After Sarg dropped him off at his townhome, Drayco checked his messages and looked for the little stray tabby he’d been feeding. No messages, no tabby. He looked at his piano, all cold and lonely. Taking the rest of the afternoon off sounded pretty good right then.
Instead, he grabbed a late lunch of two-day-old corned beef on rye from his fridge and hopped in the Starfire. He pointed the car toward the outskirts of Falls Church and a one-story building with its exterior brick walls painted black. Guess the traditional red paint on nearby buildings, or even white, was too cheery for a martial arts studio.
Once inside, he couldn’t miss the eye-catching display positioned near the entrance. It immediately drew him to the case filled with lethal-looking knives, each one labeled. They fanned out from the center weapon, a bolo, which resembled a machete. There were two kampila swords with fork tips. Then a parabay, like a small half-guillotine blade, next to a fish-shaped barang and a wavy sundáng.
He peeked into the large room off the lobby with pads lining the wooden floor and mirrors framing each wall. Two men dressed in red quilted armor pads and plastic head protectors with face masks were sparring with long-handled sticks. The smell of chalk dust mingled with sweat and stale rubbing alcohol.
After asking a passerby where Drayco could find Gogo Cheng, he made his way to a room in the back where he was met first by the turquoise-tipped spiky amoeboid blobs of tones from a violin and cello playing Beethoven.
Gogo looked to be a few years older than Ashley Zamorra. His muscular build from the martial arts training made him resemble a tennis player, not a violinist, especially when he lifted his sleeve, revealing a dragon tattoo. The cellist, Lauralee Fremont, appeared to be from a mixed-race background, her blue eyes setting off her smooth, creamy-mocha skin that pegged her as thirty-ish at most.
The pianist appeared to be AWOL. It took several moments after Drayco entered the room for his presence to register. When it did, he was sorry it made them stop playing.
Gogo narrowed his eyes. “If you want to sign up for Eskrima lessons, check with the front desk.”
“My name is Scott Drayco. I’m a crime consultant looking into the murder of Jerold Zamorra. Your former violist, I understand.”
Gogo exchanged a quick glance with Lauralee, then replied, “We were just discussing that. Have to find a new fourth now. We already put out feelers, but it’ll have to wait until Kegger returns from Japan.”
“Kegger?”
“Our pianist. His real name is Olen Vasey, but everyone calls him Kegger. You can guess why. He’s in Japan for a month, a music exchange thing.”
Gogo sized up Drayco with an appraising scan. “You say you’re a crime consultant? I’m surprised the police haven’t been by yet. You working for them?”
Halabi’s ears must be burning right now. “I consult with various law enforcement organizations.”
“So, what—we’re suspects? Because if we’re suspects, I want to talk to a lawyer first.”
“The police believe they have the murderer in jail. I’m just here to fill in some gaps about Jerold and a possible motive for his death. What was he like to work with?”
Gogo waved his bow in the air—not unlike the stick-work of the sparring duo Drayco saw earlier—before he tossed it on the stand. “Oh, you know. He was Jerold. Played the viola well. We’ll miss that.”
Miss that, not miss him. Interesting. “Was he easy to get along with?”
Drayco addressed the question to both, but Lauralee stayed silent and stared at the floor, while Gogo just shrugged. This was going well. “The two of you still practice without a violist or pianist?”
“Gotta keep the fingers limber.”
Drayco studied the piano. It was an upright Yamaha but full-sized. The bass would be stronger and offset the too-bright timbre. The action of the Yamahas he’d played on before were a little stiff, but he didn’t mind.
He sat on the bench and grabbed the sheet music on top of the piano. “Mind if I jam with you for a little?” He began playing, and it wasn’t long before Gogo and Lauralee joined in.
They played all the way through the first movement, and when they finished, Gogo had a broad smile on his face. “You played both the piano and viola lines. Damn.”
Drayco rubbed at a small scratch on the shiny, black finish. “I enjoy Beethoven. Not as prismatic as Bach, but depending on the piece and instrumentation, colorful.”
“Sounds kind of like synesthesia. I played with a guy who had that once.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Well, I’ve got perfect pitch. From one freak to another.”
Drayco smiled. Nothing like music to break the ice. “Beethoven by night, martial arts by day. But why Eskrima, Gogo?”
“Get asked that all the time. It’s Filipino, I’m Chinese. Should be Kung Fu, right? I got tired of people making Bruce Lee jokes all the time, so I finally caved and picked the first martial arts thing I saw. My parents hate it.”
He looked like he’d swallowed a vinegar milkshake. “It’s their fault. They told me to pick an extra-curricular sports activity when I was a kid. It was either this or tennis. I never saw the attraction of chasing a little ball around.”
“My parents hate everything I do.” Lauralee spoke for the first time, her voice soft and husky. She grabbed a tube of coconut-scented lip balm from her music stand and jabbed it around her lips.
Gogo shot her a sympathetic look. “Don’t know what’s worse—caring too much or caring too little. Or about the wrong things.” He quickly changed the subject back. “Eskrima teaches close quarter weapons combat. Let’s face it. Hardly anyone attacks you these days unless they have a weapon.”
Drayco had researched Eskrima more before he arrived. The discipline was becoming popular in law enforcement training for that very reason. “I spoke with Ashley Zamorra and her uncle, Edwin, yesterday. You and Ashley are dating, right?”
“For two years. Jerold didn’t exactly give his stamp of approval. Don’t guess our parents were destined to get along, either. Jerold grew up during the Cold War when all Chinese were communists. My parents grew up under communism and don’t trust authority figures.”
“Like the TSA.”
“Exactly. Guess some of it rubbed off on me. Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài.”
Drayco grinned. “Fuck your ancestors to the eighteenth generation?”
“You speak Chinese?”
“When I was in China years ago, the timpanist in the orchestra I played with taught me a few swear words.”
“You toured?”
“A lifetime ago.” Drayco pulled the keyboard cover down on the piano and leaned on it. “Ashley believes her father murdered her mother. And seems quite convinced of it.”
“With good reason. Rumor was he had at least one affair, maybe more. Who knows?”
“Do you believe Jerold killed Ophelia?”
“I don’t disagree with Ashley when she brings it up.” He picked at the hem of his black t-shirt. “But, I don’t know. I mean, Jerold could be an ass. And combative. And who knows why he wore those Godawful ugly golf pants all the time. Like he wanted to offend people.”
Drayco tried to banish the thought of those pants getting anywhere near his mother but couldn’t. “Any scuttlebutt about who the ‘other woman’ was?”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Gogo shrugged again. “Didn’t spend enough time with him to find out. And Ashley didn’t care, either. Not after her mother died.”
“I was a little afraid of him,” Lauralee said, blinking slowly. “He could be a dictator. Wanted things his own way. It got worse after he left the TSA.”
“Did you know his wife, Ophelia?”
“Did I know his wife?” Lauralee nodded. “I was afraid of her, too. Man, she had a temper. I don’t think she approved of me being Ashley’s friend. Have no idea why. Ashley is ... she’s generous, she’s sweet, she’s kind. She lets me live in the basement of her house. I couldn’t afford to live anywhere near D.C., otherwise.”
Drayco noted Lauralee’s clothing, the wool sweater dress with a wide belt engraved with Burberry, the stylish suede boots with six-inch heels. Not far from her music stand sat a handbag with Prada on the label. Maybe if she spent less on clothes? Or was a sugar-daddy responsible?
He said, “Was Ashley the reason the quartet stayed together?”
Lauralee jutted out her chin. “Gogo, Kegger and I took a vote. We were going to kick Jerold out of the group.”
Gogo added, “It had gotten worse lately. Mood swings, his condescending attitude.” Gogo’s cellphone chirped with a “Kung Fu Fighting” ringtone, and he excused himself to answer it, standing just outside the doorway.
Some papers behind the score on Gogo’s music stand were in danger of falling off, and Drayco reached over to push them back to safety. But not before he saw what they were. Betting slips.
When Gogo first answered the call, his voice started at a whisper, but as he got more agitated, so did his tone. After what sounded like an arrangement for a meeting, he hung up and thrust the phone into his pocket.
Lauralee took the opportunity to get up, open a window, and then light a cigarette in a holder. When Gogo noticed, he put his hands on his hips and said, “I don’t know why you took up smoking. You went twenty-eight years of your life without, why the hell start now?”
She tapped the ash outside the window. “I love the way it looks. Elegant. Like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“Gaah, even your movies are old-fashioned.” He laughed. “So much for that body-being-a-temple jazz. But I’ll take Kegger’s booze over your nicotine any day. Good to know you’re not trying to hit on me.”
She snorted, but her voice had an edge to it. “Hit on you? You know I’m not interested in testosterone types.”
Testosterone types as in those who assault women, perhaps? Drayco asked, “You knew about the sexual harassment suit against Jerold?”
His companions glanced at each other briefly again, then away. Gogo nodded, while Lauralee took another drag on her cigarette. Drayco pressed them further. “Did Jerold ever push himself onto you, Lauralee?”
She said a little too quickly, “No.”
Feeling the tension level rising several degrees and fearing their dialogue might soon be toast, he changed the subject. “Why isn’t Ashley part of your quartet? Or I guess that would make it a quintet?”
Gogo groaned. “Oh, lord, that would be a disaster. Her ear’s not tin, it’s steel. Cliché intended.”
Drayco swung his legs around the bench to face them. “Speaking of clichés, the police will probably ask where the two of you were the night Jerold was killed.”
“Ashley and I were together. You can ask her.” Gogo picked up his bow again, this time twirling it like Rena and her polo mallet.
Drayco waited for Lauralee, who took a puff off the cigarette. “I went clubbing by myself in the District. The usual places—PsychoTropics, Ultrabar, Danceskellar. Someone will remember me.”
The staff member who’d given Drayco directions earlier poked his head in the door. “Your four o’clock students are here, Gogo.”
Gogo grabbed his violin, closed it inside a case, and thrust the case in a corner locker. That prompted Lauralee to pack up, too, and hoist the cello case over her shoulder. As Gogo hurried out of the room, he said to Drayco, “If Kegger ever gives us the heave-ho, I may give you a call.”
Lauralee tentatively stuck out her hand to shake Drayco’s. “My parents would say it’s a sin to be glad someone’s dead.”
“More so if you’re the one who killed him.”
She cocked her head to one side. “The Bible says an eye for an eye, doesn’t it?”
“It also says if your eye offends you, pluck it out, but I don’t see too many people doing that these days.”
That elicited a small smile, and she gave an equally small wave as he made his exit. He paused briefly to watch Gogo, who was wearing black padded gloves, demonstrate a thrusting move with a bolo knife to his students and then expertly deflect an attack from a partner armed with a daga sword.
Gogo had the motive and skill to stab Jerold. Lauralee wasn’t a martial arts expert, but she harbored her own reason to hate the victim. And to hate the victim’s murdered wife, for that matter.
Throw in one vengeful daughter, an estranged brother, and possible ex-colleagues with an ax to grind, and all of a sudden, Drayco’s mother had a lot of competition for the Person Most Likely to Kill Jerold Zamorra. Although it still didn’t explain why she was standing over his body with a knife if innocent of his actual murder.
God, he was tired. Rock-pile-on-the-shoulders tired. Brock was probably gearing up for his usual three-day weekend, with no more worries than whether rain would keep him from going quail hunting. Or shooting hoops with his Bureau-brats gang of former agents. Drayco spent a lot of his youth out of town touring, but on those rare occasions he was home, Brock never once suggested they play a round of basketball.
And Maura McCune Drayco was alive all that time. Somewhere. Only now, he knew exactly where she’d be spending her weekend. Why did the thought of her in that orange jumpsuit safely tucked away not give him any comfort?