After a couple of hours running the type of errands that felt like a rat chasing cheese in a maze, Drayco finally made it home. He squinted at the sky, which was already dark at five-thirty—the one thing about switching from daylight saving time to standard time he liked. Couldn’t make out a single constellation, thanks to the District’s light pollution. But the moonlight was enough to show him something unexpected.
He’d developed a habit years ago of cramming a small piece of green paper between the gate on the side of his townhome leading to a small yard behind and the gate’s frame. The lock on the gate was currently in place, but the paper lay on the sidewalk. It would be difficult for that paper to come loose without the gate being opened.
After easing the lock off, he made it through the gate without a sound. He navigated from one stepping stone to another until he got to the rear corner of the building. Not much of a gardener, his yard’s landscaping consisted of one weeping cherry and a low evergreen hedge. No places to hide.
Seeing nothing that shouldn’t be there, he started to open the back door but tripped over the cat dish. The little stray silver tabby he’d been feeding must have moved the bowl while eating, as she often did. Seems like he was always taking in strays of one kind or another, animal and human.
Drayco opened the door and entered, noted the security system was armed, and punched in his security code. His senses still on full alert, he maneuvered slowly through the kitchen and made a sight-sweep of the living area. Clear. He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it on a chair, and removed his shoes before heading up the stairs.
He took one step when the rattle of the front mail slot startled him, followed by the “thump” of letters dropping to the floor. The mailman must be running unusually late. That was followed by another noise that made him whirl around, just not soon enough.
A giant blur of a figure shot out of nowhere, grabbed him, and shoved his face against the wall, leaving Drayco with just enough air to breathe. He struggled to twist out of the steel grip, but his assailant knew what he was doing. It was almost impossible to get out of a rear mount headlock, and struggling would only waste energy.
Drayco gulped in a couple of deep breaths and waited for King Kong to relax an inch so he could counter-attack. When the man didn’t oblige, Drayco tried Stalling for Time 101 and wheezed out, “Look, if this is about that overdue gas bill, it’s in the mail.”
“It’s about Maura McCune.” The big man’s voice was more baritone than bass, but his growl hit Drayco’s skull like brick-colored nails. “And your investigation.”
“My investigation?” Drayco’s neck was going to be purple tomorrow.
“You need to let it go.”
“No can do. I’m going to find out the truth, whatever it is.”
“The truth?” The man’s grip released a fraction, and Drayco gauged his best defensive move. The man asked, “You’re not trying to prove she’s guilty?”
“Not unless she is. I have no idea who killed Jerold Zamorra. Yet.”
As quickly as he’d ensnared Drayco, the man half-picked him up in a move that a WWE wrestler would envy and launched him into a nearby chair. He pulled out a large knife that would put one of those Eskrima bolos to shame. “Thought you’d be like your father. Wanting Maura to take the fall.”
Drayco was getting a good look at his attacker now. At least six-seven, maybe six-eight, mostly bald save for a wrap-around thatch of neatly trimmed blond-gray hair, with matching beard and mustache. Squinting green eyes, a triangle-shaped strawberry birthmark on the right side of his head. And dressed all in black.
“My father and I don’t agree on a lot of things. But he doesn’t want his former wife to ‘take the fall,’ as you say. He doesn’t care what happens to her.”
“And you do? Even after she abandoned you?”
Drayco stared at him. “Who are you? How do you know my mother?”
“Iago, and she’s a friend. That’s all you need to know.” The knife in his hand didn’t waver one centimeter. “Detective Halabi and the police have it wrong. Maura is innocent of murder. She may have stabbed him once, but she didn’t kill him.”
Now that was information few people outside the police department knew. Unless Halabi had a mole burrowing into his ranks. “I’ve talked to several people who have good reason to hate, maybe kill, Zamorra. But when I talked to my mother, she refused to tell me squat. I’m not sure how anyone can help her as long as she takes that line.”
“She and Zamorra were colleagues. In a business of theirs. A very successful business. He was two-timing her, and it made her angry. Argue-angry, not kill-angry.”
“And I’m just supposed to trust you on that?”
“If you know what’s good for you. Besides, you said you wanted the truth, and that’s the truth.”
“What are the chances of you telling me what this business venture was?”
Iago glared at him, staying silent.
“Right. Well then, I will help her, and therefore you, if she is innocent. And that’s all I can promise.”
Drayco’s visitor thought for a moment. “Okay.” He lifted his arm as he folded up the knife and returned it to his pocket. As he did, Drayco glimpsed a tattoo on the man’s right forearm, the letters ICYHWM. “If I find out more, Drayco, I’ll contact you. And I expect you to do the same.”
“How will I find you?”
Iago didn’t answer and let himself out the front door. Drayco jumped up to follow him and peered outside. No car, but the man had vanished.
Whoever Iago was, he knew a lot about security systems. He’d managed to counteract Drayco’s state of the art anti-jamming software and rolling code transmitter. Even more effective than Darcie’s sweet-talking-the-neighbor scheme.
Small, greenish dots on his doorstep caught Drayco’s eye, and he bent down to scoop them up. He examined them in the light. Pepita, or pumpkin, seeds. Did Iago accidentally drop them? Or were they his calling card?
Drayco grabbed one plastic bag from his kitchen to seal the seeds in and filled another bag with ice. Then he headed for his computer but stopped when he spied a small white square of paper half-hiding underneath the chair were Iago tossed him earlier. Part of a bus ticket.
Setting the ticket next to the computer, he tapped on the keyboard with his left hand while using his right hand to hold the ice bag to his neck. Time to find out who this Iago character—if that was his actual name—really was. What the hell did he have to do with Maura McCune? And what kind of “business ventures” were she and Jerold involved with? Somehow, he doubted it was door-to-door cosmetics sales.
He trawled through every online database he had access to, growing more frustrated by the minute with the big, fat zero that summed up his results. It was rare he couldn’t find anything on a person, let alone two, in this day and age of Big Brother Internet. There weren’t many people powerful enough to wipe their computer traces clean.
He threw the ice bag across the room and watched with more than a little perverse pleasure as it split open, spilling water and ice cubes all over the floor. Agent Rodriguez wouldn’t call him Sereno Drayco right now. “Mister Serene” was no longer on the scene. With a sigh, Drayco went to the closet to grab a mop.