Sarg wrinkled his nose as they headed inside the arena. “I suppose it’s better than my uncle’s farm. Barely.”
The powdered lime and pine oil were doing their best to hide the odor, but the earthy excrement was every bit their match. Drayco watched the two teams of three players each, one dressed in red helmets and jerseys, the other in blue, as horses and riders scrambled around the dirt track as if they actually knew what they were doing.
It seemed chaotic, a blur of legs, hooves, mallets. In the middle of it all, a tiny ball bounced around and occasionally hit a colored patch of wall leading an official to raise a flag.
This was a practice match, without an audience. But if people had been in the stands, they’d be applauding number three on the red team who seemed most at ease with her mount and quick reflexes. After she had whammed two balls in fairly quick succession into the painted goal, a whistle blew. From the hand-shaking and dismounting afterward, Drayco guessed the skirmish was over.
He and Sarg approached a bystander and asked which of the players was Rena Quentin, and the bystander pointed out red number three. They cornered their quarry before she could disappear into the back. When they introduced themselves, she called for someone named Bob, and he took her pony to the stables.
She wore tall black riding boots, knee pads, and white trousers, the standard polo getup, but everything looked new as if just bought from an expensive catalog. Definitely not Walmart. She wasn’t wearing any jewelry or rings, save for a rose-gold watch sporting a designer label.
That ostentation didn’t come from any government salary savings. Drayco’s midnight research had uncovered the fact she received a substantial divorce settlement from her late husband several years ago. A very amicable parting or the man must have been dotty about her—the divorce was uncontested, and he later sang her praises in a magazine interview.
After they made the introductions, Rena looked at Drayco, “You are a crime consultant,” and then to Sarg, “and you’re FBI? I’ve already talked to the police. It’s that sexual harassment thing again, right?”
She still had the mallet in her hand and twirled it around. “In retrospect, I wouldn’t do it again. Report it that is. And not just because I was strongly encouraged to take a nice bonus package in addition to the standard retirement. Then slink quietly away, of course. Sure, I was furious with Jerold at the time. But I learned later he and his wife Ophelia were having problems. Likely explains his behavior. And certainly made me see him in a more sympathetic light.”
“Can you tell us more about this behavior, Ms. Quentin?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, Agent? If you get your jollies that way, fine. He touched my breasts and crotch and tried to kiss me on more than one occasion. And no, I hadn’t encouraged him. Guess he thought since he was lonely, and I was a lonely widow, it would be welcome. Well, it wasn’t.”
The sound of cheers got her attention, and she glanced at a new group of players on horseback with a wistful smile. “You’re going to ask me where I was the night Jerold was killed because you think I did it in retaliation. I’ll beat you to it. I was shopping at Nordstrom in Tysons Corner. And no, I didn’t buy anything, but you’ll probably find clerks there who remember me. They have such amazing staff.”
Sarg pulled out his notebook and jotted down the details. “Did you know Ophelia Zamorra well?”
“She was a fine woman, Agent Sargosian. Lovely, talented. I hired her to decorate my house. Amazing results, like something out of House Beautiful. I recommended her to all my friends. And as for Jerold, I even attended a recital of his after we both retired from the agency. My little peace offering, I suppose. I hate being on bad terms with anyone.”
Drayco’s ears perked up. “A recital?”
“He was in a small-time piano quartet. Played the viola. The four of them were together for at least five years, I believe. A pianist, whose name I can’t recall. The cellist, I believe Lauralee Fremont is her name. And the violinist, Gogo Cheng. Gogo dates Jerold’s daughter, Ashley. Gogo is also a martial arts instructor and they practice in a room at Kicks and Sticks where he works. I hear he’s amazing at what he does.”
Drayco was amazed she’d used “amazing” three times in two minutes. Maybe he’d buy her a thesaurus.
Rena wrinkled her nose. “Star-crossed lovers, Gogo and Ashley. Neither Jerold nor Ophelia approved of their daughter dating Gogo.”
“Then I’m surprised the quartet didn’t disband.” Drayco added, “Although music groups can be a lot like families, often staying together despite hating each other’s guts.”
“You sound like you speak from experience, Mr. Drayco. Other than the Gogo-Ashley thing, Jerold never mentioned any disagreements. Well, nothing serious. And Lauralee ...” She paused. “I’m afraid I don’t know her well.”
Sarg asked, “And his former TSA colleagues, Mrs. Quentin? Any bad blood there or someone outside the agency who’d made threats?”
She sighed. “Everyone hates the TSA. Even the TSA. If World War Three breaks out, I suspect the TSA will be blamed. But you might not have to look much farther than Jerold’s own backyard.”
“Are you referring to Edwin’s lawsuit, ma’am?”
“Just another reason for Jerold to retire. First, my sexual harassment charges. Then the pressure on him to make his brother retract the lawsuit. How could he stay after all of that?”
She used the mallet to knock dust off her boots. “We may not have been best friends, Agent Sargosian, Mr. Drayco, but I’m sorry Jerold is dead. If you have any more questions, call my answering service, and we’ll set something up. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get out of these nasty clothes.”
She headed through the same door where Bob and her horse vanished. Sarg made haste to exit, himself, making Drayco sprint to keep up with him. “Got a hot date, Sarg? Or should I say, an ‘amazing’ date?”
“As long as it’s not Rena Quentin. Women who are taller than I am give me the heebie-jeebies. And yes, I know it’s sexist. My hot date, as you put it, is my desk at home and a stack of files. Followed by something roof-ish or garage-ish. Haven’t decided which to tackle first.”
“I appreciate you taking time to lend your FBI air of credibility as a hedge against Halabi. Drop me off at Shady Grove, and I’ll take the Metro on in.”
“And deny me a chance to take GW Parkway?” Sarg inspected his shoes before climbing into the car. “What’s the next stop on your Quixotic Quest, Don?”
Drayco opened the web browser on his cellphone and found the page he was seeking. “Kicks and Sticks. Gogo Cheng is listed as teaching Eskrima.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a type of Philippines martial arts. Practitioners use weapons. Like sticks, blades—and knives.”