After checking on the Generic Silver Camry he kept in the garage beneath the small and woefully overpriced office he rented near Capitol Hill, Drayco hunched over his laptop. His initial efforts after he first talked to his mother hadn’t been of much use, but in the time since, new possibilities had percolated through to his conscious mind. He drilled down into the internet’s labyrinth, trying the dozens of databases he had access to, then started tunneling through more obscure websites.
The white and mostly bare walls surrounding him weren’t much of an inspiration. The framed degrees, especially the criminology doctorate, even seemed to be mocking him. Maybe he needed to get a potted plant.
He started with “Brisbane,” the name found with Maura at the time of her arrest. Through Benny and other sources, he’d learned Halabi and company had struck out with their Australian line of investigation. But Brisbane, the city, was named after Sir Thomas Brisbane, a Scotsman. Brisbane was a Scottish surname going back to at least the thirteenth century. And Maura was allegedly Scottish. Or so she’d told Brock.
He pored over birth and death records, police records, newspaper articles. There were a lot of accounts of noble, law-abiding Brisbanes, but the skeletons in the family tree interested him more. One branch seemed to follow a gypsy-esque lifestyle, not true Roma people but never settling down. There was very little information about them. Ghost people.
It was in this line where he came across a link to a Maura Brisbane, born at a time that would make her a contemporary of his mother’s. It was just one tiny mention, and it referenced a fraternal twin brother, Alistair. If this were the same woman, now he knew where he and Casey got the twin gene. And it also meant he had an uncle he’d never known—unless the man was dead.
Drayco didn’t find immigration records for Maura, but he did see a brief record for Alistair, who’d moved to the U.S. thirty-six years ago. That would be the same time Maura McCune allegedly did, marrying Brock a year later.
Drayco next researched Alistair Brisbane, who appeared to be very much alive, if the same man. Of Alistair’s time in the U.S., there was one brief news item about him and his role as a power broker, but that was from over a decade ago. The man apparently liked to keep a low profile. Nevertheless, his name popped up once or twice in the same paragraph as a senator or lobbyist or judge.
No arrests or blots on his record as near as Drayco could tell. Or much of anything in any record, for that matter. He’d have to get Sarg to run his name through the FBI databases, but it looked like invisibility was the man’s specialty.
He came across only one photo of Brisbane, and it was blurred, with Brisbane half-hidden behind a congressman from New York. Despite the poor quality and the fact its subject was fifteen years younger at the time, Drayco could see traces of Maura in Alistair. He’d also seen this man before—it was the same mystery man who’d stared at him in the Mayflower Hotel’s cafe.
§ § §
Blades of the late-afternoon sun managed to stab through the cloud layers as Drayco stood outside a small duplex, one unit painted white, the other gray. Nice and neutral. As if the building were shrinking back from the road in hopes no one would notice it.
Being midafternoon, the occupants of the white half appeared to be away. Since the duplex sat at the end of a side street with homes spaced relatively far apart, he figured picking the door lock to the gray side’s door would go unnoticed.
Thanks to Benny, Drayco had gotten a peek at the list of tenants the police compiled of homes, apartments, and condos within a few miles of Jerold’s place, hoping to find where Maura McCune had been staying. What they hadn’t noticed, but he had, was that the gray duplex was rented under the name of Isolde Ian—a combination of Casey’s middle name and Drayco’s middle name. After chatting up the landlord and learning “Isolde Ian” paid her rent in cash, Drayco figured he had a winner.
His conscience pricked him a little as he pictured Sarg’s disapproving look, but at least he’d brought along nitrile gloves. He slipped them on.
Essentially a one-bedroom apartment, it didn’t take long for him to conduct a sweep of the place. Making it even easier was the lack of belongings, something you’d expect from living the gypsy lifestyle. One lightweight suitcase lay in the bottom of the bedroom closet, with conservative, nondescript women’s clothing hanging above. Even the one small trash can was empty.
No computer, no TV, no dishes other than paper plates and plastic ware. One small potted plant sat in the kitchen window, wilting from neglect. On an impulse, he picked it up and gave it some water from the sink. At least, there weren’t any dead goldfish around.
He returned to the bedroom and sat on the bed close to the nightstand so he could open its lone drawer. Inside were four driver’s license IDs from different states with different names beside her photo. He made a note of each, knowing it was just a matter of time before Halabi and his people found this place. He’d do some checking on those IDs for his own edification and let Halabi waste his own time.
Next to the drivers’ licenses sat a burner “dumb” phone, possibly the one she used to call Jerold. He checked recent calls and found Jerold’s number, but no others. Either this was a new phone or Maura was careful to change out the SIM cards frequently. He’d love to pocket the phone and let the FBI techs dig into the SIM card, but decided to let the proper channels run their course.
The only other items inside the drawer, beside some receipts for food and cleaning supplies, were two decks of Tarot cards and the sole piece of jewelry around, a necklace with a half-heart pendant that had PAH engraved on it. Risking more of Halabi’s wrath, he slipped that item into his pocket. Act now, apologize later.
An invisible woman, an anonymous life. No roots, no identity, no real existence. Thirty years since she left her family, and this was all she had? Or perhaps she had a storage unit somewhere, also paid for in cash.
He scanned the receipts again. The receipts went back almost two years—living in the area for two years, and she never tried to contact him? Had he passed by her on the street and didn’t even know who she was?
A couple of poetry books graced the top of the nightstand, one by Robert Frost, one by E.E. Cummings. He checked the Frost book first. No notes, no inscriptions, no secret pieces of paper or numbers anywhere. He picked up the Cummings book, flipped through the contents and noted the poem “I Carry Your Heart With Me.” Then he flipped to the front of the book and saw an inscription in all block letters, ICYHWM, the same as Iago’s tattoo. The inscription was signed simply, “I.”