“Halabi’s not budging from his belief your mother killed Jerold?” Sarg’s hand hovered over the door handle to Kicks and Sticks, where Ashley had agreed to meet them. “Despite the fact Ashley hated him and just inherited a cool couple mill?”
Drayco shook his head. “Not according to Benny’s sources.”
As they entered the studio, Drayco pointed out the weapons display to Sarg, who gave a low whistle. “Those could do a world of hurt.”
They stopped to watch Gogo wrapping up a session, then followed a staffer to the same room where Drayco met Gogo and Lauralee the other day. Like Lauralee with her cigarettes, Ashley seemed equally determined to flout the fitness discipline in the place, polishing off a candy bar with a gulp from a sugary soda.
Gogo followed on the heels of Sarg and Drayco and took a chair next to Ashley as he used a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. “I just saw you two days ago, Mr. Drayco. What is it this time?” He wasn’t the least bit out of breath.
Drayco introduced Sarg, then replied, “Jerold Zamorra’s Will. Which I understand was read to Ashley yesterday. She told us her father squandered his money, yet he left her a little over two million dollars.”
Gogo didn’t let Ashley answer. “So? Maybe he stole something and sold it. Maybe he finally found a winning stock market formula. Ashley told you she and her father weren’t exactly on speaking terms. She wouldn’t know how much money he had.”
Sarg asked her, “Is that true, Miss Zamorra?”
She crossed her legs and propped the soda bottle on top of her knee. Her foot jiggled back and forth making the liquid in the bottle slosh around. She didn’t seem to notice. “That Will must be old. My father invested all the money he got after my mother’s death into stocks. Lost a lot of it. Hell, I thought he’d lost all of it. And besides, even if he did have money stashed away, I’ll never see a penny of it. The creditors will snatch it.”
Sarg pulled out his notebook. “That inheritance from your mother—where did she get her money?”
“My mother’s business was good. She knew my father wasn’t Mr. Financial Guru, so she also took out a term life insurance policy. In case something happened to her. Well, something did happen to her, didn’t it? He killed her.”
“About that life insurance policy and the rest of her inheritance—if she was afraid of Jerold, why leave him two-thirds? Why not bequeath it all to you, Miss Zamorra?”
Ashley hesitated. “I never said she was afraid of him.” She glanced sideways at Gogo. “And for all his faults, he could be charming. Persuasive. He had her fooled.”
“Had us all fooled,” Gogo said to Sarg, staring at the little notebook where Sarg was taking notes. “Ashley trusted Jerold, too. He invested Ashley’s share of the money she inherited from her mother for her. Gone, just like his.”
Drayco studied Ashley, her quivering lip, the jiggling foot. She hadn’t been this nervous last time he spoke with her. “You knew your father was bad with money. If you also believed he murdered your mother, why entrust your money to him to invest?”
“Guess there was part of me that still thought of him as Daddy.” The quiver increased. “Sure looks like I inherited his bad-money-sense gene, doesn’t it?” She uttered a harsh, brown-forked laugh that made Drayco wince and seemed to surprise even Gogo.
Sarg moved closer to the younger man so that he was staring down at him. “You had no idea Ashley stood to inherit that much money?”
Gogo whipped the towel off his neck and matched Sarg’s stare with one of his own. “I know that game, what you’re implying. That I want to marry Ashley for her money or would kill Jerold for it. If you think that, you’re as insane as Jerold was.”
Ashley’s quivering lips formed a slight smile as she turned to Gogo. “Marry? But your parents want you to find a nice Chinese girl.”
“I don’t give a shit what they say. Or what the police say. Doting, honorable Asian son, my ass. No one tells me what to do.”
Sarg quipped, “From the looks of those nasty-looking blades out front, I can see why.”
“And no one’s accusing anyone right now,” Drayco added. “As I mentioned earlier, the police don’t have you as suspects, and we’re just shooting for the truth.”
Gogo was still frowning as he reached over to squeeze Ashley’s hand. “That woman they arrested for the murder? You said the police are certain she did it. Don’t blame Ashley. Blame that bitch.”
Sarg looked over at Drayco and said quietly. “If she’s guilty, then she’ll stay behind bars.”
Gogo added, “And frying, too. I mean Virginia has the death penalty, right?”
Drayco tried to keep his face neutral, but Gogo was correct. The state also held the dubious honor of executing the highest percentage of death row inmates, something he didn’t want to dwell on. After years of picturing his mother dead, he’d hate to see her die that way.
He forced his attention back to his current companions. Perhaps it was Ashley, operating alone or with Gogo, who made the decision to carry out their own form of execution?
Gogo’s cellphone chirped with the same “Kung Fu Fighting” ringtone Drayco had heard on his first meeting with the young man. Gogo hopped up and went out into the hallway to take the call. This time, he didn’t bother to lower his voice, mentioning Lauralee by name. As it became clear that’s who was on the other end, it was equally clear both of them were upset.
Drayco gleaned a few details, the words “arrested,” “police,” and “bail” catching his attention.
Gogo hung up, stalked back into the room, and threw the phone down on his chair. “Goddamn it. Lauralee got picked up for shoplifting. She needs bail and a ride home. But I’ve got another class in ten minutes.”
He glanced at Ashley, but she shook her head and said, “And I’ve got to get to work by three o’clock. Inheritance money or no, I can’t afford to get fired.”
Gogo pulled some bills out of his pocket and counted them, then thrust them at Sarg. “You’re cops, right? She’s at the Arlington Detention Center.”
Drayco looked at Sarg, who shrugged and then grabbed the bills from Gogo. Time to do their impression of bail bondsmen.
§ § §
Drayco entered the Arlington Detention Center, this time with Sarg along for the ride. That fact came in handy when Drayco spied Detective John Halabi and sent Sarg along with the money to bail out Lauralee.
Sarg didn’t seem too upset to be dispatched solo. As Drayco watched him vanish around the corner, it struck home how close in age Lauralee and Sarg’s daughter Tara were. Where was Lauralee’s father right now? Why hadn’t she called him instead of Gogo?
Detective Halabi’s narrowed eyes and scowl showed how he felt about seeing Drayco. Halabi motioned for him to follow as they headed into an empty interrogation room where he closed the door.
“You’ve been talking to people. Asking questions.”
“A few. Enough to discover there are plenty of motives and shaky alibis going around.” Drayco didn’t sit down. Neither did Halabi.
“I thought we were clear on that issue. I realize this is your mother, but I shouldn’t have to remind you that interfering with a police investigation is a crime.”
“Did you get the autopsy results?”
“Now there you go asking me questions. Again.” Halabi sighed. “Benny Baskin will get hold of that info, anyway. The M.E. found four stab wounds to Zamorra’s chest, plus the dent in his head that matches the shape of the base of the cabinets. He was stabbed and fell, unconscious. Probably died within a couple minutes.”
“All four stab wounds made by the same knife?”
Halabi paused. “Apparently. Three were deep. One more shallow. The shallow one had less bleeding and—”
“It means Maura McCune’s story could be true.”
“Or she stabbed him a fourth time after he was dead. Doesn’t prove a damn thing.”
Drayco walked over to a dark window he guessed led to an observation point on the other side. Was someone watching them right now? “What about Ophelia Zamorra’s killers? You said it was allegedly a random attack?”
Halabi scratched the back of his head. “Don’t see how that’s related to the McCune case. But yeah, the sixteen-year-old punks were caught on camera at two other robberies using stolen ATM cards. Good thing criminals are morons.”
“Were they also caught on security cameras at the bank where Ophelia Zamorra was murdered?”
“An hour before, according to the M.E.’s time of death.”
“They used a stolen ATM card, left, and then returned later and decided to kill someone? Why?”
“Who knows? Maybe they dropped something and came back to get it. Saw an opportunity and took it. If you want to read the novel, go bother the Falls Church PD.”
Drayco ran his finger along the top of one of the chairs. Cold, hard steel—like Halabi’s face right now. “And these ‘punks’ weren’t caught on camera in the act of murdering Ophelia?”
“She was slain outside the camera’s range.” Halabi bent over to place his hands on the table. “What does it matter to you?”
“That camera business is awfully convenient. Did these two suspects admit to murdering Ophelia?”
“Why would they? Less damning proof, smaller sentence.”
“How was she killed?”
“Hit over the head with an ordinary baseball bat left at the scene.”
“Prints?”
“None.”
“Anything else unusual about her murder? Something that doesn’t fit?”
Halabi pulled himself up to his full five-eleven and folded his arms across his chest. “As I said, go read the novel. But if you must know, they crammed the victim’s debit card down her throat.”
Drayco leaned against the wall as he weighed that bizarre detail. Not that he liked second-guessing police officers, but overworked cops plus overzealous prosecutors often added up to mistakes. “Did the suspects wear gloves in those other two robberies? The ones caught on camera?”
“Noooo. But they could have this one time. Got the idea from old Law and Order episodes or some other TV show.”
“Let me get this straight. Someone wearing gloves brings a bat with them to a bank, waits for the victim, bashes the victim over the head, steals her money, and then crams the ATM card down her throat. That’s a pretty big M.O. change for our two young ‘moron’ thugs. Seems much more like a copycat and premeditation, not random.”
“Still—”
“Plus, seems like the killer planned the attack specifically to stay out of range of the security cameras. What did her autopsy reveal?”
“Cause of death was blunt force trauma. Plus asphyxiation—the killer inserted the card while the victim was still alive.”
Drayco pictured the crime scene in his head. Did the killer know Ophelia was alive at that point? If so, the card was what—malice? A statement? Torture for the fun of it? “Did you ask Maura McCune if she had an alibi for that night?”
“You kidding? She refuses to tell us anything about where she’s been for the last thirty years, let alone one itsy bitsy night.”
Halabi moved toward the door and held it open. “Look, I can’t order you not to talk to people. Note that I said talk, not interrogate and not harass. If you come across something, anything, I expect you to let me know. I can still charge you with impeding an investigation.”
Drayco fingered the key in his pocket from Jerold Zamorra’s fish tank. “If I come across anything important.”
Halabi’s brow was a furrowed field of suspicion, but he waved Drayco on.
When Drayco located Sarg, he wasn’t surprised to see Sarg was successful in helping Lauralee get released on bail. Luckily for her, the watch she stole was under two hundred dollars and “only” a misdemeanor in Virginia. If it were her first offense, Lauralee could probably plead guilty in exchange for restitution and community service.
They decided to buy her a drink before dropping her off at her room at Ashley’s house. They grabbed a table at Northside Social and let her get settled with her Masala chai latte and cheddar chive scone. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee mingling with fresh-baked bread made for an olfactory orgasm.
After a few tentative bites, she wolfed down the scone and made quick work of the latte. Drayco took note of her appetite, coupled with her waif-like frame—despite her penchant for high fashion, it was clear she wasn’t spending much money on food.
She took one last bite, then spied a crumb on the table, picked it up and swallowed that, too. “If this gets back to my parents, they’re going to kill me. You don’t have to tell them since I’m an adult, right?”
Drayco shook his head, and her shoulders relaxed. “My parents adopted me when I was a baby. They took good care of me. Well, physically. They’re very strict. It’s an Apostolic church thing.”
She gave a short laugh, then reached into her purse to pull out the tube of coconut-scented lip balm, making liberal use of it. “They disapprove of everything I do, even the string quartet because it’s not church music. Too frivolous. Loathe the way I dress. And the cigarettes? I’m going straight to hell.”
Sarg got up to get her a refill of her latte, leaving Lauralee alone with Drayco. He asked, “What kind of watch did you shoplift?”
“What kind of watch? Oh, it’s rose-colored gold. At Nordstrom’s. Starving musicians can’t buy stuff like that. Oh, Gawd, if Gogo knows, Ashley does, too.”
As she said Ashley’s name, a smile played about her lips, and she fiddled with the necklace around her neck. The necklace was also rose-colored gold, with what looked like a small ruby pendant. Maybe that watch wasn’t the only thing Lauralee had filched.
Her little smile made him remember her comment to Gogo at Kicks and Sticks, about not liking testosterone types. More like male types in general—Lauralee had a crush on Ashley, or maybe more than a crush.
Sarg returned with the latte which she accepted and started sipping immediately. When the lid popped off, causing some of the liquid to spill onto the table, she said “Damn,” and almost looked like she was going to lick the table. Sarg pushed over a napkin and gave Drayco a fleeting “WTF” look before asking, “Miss Fremont, how well do you know Gogo and Ashley?”
“How well do I know Gogo and Ashley?” She had a habit of repeating what someone said and then answering as if she wasn’t sure what she’d heard. Or was buying some time.
Maybe a little shock therapy would take care of that. Drayco asked, “Could they be capable of murder? They both hated Jerold and had reason to want him gone, permanently.”
She put the unfinished drink down, her eyes flashing with a spark he hadn’t seen before. “Ashley wouldn’t. She couldn’t.”
“And Gogo?”
She licked her lips and looked at the door as if she wanted to bolt. “Why are you asking me this? They know who did it. Look, I’m grateful you bailed me out and all, but I don’t feel comfortable answering these questions.”
“You like Gogo, don’t you?”
“Do I like Gogo?” She hesitated. “He’s a skilled musician. And good at that whole martial arts stuff. I mean, we all have our faults. I smoke, he gambles, whatever.”
Her comment reinforced the betting slips Drayco had seen on Gogo’s music stand. “Did Gogo owe Jerold money? For his gambling habit?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Everybody’s been acting weird lately. Must be something in the air.” With the excuse of having to “recycle some latte,” she headed for the bathroom.
Sarg waited until she disappeared. “Gambling? Those betting slips you told me about?”
“Killing someone you owed a lot of money is one sure-fire way to clear the books.”
Drayco filled Sarg in about his hypothesis about Lauralee’s crush on Ashley, which Sarg mulled it over. “If she told Jerold, I’ll bet that went over well. I mean, if Jerold didn’t want an Asian son-in-law, don’t think he’d appreciate a woman hitting on his daughter. But would Lauralee have killed him over that?”
Drayco leaned back in his seat. “Maybe. Then there’s her five-fingered discounts. Could indicate a pattern. She says she has no money, yet all her clothes look new and expensive. Maybe she stole something from Jerold and was discovered.”
He sighed. “What is it with women and fashion? I guess pink-gold’s one of the hot crazes right now. First Rena’s watch, now Lauralee’s.”
“It’s like those Caveman Ugly boots all the women drool over. Tara had a pair. I asked her why the hell she’d want something that looked like kids made it at a summer camp.”
“The soul of tact, you are.”
Sarg grinned, patted his pocket, and took out the little notebook. “By the way, I checked those lottery ticket numbers. The ones from Jerold’s condo.”
“Didn’t win, did they?”
“You already looked? Should have known, Mr. Eidetic Memory. I guess it was an inside joke of Jerold’s, after all.”
“Possibly. Although did you notice how few tchotchkes he had lying around? Each one should carry more emotional weight, wouldn’t you say?”
“Touché.” Sarg gave a longing look over at the pastry counter. “After we drop Lauralee off and I return to my Quanticube, what’s on your agenda the rest of this lovely day?”
“Got a meeting with Benny. We have to go over the upcoming hearing.”
Sarg and Drayco both stood at the same time, but Sarg placed a hand on Drayco’s shoulder, holding him back. “About that hearing thing. We’ve never really discussed it—Gilbow’s shooting. Self-defense, mercy killing, whatever it was. Just want you to know you did the right thing.”
Drayco smiled. “Thanks.” Having Sarg and Nelia’s vote of confidence meant more to him than anything the review board could say. Technically, he hadn’t quite gotten Nelia’s yet, but her visit to his townhome the other day spoke volumes.
What he didn’t tell Sarg was that the nightmares he’d had over the past several months of shooting the burning man in the warehouse were morphing into ones starring a middle-aged woman with graying auburn hair—as she stabbed Jerold Zamorra, over and over, while mystery man Iago stood by and laughed.