Drayco stopped by Union Station long enough to pick up Sarg, who’d hopped the train into town from Quantico. “We could have taken your car,” Drayco said.
“Nah, I think the train and I have developed something of a relationship. When my beastie was in the shop last fall, and I started ‘train-ing,’ I found I liked it. Beats the hell out of I-95 parking lots. And at afternoon rush, I guarantee you it’d be a parking lot.”
Sarg stretched out his legs. “When you called earlier and told me about Maura saying Jerold had a gun, I dug around. He bought a gun in Fairfax. Went through the national background check system a couple years ago.”
Drayco pointed the car toward the Beltway and eventually into Forestville, Maryland. “At least, Maura wasn’t lying about one thing. But the gun disappeared from Jerold’s condo at some point. And if the killer took it, why not use it on Jerold instead of a knife? Just because it’s quieter?”
“Maybe the killer didn’t know how to use a gun. Or has a gun-o-phobia.”
“Hoplophobia.”
“There’s a name for it?”
“There’s a name for every phobia, near as I can tell. Even phobophobia.”
“What’s that?”
“A fear of phobias.” Drayco envied Sarg stretching his legs. One day he was going to have to get a bigger car. “Were you able to get copies of the police records I wanted?”
Sarg tapped the black briefcase he’d brought with him. “In here. Haven’t had time to look at them yet.”
“I’m not surprised. I know how busy you are. I am surprised Onweller is supportive.”
“You kidding? The dear director owes both of us big time. Especially after he pulled that warrant arrest stunt last fall, and you showed him up for being an ass and protecting a killer, even if innocently. Still think he’s expecting you to come back to the Bureau.”
Drayco shook his head. “That career ship has long since sailed.”
“Sure would be nice to have you back.”
Drayco gave Sarg a quick glance. “Thought you were considering leaving, yourself?”
“Haven’t ruled it out. Guess I like this,” Sarg pointed at the road, “much, much better. Action that doesn’t involve using a pencil sharpener.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Wood splinters can be pretty dangerous.”
Sarg punched him in the arm. “Anyway, junior, tell me more about this Rocky Quentin fellow, Rena’s father. Ex-cop, right?”
“He just got out on parole after forty-five years.”
“That’s a long time. Don’t see how he could have ties to Jerold’s case.”
“When Rena told me her father had killed her mother, I didn’t think much about it since it was years ago. But then Ashley mentioned he was out of jail. I did a little research about him and his case and discovered he was paroled a year ago. A day before Ophelia Zamorra was murdered outside the bank.”
“Do tell. The M.O.’s the same?”
“In one important way. Rena’s mother, Lilian, was pushed down a flight of stairs, and Ophelia was hit on the head with a baseball bat. But they both had cards crammed down their throats. It was a credit card in Lilian’s case and the debit card with Ophelia.”
“But why would he kill Ophelia?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
Using the GPS, Drayco wove his car in and out of Prince Georges County through a labyrinth of neighborhood streets. They finally pulled up to a single story home the size of a cargo container, with mildewed siding that was once white. The fence around the yard was more a suggestion, with several links missing. A forlorn-looking plastic reindeer sat in one corner, and a netless basketball hoop perched on a leaning pole threatening to fall into the street.
Sarg mumbled under his breath, “This is the kind of place even a foot of snow can’t gussy up.”
They picked their way around several empty trash cans and rang the doorbell. A man with a white beard and three thin strands of comb-over white hair greeted them with “What do you want?”
Sarg flashed his FBI badge. “Just a few questions, sir.”
Rocky Quentin’s eyes widened, and he looked like he was ready to slam the door in their faces. But after a moment of paralysis, he opened the door and let them in. “Look, I’m clean. I hardly ever go out, just ask the neighbors.”
“This goes back a lot further than that, sir. It’s about your wife, Lilian.”
Quentin eased himself onto a sofa with purple stains that looked like Rorschach tests. He shook his head. “That was decades ago. And I did my time.”
“We’re aware of that, sir.”
“Then why the hell are you here now?”
Drayco sat across from the man to get a better look at the man’s face. “Can you tell us a little more about what happened that day?”
“I killed her, that’s what happened.” He rubbed his eyes. “Being an undercover cop takes a toll, you know? Went too deep, got swallowed up by the alcohol and the drugs. I loved her though. Loved my wife. We had our arguments, but show me a couple that doesn’t.”
“Rocky, the police report states you put a credit card down her throat. Why?”
“My wife always had big tastes. Wanted to be a socialite with the big house and the fancy clothes and the parties with your pinkie out and all. She maxed out all out credit cards. It was a big blur at the time, and it’s an even bigger blur now. But I guess that’s why I did it. Drunk people aren’t smart people.”
“Have you seen your daughter Rena since you were released?”
“Haven’t seen my daughter since I went to jail. Can’t blame her, I suppose. Don’t know where she is. Or whether she changed her name or got married. Or if I have grandkids. Don’t even know where she works.”
“Until recently, she worked for the Transportation Safety Administration.”
“Really? Guess she followed in my footsteps.”
Sarg had stayed standing this time and towered over the frail, older man. “Can you tell us where you were on the night of January fifteenth of last year?”
“What? Don’t know why that matters, but you can ask my probation officer. He can probably tell you if I was taking a dump or whatever since he’s practically my owner.”
“You weren’t anywhere near Falls Church, Virginia?”
“Would have been kinda hard, me with no money and no car and all.”
“And you’ve never heard the name of Ophelia Zamorra?”
He slowly sounded out the name. “Oh feel ee ya zam ora. Can’t say I have.”
“The day after you got out of jail, a woman by that name was murdered in Falls Church and a credit card was placed down her throat.”
Quentin sank back into the sofa, almost disappearing into it. “You’re not going to pin that on me. I was nowhere near there. And why in hell would I want to go right back into the slammer when I just got out?”
“Well, sir, there have been many parolees who didn’t know how to live on the outside and found ways to go right back in.”
Quentin’s laugh sounded like an out-of-tune clarinet. “Yeah, I knew a few. But not me.” He waved his hand around the house. “This ain’t no palace, but after four concrete walls, it sure looks it to me. And I can eat whatever and whenever I want. There’s no way I’d ever go back.”
Drayco noted the man’s shaking hands, the way his head kept turning, and his eyes blinking. Parkinson’s. Drayco nodded at Sarg, “I think that’s all the questions we have for you, Rocky. We appreciate your time.”
They let themselves out and headed to the car. With Drayco driving, Sarg made some calls and got the name of Rocky’s probation officer, who rang off long enough to check his files before calling Sarg back. Sarg replied, “Uh huh. Right. Thanks for the info.”
He hung up and turned to Drayco. “Rocky was not just under his probation officer’s thumb at the time of Ophelia’s murder. He was in a meeting with the officer, give or take a few minutes. Would have been impossible for him to drive to the murder site in time.”
Drayco sighed. “Kind of what I figured. But we had to check it out, just in case.”
“Kind of what you figured?”
Drayco glanced at the dashboard clock. “You up for a little visit to Jerold Zamorra’s old neighborhood? There’s someone I think we should meet.”
“Sure, why not? Love making new friends.”