After buying the coffee, Drayco and his father sat at a mahogany-and-steel table so small, it was like a child’s toy. They’d chosen a remote corner of the Tex-Mex cafe next to the courthouse to avoid any eavesdroppers, but it didn’t matter. It was later in the day, and they had the place to themselves.
Drayco inhaled the dark-roasted aroma from the java before sprinkling salt into his Styrofoam cup. Most people wrinkled their noses when he did that, but it really did cut the bitterness of the coffee. Brock stared at him, even though he’d seen him perform this ritual many times. He never asked his son about it. One item in a long list of things they didn’t discuss.
Drayco’s mother was another. At least, they hadn’t discussed her in a long, long time. Vague remembrances and snippets from those conversations bubbled up to the surface. “You told me she was declared legally dead.”
“After seven years, the court granted a presumption of death.” Brock took a sip of coffee and winced. “We’ve been through all that.”
Drayco was twelve when they finally had the conversation. He’d wondered how they could do that without a body, a grave, or any kind of proof. Part of him wanted to prove his father and “them” wrong, but the part that hated his mother won. He never pursued it afterward.
Drayco tasted the coffee. Still bitter. He stirred in more salt. “How’d you get the news of her being alive and the murder charge?”
“Not from her. In fact, she refused her phone call privilege. Instead, I got a call from Detective John Halabi of the Arlington County homicide unit. Maura didn’t have many possessions on her, but my name was in her wallet.”
“You’ve talked to her?”
Brock picked at the rim of his cup, creating a mini Styrofoam snowstorm. “I identified her from her mugshot. I have no interest in talking to her. What can she possibly say that would set everything right? To make up for all the pain and suffering she caused?”
That was one item they agreed on, it seemed. “The evidence. Is it conclusive?”
“She was caught standing over the body of the victim, a former TSA agent by the name of Jerold Zamorra, holding the knife that killed him. Her prints are all over the thing. The man was stabbed in the abdomen and the groin.”
“Did she admit her guilt? Or say why she did it?”
“She told the police she stabbed him. But only once. And he was already dead.” Brock gave a small laugh. “Would have expected a better excuse from her.”
“What did the autopsy show?”
“Body’s with the Medical Examiner now.”
Drayco had only seen a few pictures of his mother, ones he rescued from the trash after his father threw them away. They now lay hidden in a photograph album buried under other unused items in his attic, probably as faded as his mental snapshots of her. She was always smiling in those photos, the real ones and the ones in his head.
“Any chance of bail?”
“The arraignment hasn’t been held yet. She’s being kept as a pre-trial detainee because she’s considered a flight risk. Imagine.” The plastic spoon Brock grasped in his hands broke in two with a loud crack that startled both men.
“Where has she been all this time?”
“I have no idea. Mars, Atlantis, Timbuktu, what’s the difference?”
“Are you telling me you aren’t the slightest bit curious about any of this? To find out why she left? Why she never tried to contact us?”
“I’m saying she’s as dead to me now as she was then.”
Brock tossed the broken pieces of spoon on the middle of the table. “Do what you want, son. I’ve told Detective Halabi everything I know about Maura before I married her and after, which isn’t much. I’m washing my hands of the whole thing, and I’d advise you to do the same.”
His father jumped up from his chair, the no-nonsense mask his former FBI colleagues knew so well firmly in place. “After you talk to Halabi, that is. I told him you haven’t seen her since you were five, but he insists. Said to stop by tomorrow morning. The earlier, the better.”
As he turned to leave, Drayco remained planted in his seat, staring at the spoon shards. Brock started to say something, paused, then mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
He left before Drayco could ask what he was sorry about.
Moments after Brock disappeared, Benny and Nelia joined him at the tiny table. Nelia sat across from him while Benny grabbed a nearby chair after snagging a couple of extra cups of coffee. “We’re your new stalkers. We followed you here. You okay, boy-o? You look a little pale.”
“Ghosts will do that to you, or so I’m told.”
“Ghosts, shmosts. You got a real-live woman claiming to be your long-lost mother, but we don’t know it’s her. Could be some ploy.”
Nelia swept the broken spoon and Styrofoam flakes into a napkin that she folded into a neat square. “Stolen identity rings are big business. And they particularly target identities of the deceased.”
Benny nodded. “Nelia’s right. Another scam. What did Brock say? Did he talk to this imposter?”
“He refuses to talk to her. Says he doesn’t care if it’s her or not.”
“He may not have the luxury, he should know that. The police’ll push him to do it, at any rate.”
Drayco nudged the sugar container over to Benny, who dumped half of it into his coffee. Coffee-candy, as Drayco called it. Drayco said, “You know Brock. Stubborn as a mule. No, that’s too ordinary and clichéd for him. More like as stubborn as the Ebola virus.”
Nelia tentatively reached out and placed a feather touch on his arm. A simple gesture, yet it felt like a shot of pure adrenaline. “What are you going to do? Will you go and see her?”
“I suppose it depends on what the DNA tests show. If this woman is not my mother,” his tongue tripped over the word, “then the police don’t need me. And if it is her ... I don’t know. Guess I’ll do whatever is required to assist the police on this. And maybe that’s all.”
Benny squinted his right eye, making the eyepatch on the other rise an inch. “I hate to remind you bad things come in threes, what with this news and your case hearing. You should hit the hay early. Safe and sound at home.”
Drayco didn’t look at Nelia and bit his tongue to retort that Benny wasn’t good at counting. No, seeing Nelia wasn’t so much a bad thing as a ... what? Confusing thing? Painful thing? Awkward thing? Then it hit him—if he ignored the hair-color difference, Nelia bore a slight resemblance to the woman from those fading photos in his attic.