator. Wanted things his own way. It got worse after he left the TSA.”

  “Did you know his wife, Ophelia?”

  “Did I know his wife?” Lauralee nodded. “I was afraid of her, too. Man, she had a temper. I don’t think she approved of me being Ashley’s friend. Have no idea why. Ashley is ... she’s generous, she’s sweet, she’s kind. She lets me live in the basement of her house. I couldn’t afford to live anywhere near D.C., otherwise.”

/>   Drayco noted Lauralee’s clothing, the wool sweater dress with a wide belt engraved with Burberry, the stylish suede boots with six-inch heels. Not far from her music stand sat a handbag with Prada on the label. Maybe if she spent less on clothes? Or was a sugar-daddy responsible?

  He said, “Was Ashley the reason the quartet stayed together?”

  Lauralee jutted out her chin. “Gogo, Kegger and I took a vote. We were going to kick Jerold out of the group.”

  Gogo added, “It had gotten worse lately. Mood swings, his condescending attitude.” Gogo’s cellphone chirped with a “Kung Fu Fighting” ringtone, and he excused himself to answer it, standing just outside the doorway.

  Some papers behind the score on Gogo’s music stand were in danger of falling off, and Drayco reached over to push them back to safety. But not before he saw what they were. Betting slips.

  When Gogo first answered the call, his voice started at a whisper, but as he got more agitated, so did his tone. After what sounded like an arrangement for a meeting, he hung up and thrust the phone into his pocket.

  Lauralee took the opportunity to get up, open a window, and then light a cigarette in a holder. When Gogo noticed, he put his hands on his hips and said, “I don’t know why you took up smoking. You went twenty-eight years of your life without, why the hell start now?”

  She tapped the ash outside the window. “I love the way it looks. Elegant. Like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  “Gaah, even your movies are old-fashioned.” He laughed. “So much for that body-being-a-temple jazz. But I’ll take Kegger’s booze over your nicotine any day. Good to know you’re not trying to hit on me.”

  She snorted, but her voice had an edge to it. “Hit on you? You know I’m not interested in testosterone types.”

  Testosterone types as in those who assault women, perhaps? Drayco asked, “You knew about the sexual harassment suit against Jerold?”

  His companions glanced at each other briefly again, then away. Gogo nodded, while Lauralee took another drag on her cigarette. Drayco pressed them further. “Did Jerold ever push himself onto you, Lauralee?”