After dropping Nelia off at her apartment, Drayco didn’t drive off right away. He pulled out his cellphone and stared at it before pressing the screen to dial a number he’d added to his contacts. It was a number he’d tried to trace but determined was a burner phone and likely encrypted.
He didn’t expect anyone to pick up. But the same voice as last time, with its smooth rolling burgundy tones, answered on the third ring. “Greetings, dear nephew. I wondered if I’d be hearing from you again.”
“I’d almost think you were expecting me to call. Is that why you didn’t get rid of this phone?”
“I trusted you not to hand over the number to anyone. Being able to read people is the main tool of my trade.”
Not knowing how long Brisbane would be willing to chat, Drayco cut right to the chase. “Why did you buy Gogo Cheng’s Chinese calligraphy painting from Giovanni Nardello?”
“I like the arts, music in particular. Runs in the family. I’m a big supporter.”
Now Brisbane wanted to play happy families. Well, good for him. “Did you know that calligraphy painting was stolen by Jerold Zamorra?”
“In all honesty, I didn’t know officially it was stolen until right this moment.”
Officially, no. Unofficially, you betcha. “All right, you didn’t know officially it was stolen. But I doubt you bought this painting just because you like Chinese antiquities.”
“I like this one. It’s from the Song Dynasty. The calligraphy is a poem about water and the moon. One flows on but never goes anywhere, the other waxes and wanes yet never diminishes or grows.”
“Gogo said it was worth around fifty grand.”
Brisbane chuckled. “I paid twice that for it. And Nardello wasn’t as up on his Chinese art as he thought. At auction, this rare piece could sell for close to a million.”
“You seem to know a lot about art.”
“I know a lot about a great many things. But you want to know if this ties in with Maura.”
Brisbane sighed. “I’ve kept tabs on my sister and her ‘projects,’ including Jerold. I found out about Jerold’s gambling, debts, and his other little habits and had him tracked. I bought Mr. Cheng’s painting to clean up one of Jerold’s messes and therefore Maura’s. I’ve spent most of my life cleaning up the messes of family, friends, and others I’m not at liberty to name.”
“You’re a regular Mr. Clean. How many of those messes did you participate in?”
“I believe you’ve gotten the wrong impression of me, Scott. I’m not your enemy. I can help you.”
“You can give me the names of everyone Maura and Jerold were seen with before his death. If Iago is as good as you think he is, you must have a detailed list.”
Brisbane didn’t reply for several moments, but it didn’t sound like he’d hung up. Then Drayco felt his phone vibrate in his hand.
“I’ve sent you a list of names, dates, and times. I’ll forward along some surveillance photos later. Although I’m not sure it will be useful. I’ve been over it all quite thoroughly and didn’t find any possibles.”
“I don’t suppose you had Jerold followed even when he wasn’t with your sister.”
“A few times. Those names are on your list.”
Drayco checked the text message and opened the attachment. Some of the names he didn’t recognize, some he did—Gogo, Lauralee, Rena, even Ashley, who was allegedly estranged and hadn’t seen him except to drop off the box of his belongings.
Halabi would salivate at the notion of getting his hands on the list. Drayco wasn’t sure he was ready to pass it along, and that thought made him stop short. Ordinarily, he’d turn it over to the police without blinking. First Jerold’s condo key, now this.
But there was nothing normal about this case or about Brisbane, and that made Drayco irritated. He’d learned to read others like he read music—with voice colors and timbres, the twitch of an eye, the way someone held their hands, all standing in for musical notes. Put them together and out came a personality composition. But Brisbane was more a case of personality macular degeneration, with the center image fuzzed out and only the edges showing.
As if to punctuate Drayco’s thoughts, Brisbane took pains to show he was keeping tabs on Drayco, too. “I like that lovely deputy from the Eastern Shore, Nelia Tyler. Her husband’s situation is unfortunate, of course. I’m sure things will work out for the best.”
“Is that a threat?”
“If I were threatening you, Scott, you’d know it. When I said I spend most of my time cleaning up messes, especially family messes, you are an exception. Then, in your line of work, it’s probably best we not cross paths too often. It could get rather ... awkward.”
He rang off, and Drayco tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. In his recent case with Sarg, he’d been used as a pawn in a deadly game of music codes. He’d sworn to himself he’d never get in that position again, but with Brisbane, it was déjà vu, even if Brisbane was telling the truth and trying to help. Feeling the weight of the long day sapping his strength, Drayco headed for home, hoping he wouldn’t have any uninvited visitors waiting for him, for once.
§ § §
After determining he was indeed alone, Drayco was almost sorry Iago hadn’t broken into his townhome again. He’d love to ask Iago about some of the names on the list Brisbane had passed along, but had to make do with old-fashioned calls and a little computer research.
Drayco turned off the lights in the front hallway and peered out the window. An unfamiliar black sedan sat parked across the street. Drayco couldn’t make out the driver of the car since the sedan was out of the range of streetlights. Conveniently out of range.
Should he feel safer, thanks to new bodyguard, maybe even invite him in for a cozy cup of tea? Or should he call the cops?
He did neither, first checking the back door to see if there were any signs of the stray cat. He hadn’t seen the little silver tabby in two days. Had she found a good home? Or some other not-so-happy ending? He missed the tiny furball. Just in case, he refilled the cat bowl with some dry food, hoping the squirrels didn’t eat it all first.
He grabbed a Manhattan Special soda from the refrigerator and headed for the piano where he’d spread out several sheets of printed data on top of the closed lid and added the new printout with the info from Brisbane to the collection. He bent over to read them again for the third time, scanning the lists of names, bios, dates, locations.
He was looking for anomalies, outliers, anything that would tie someone other than Maura to Jerold’s murder. So far, he’d only seen one item of interest, thanks to Brisbane following through on his promise to send along surveillance photos of Jerold. And even that item would have to wait until he got some follow-up intel from Sarg, coroners’ reports, and police databases.
Suddenly realizing how much his neck and head hurt, Drayco straightened up and swept the papers onto the floor with his right hand, which was also throbbing. He massaged it for a few minutes before gingerly easing into a Bach prelude and fugue. He stumbled at first, but his fingers soon picked up the lines as if he hadn’t been away, as a rainbow of colors and textures exploded around him.
He reveled in the return of the 3D world of sound and the way it fired all regions of his brain. It was easiest to think while playing Bach. The counterpoint focused scattered thoughts in his brain like a laser beam focused photons onto a single point. The music was always a revelation, in more ways than one.
Maybe he’d forgive his mother some day or maybe he’d never find peace where his mother was concerned. But he’d be forever grateful for the day she’d first placed his small hands on a piano keyboard.
He played for the better part of an hour, losing himself in time and space as he always did. So, when a loud knock thumped at the front door, he was as startled as if a gun had gone off.
He couldn’t see anyone through the one-way glass, so he opened the door and looked across the street. There was no one around, except for a young couple waiting for a bus who were spending the time getting to know each other’s lips better. And the black sedan was gone.
Then he noticed the tall object wrapped in brown paper to the left of the door. He studied it and looked for messages or printing, but finding none, hauled the object inside.
He was pretty sure he knew what it was. He got some scissors to cut the tape holding the brown paper together, then peeled it away to reveal a painting with Chinese calligraphy. Alistair Brisbane had sent it along as what—a clue? A gesture of good faith designed to appease Drayco’s suspicions?
With the painting propped up against a chair, he sat across from it and studied the lettering. What had Brisbane said? It was a poem about water that flows on but never goes anywhere and the moon that waxes and wanes but never diminishes or grows. If only relationships were like that. Steady, dependable, predictable.
He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels. No Braveheart this time. Stopping on a channel showing October Sky, he watched for a bit. But the father and son’s strained relationship was hitting a little too close to home. Foregoing the TV, he put in a CD of piano elegies, and as Rachmaninoff’s Élégie in E-flat minor began playing, he stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes.