A young female sergeant chewing cinnamon gum nonstop ushered Drayco into a small office half-way between neat and cluttered. The papers on the tan-speckled laminate desk formed perfect rectangular monuments. But books on a corner shelf teetered at skewed angles, with more crammed into charcoal plastic bins on the floor. A bipolar office.
It looked like every diploma, degree, or award Detective John Halabi ever received hung on the walls in matching gold frames. Drayco missed his friend Sheriff Sailor’s wall-mounted fish with the piranha teeth. Hell, he missed Sailor.
A man with short-cropped black hair who sported a purple paisley tie breezed into the room and parked in the black leather chair behind the desk. He motioned for Drayco to take a seat in the only other chair in the cramped space then stared at him for several moments before speaking. “Glad you could come so early this morning. Looks like you survived your board hearing yesterday. Those things can be brutal, can’t they?”
And the gloves were off. Halabi knew, and he wanted Drayco to know—you’re under suspicion and I don’t trust you. Drayco replied, “Not any more than that Markson abduction case you worked last year.”
The detective’s appraising scan of Drayco morphed into a full-fledged study. Now he knew Drayco had researched him, too, learning about the controversial outcome of the Markson baby’s kidnapping and the resulting lawsuit, eventually thrown out.
Halabi opened a desk drawer and whipped out a file. “Both you and your father are former FBI agents turned crime consultants. Work on cases together?”
“Rarely.” Halabi either didn’t notice or didn’t acknowledge the edge in Drayco’s tone. Time to focus on something calming, like a Chopin nocturne. Or puppies and kittens.
“Your mother disappeared a little over thirty years ago when you were five, is that correct?”
“She abandoned us, yes.”
Halabi opened the file. “You had a twin sister.”
“Casey died of leukemia when she was twelve.”
Halabi nodded. “And your mother didn’t contact you in all this time?”
“No, she didn’t. I thought she was dead.”
Drayco tried to read the upside-down text in the file. “Did you find out where she’s been? An arrest record, perhaps?”
“We haven’t learned anything. It’s as if she dropped off the grid thirty years ago.”
“Brock said you found a paper in her possession with his name inscribed. Was there anything else?”
“A fake driver’s license using the alias of Maura McKewen. Not too far off from her maiden name, McCune. Also some Tic Tacs, fifty dollars, and possibly a house key. And there was another piece of paper that spells BRISBANE in all caps. Your father didn’t know what that means. Do you?”
“Other than the city in Australia, no.”
“We’re contacting Australian law enforcement. Guess this means we can count on the FBI to get involved. Seeing as how she’s the ex-wife of an ex-higher-up FBI agent, the mother of another, and this may involve international ties.”
Drayco drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair and took pleasure in the clacking sound. “The victim, Jerold Zamorra, was a former TSA agent. Any ties between them?”
“I doubt it was random. We’ll find out, sooner or later.”
“Brock told me the victim was stabbed in the groin and upper body—was it the chest or back?”
Halabi frowned. “The front, meaning—”
“He was facing his killer. Any defensive wounds?”
“No, so he likely knew the murderer. It appears the first knife blow made him trip and fall backward, and he hit his head. Or so it appears from bits of tissue and skull we found on the kitchen cabinets. We don’t have full autopsy results.” Halabi closed the file when he saw Drayco looking at it.
“Was there much blood spatter?”
“By falling away from his killer—and the deep wounds—it minimized the blood spatter. Which could explain why she didn’t have any on her clothing.” Halabi grunted. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be questioning you.”
Drayco ignored the jab. “What was she wearing? A raincoat, boots? It was raining hard that night.”
“Neither, but maybe she changed her clothes.”
“Did you find any bloody clothing?”
Halabi didn’t answer, but his silence said it for him. Drayco said, “You didn’t find bloody clothing. And why was she still holding the knife? Doesn’t this lend credence to her story?”
“Okay, she killed him, had time to get rid of the clothes, and then stabbed him one more time.”
Drayco drummed his fingers some more. “Again, why?”
“To make it look like she did just the one stabbing wound after he was dead. How else do you explain that crazy story of hers?”
“So, there weren’t any other prints on the knife?”
“Look, I’ve been patient with you so far—”
“If just her prints were on the knife, it could have been washed clean.”
Halabi narrowed his eyes. “You saw that in the file. Yeah, we found minute traces of blood in the sink, but that could’ve been her washing blood off her clothes. And the only prints in the place were Jerold Zamorra’s and Maura McCune’s.”
“Yet you said she was found standing over the body. Why go to the sink, wash her hands and clothes, then go back to the body to stab him? Seems kind of elaborate and time-consuming to wash the knife and then use it again to stab the victim—just to make it appear he was already dead. Why not simply leave and take the knife with her?”
“You know as well as I do criminals aren’t always in the sanest frame of mind.”
“Motives?”
“She left a heated message on his cellphone. Didn’t say what she was angry about.”
“You didn’t say she had a phone on her. Did you track the number?”
Halabi grimaced. “We didn’t find a phone. And we can’t trace back her phone number, probably a burner. A warrant will fix that.”
The detective’s grimace and clenched teeth made Drayco speed up his staccato questioning. He didn’t have much time before Halabi threw him out on his ass. “Was Jerold alone? What about a wife or girlfriend?”
“Jerold’s wife, Ophelia, died a year ago. She was murdered, too. Before you make anything out of it, Jerold and his wife had already been divorced for a year. And the Falls Church police arrested two young toughs. Random robbery at a bank ATM. Poor woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Halabi returned the file to the drawer. “Look, I know this is difficult for you. But your mother admits she stabbed him, she didn’t feel threatened, and she isn’t insane. It doesn’t look good for her.”
Drayco sat studying Halabi’s framed documents on the wall. They were in a nice, orderly progression, from high school through college, to the academy, and then the commendations. An unbroken timeline of experience with no gaps, no signs he’d considered any other life or career. Some would say that was enviable. “Who called you, detective?”
Halabi furrowed his brow. “What?”
“Someone had to alert the police there was a murder in progress for them to get there so soon. Did the victim scream? Was there a witness?”
“We got an anonymous tip.”
“Anonymous?”
“The voice on the dispatch records sounded disguised.”
“Disguised? What, like an actor? Or mechanical?”
“We’re analyzing it further. Probably just one of the illegals who live nearby who doesn’t want to get involved further. Look, I know I’m dealing with two big-shot FBI agents—well, former agents—with lots of important connections.”
The detective’s jaw was clenched so tightly, it was a miracle he could open it to speak. “One of my superiors worked with you before and said to cut you a little slack. I know I should tread lightly. But I’ve got a job to do. This is my investigation, and I’m not going to let any Draycos get in my way. Let us handle it.”
Halabi stood up and walked to the door, which he held open. “We’ll keep you posted on any major developments. Until then, you might take a page from your father’s book. He seems completely uninterested in this case.” He frowned at the still-seated Drayco as he added, “Not that he’d be objective.”
“You’re probably right.” Drayco thrust himself out of his chair and headed down the corridor toward the front lobby. He neglected to mention the meeting Benny Baskin had arranged for Drayco starting in an hour—a visit to the Arlington Detention Center next door to talk to one Maura McCune.