The Basement jazz club in Georgetown lived up to its name. Hidden away on Cady’s Alley, far from the trendy restaurants and boutiques of M Street, it lay beneath a building left over from the industrial water-district days.
Drayco stopped short at the top of the stairs that led to the entrance. Taking separate cars only postponed the inevitable confrontation. “Okay, out with it. What’s rattled your cage?”
Sarg thrust his hands in his pockets and paced back and forth. “You. And this insane quest. It’s like one of those infinity strips, folding back into itself. We haven’t found anything that proves this wasn’t a murder-suicide. In fact, all arrows point in that direction. As much as I hate to admit it, and I really, really do hate to admit it, the Metropolitan Police and the college are probably right.”
“Even the dead are innocent until proven guilty. Those puzzles—”
“Shannon could have done those puzzles. Maybe Gary helped her, thinking it was all one big joke.”
Drayco half-expected him to add, “And I didn’t need to bring you in on this.” He looked up at the sky, but the vast expanse of infinite universe was no match for light glare from the District. “Why did you ask my help, Sarg? The music background angle was an excuse, wasn’t it?”
Sarg stopped pacing. “When I said it hadn’t been the same since you left, I meant it in more ways than one. I second-guess myself all the time. Worse, then I ask myself what you would have done.”
“You’re second-guessing your decision to bring me on board?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” Sarg headed toward the entrance. “Ah hell, let’s get this over with.”
With the tension hanging in the air like an unresolved tritone, Drayco led the way as they descended into the bowels of the club. It was deep enough to lie below the level of the C&O Canal that lay just beyond. The walls were quarried rock, the same blue granite and fieldstone on the District’s oldest structure, the Old Stone House up the road.
Except for two men at the bar putting away shots of Jim Beam, Liam Futino was the only person in sight, warming up his violin on the micro-stage. As they approached, he stopped playing. He twirled the bow in his hand at his side, then planted both bow and violin on the piano.
Sarg motioned to a table in the corner, complete with blue tablecloth and oil lamp. Liam trailed them to the corner and tripped as he stumbled into one of the seats. He looked as bad as Troy Jaffray, minus the yellow pallor.
Sarg had told Drayco he wanted to beat the afternoon gridlock on I-95 down to Fredericksburg and didn’t waste any time. “Troy Jaffray said you called him to talk about Cailan. Is that true, sir?”
Liam nodded, picking at his one gold stud earring. “I thought he of all people would know what I was going through.”
The barking tone Sarg used earlier in the day with Gilbow and Reed was becoming more of a growl. “And what are you going through, Mr. Futino? Guilt? Remorse? Fear of getting caught?”
Liam shrugged off Sarg’s accusations. “I don’t date a lot. Too much like war. Little battles and strategies. Winners and losers. When I met Cailan, none of that mattered because I knew—” His voice trailed off, and he swallowed twice. “I knew she was the one.”
The pianist in Drayco was interested in hands, which gave away a lot more than people realized. Liam rubbed his hands together, the fingers on his callused left hand interlaced with the fingers on his other. He wasn’t fidgeting or covering, the hand versions of lying.
When he looked into Drayco’s eyes, he was on the verge of tears. “You could tell how talented she was, Mr. Drayco. I saw it when you listened to that recording. I was connected to her in a way I never felt with anyone else.”
Drayco motioned for a waitress and had her bring over a glass of water, which Liam sipped while draining his emotions. “She got pregnant. She didn’t tell me right away, but did eventually. Said she was about two months along.”
Sarg said, “So you told her to get an abortion, is that right?”
“She asked for some money to buy a nice dress for an upcoming recital. I handed it over, gladly. Only afterward did she tell me she’d used the money for an abortion.” Liam rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Maybe she guessed I’d have wanted her to keep the child. Hell, I would have even raised it on my own, if I had to.”
A man with a large instrument case slung over his shoulder walked into the club, looked at Liam, and frowned. The man opened the case, pulled out a sax and started tuning. The amorphous teal paramecia it emitted contrasted with the smudged, brass exterior of the instrument itself.
Drayco said, “Was that why you argued with Cailan the night she was murdered?”
Liam grimaced. “She said we were through. For good. That I was too old for her. Made me feel like some dirty pervert.”
Sarg uttered a “Huh,” and added, “Guess you took that hard. Hard enough to kill her?”
“I could never hurt Cailan.” Liam leaned back. “And I have an alibi.”
Sarg leaned in. “You told us you were alone at the time, sleeping.”
“That was a lie. Couldn’t face my disgust, I suppose. For where I really was.”
“Yeah? And where was that?”
“I was angry with Cailan, hurt and confused. I wanted to ease the pain. Forget her.”
Liam pushed the glass away as if looking at his reflection in the water offended him. “There’s this woman I’ve seen hanging around the club. I was pretty sure she’d be available. So we went to a hotel. Had a marijuana appetizer followed by a vodka chaser and then sex. I don’t remember a lot, but that’s what I wanted. To be numb.”
Drayco asked, “Available because she’s for hire?”
“I’d never done that before. First time for everything, right? I don’t know her name or where she lives.”
“Can you describe her?” Sarg pulled out his notebook.
“Tall, thin, long red hair. With a pierced nose. One of those silver rings that goes through the nostrils.”
“Were you also with her two nights ago?”
Liam rested his head in his hand. “Two nights ago? I was at a jazz concert at the Kennedy Center.”
“Anyone see you there?”
“Two thousand people, or however many that place seats.”
“I’m talking about someone who could ID you personally, sir.”
“Didn’t see anyone I know. Got there right before it started. And we had a late-night weekend gig here, so I left the concert early. Not sure why my social calendar is of such interest to you, Agent.”
“Were you aware Cailan was harassed and bullied by one of her colleagues?”
“She talked about it a bit, sure.”
“Well, two nights ago that colleague, Shannon Krugh, was found dead in the same location where Cailan’s body was recovered.”
Drayco waited for the moment when Liam would realize what Sarg was potentially implying, but Liam just shook his head. Finally, he replied, “I guess what goes around, comes around.”
A drummer and a pianist joined the saxophone player in warming up, all three casting curious looks at Liam and his companions. As patrons started filing in, Drayco nodded to Sarg. He left Liam to his sorrow and his music as he and Sarg headed up into the light-polluted skies over Georgetown.
Sarg grumbled about wasted efforts and how it was going to take him an hour and a half to get home. Drayco didn’t feel like arguing and let him go. But he wanted to hang around a little longer.
People-watching was one of his favorite hobbies. Not on the same level as the piano, but it was probably a better psych experiment than any touted in Gilbow’s classroom. He collected good watching spots like others collected places to watch the Fourth of July fireworks on the Mall.
He had spots everywhere, from Capitol Hill to Adams Morgan to Anacostia. Each session created its own socio-symphony, each person a different instrument, each snatch of conversation a separate melodic line. The only way to truly understand a symphony of people is to learn all of the various parts.
At this moment, though, he wasn’t people-watching per se, more like person-hunting. And when he spied his target, he moved in.
* * *
Except for her five-eleven stature and pierced nose, the auburn-haired woman wearing a white ruffled top tucked into black jeans could blend in with shoppers at Mazza Gallerie. Or in this case, people walking the streets of Georgetown. As he approached, her vacant expression morphed from blank canvas into secretive Mona Lisa, exhibiting an eternal, knowing hint of a smile just for him.
“Looking for someone?” She leaned in closer and twisted the plain silver chain around her neck.
“That depends. You fill the bill, but I’ll need to ask you a few questions first.”
“You’ll love my answers.”
“Let’s find out.” Drayco guided her off the main street onto Cady Alley, away from curious stares by pedestrians. He spied a half-hidden bench nestled between black chokeberry bushes.
She gave a quick look around as if nonchalantly checking out the scenery. He recognized a tactical survey. Women on the streets who survived knew they were one careless mistake away from being a crime statistic and newspaper headline.
She turned her full attention back to him. “My rates are competitive and I’m very flexible, in more ways than one. My one rule is no glove, no love.”
“I’d like to ask you about one of your clients.”
She scooted away from him and folded her arms across her chest, with a scowl. “A cop. Just great. You’re losing your touch, Alice.”
“Is that your name—Alice?”
“Look, when I was talking rates, I meant my manicure and pedicure business, okay? That’s not against the law.”
“Even if it were, I wouldn’t arrest you because I’m not a cop.”
She loosened her self-hug, but one foot was still poised in front of her, ready to run. “Far as my bank account’s concerned, same difference.”
“Two young women are dead and there may be more. I’m not asking you to get involved or give me your real name.” Drayco was glad Sarg wasn’t around to hear that part. “Just a few questions, I promise.”
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Promises are same as lies in my business.”
A fading bruise lingered on her chin that makeup hadn’t managed to cover. The souvenir of one of those promises. “You may not be able to help, since this is going back a couple of months, to August.”
“These girls you mentioned. Were they … were they in the biz, too?”
“Both were college students. One moonlighted as a stripper.”
Alice gave a tight-lipped smile. “I have an A.A. in Business Admin, can you believe it?”
She dropped her hands to her sides although her feet were still positioned in sprint mode. “Guess that girl who moonlighted, she needed the money, huh?”
“She was on a scholarship and her family wasn’t wealthy. She’s originally from the Virginia end of the Eastern Shore.”
Alice’s eyes widened. “You shitting me? That’s where I’m from, well, the Maryland part. A postage-stamp town you’ve never heard of.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve got a place on the Eastern Shore myself. In Cape Unity.” A rundown empty Opera House could count as a place, of sorts.
“My mother still lives over there with my daughter. I’m hoping to save up so my little girl can go to college one day.”
“What about that business degree?”
“This … manicure business … pays better. Not many jobs over there, which is why I’m here. Got more blue crabs than people on the shore. People eat the crabs, but the crabs don’t bother them. People ’round here,” she pointed toward the street. “Bother whoever, whenever. They’ll eat you whole.”
A slight smile played around her lips, and she looked him up and down. “I don’t put out for free.”
He pulled out his wallet and peeled off some bills he handed to her. She snatched them and tucked them into the envelope-style purse slung over her shoulder. Then she fished out a small business-style ledger. “What’s the date in August?”
“He wouldn’t have given you his name.”
“They never do. That’s not the kind of notes I keep.” She flipped to one page. “Take this one, for example. September fifth, five p.m. Mr. Cheap Blond Toupee.” She glanced up. “I give ’em the only names I need. Mr. CBT, 50ish, wears a girdle. He’s in sports marketing, wife thinks he’s in a meeting, smells like peppermint Tums and garlic. Enjoys toe massages and dressing in a loin cloth.”
“Is this a form of accounting or a form of insurance?”
“Take your pick.” She flipped a few more pages. “August which day?”
“The thirteenth.”
“Lucky thirteen?” Her smiled faded as she read the entry. “Mr. Sad Musician. Curly hair, glasses. Calluses on left hand. Most of my clients I forget the next day, but this one … he near broke my heart. Didn’t want to talk, so we had a few drinks and joints instead. Who’s Kay Lynn? Is she one of those dead girls?”
Drayco nodded. “Did you put a time down?”
“Nine p.m. Usually, I boot ’em out after their time’s up, but he was as good as passed out. I wasn’t much better. When I woke the next morning, he was still there.”
“Have you seen him since, say two nights ago?”
“I’ve seen him around, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. And he hasn’t asked for my services again.”
Drayco leaned forward with his arms propped on his knees and considered her information. It cleared Futino for Cailan’s murder. But not for a revenge killing against Shannon, with or without the help of Troy Jaffray. Loose ends of cases like this dangled and twisted around as kites tossed in shifting winds. Good thing he liked kites.
Alice reached over and ran her hand through his hair. “You paid for more than an hour, and you’ve only used ten minutes. I know a place nearby where I can make those other fifty minutes really count.”
Alice’s parted Valentine-red lips were doing their best to seal the deal. Nelia Tyler had found it funny when a prostitute in the Prince of Wales County lockup came on to him. Until the woman realized he wasn’t a lawyer or cop and couldn’t help her out. Tyler never wore lipstick on the job. Too unprofessional. With her natural beauty, she didn’t need it.
Drayco said, “Some other time.”
“You promise? I don’t get your type, only the losers. It’d be nice to have some real fun for a change.”
He smiled at her. “Promises are lies.”