“Protein drink,” he greeted me, hoisting the glass a couple of inches. “Doctor says I have to lose a few pounds or I’m going to keel over before I’m sixty.” He laughed and patted his hefty paunch covered by a tartan vest of blues and greens with a thin yellow stripe.
Since I’d already pegged him for past sixty, I didn’t comment.
Running his huge hand down his beard when he finished drinking, he fixed his sharp eyes on me. “You said you discovered something about Acosta’s murder this weekend?”
“Yes, and the police aren’t taking me seriously, so I thought you… that you might be able to look into it.”
“Tell me.”
I gave him the unedited version of the weekend, from Leon Hall’s attack on Sawyer, to bumping into Victoria in the hall and our conversation followed by her disappearance, to Bazán’s attack at my house, to my theory about Rafe stealing the gun. I looked at Drake anxiously when I finished, trying to read his expression. The luxuriant facial hair made it tough, especially in the dimly lit limo.
“That’s good-the bit about Acosta having your gun with him. That’s the kind of creative thinking that makes a good criminal defense lawyer. Any interest in giving up ballroom dancing for the law?” He chuckled.
Was he saying he didn’t believe me? “It’s not ‘creative thinking’-it’s what must have happened,” I said indignantly. “And, no, I can’t see myself as a lawyer.” Working in an office all day, wearing rigid suits, responding to someone’s beck and call. I shuddered.
“You’re more the creative type,” he said indulgently. “My wife’s that way, too-scrapbooking is her thing. That and eBay.”
Great. He clearly dismissed my career as a hobby on par with his wife’s interest in scissors that cut wavy patterns and colored cardstock. I held on to my temper. “Do you have a way to check out Bazán’s story?” I asked. “And maybe find out more about Leon Hall?”
“A diplomat, huh?” Drake said, looking thoughtful, calculating the angles. “If the police were convinced he did it, they’d stop looking at you, and they wouldn’t have to worry about enough evidence for ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ because the case would never see the inside of a courtroom. The State Department might PNG Bazán if the cops built a good enough case, but that’s about it.”
“PNG?”
“Make him persona non grata-boot him out of the country.”
“That’s not right,” I said, appalled. “If he killed Rafe he should go to prison for the rest of his slimy life.”
Drake shrugged, dismissing my outrage as too naive to bother with. The limo glided to a stop at the courthouse curb and Drake shifted his bulk toward the door. “I think it’d be useful to locate this Victoria gal again. She sounds like a wily one.” His tone was admiring.
A shaft of sunlight penetrated the car as the chauffeur swung the door open. Drake got out, then bent over to peer in at me. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything. Since the police haven’t moved on you yet, chances are they won’t, at least not without new evidence. I’ll be in touch.” Giving orders to his driver to take me back to the town house, he strode up the courthouse steps, fending off reporters as he went.
Halfway back to the house, my cell phone rang. Tav Acosta.
“How did the competition go this weekend?” he asked.
His voice, rich and dark and lightly accented, sent a little tingle through me. I stomped it down. Business. This was only business.
I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “Some wins, some losses. Better than I thought it would, actually, without Rafe.”
We were silent for a moment, thinking about Rafe; then Tav said, “The police have released his body. I can take him back to Argentina.”
“Oh.” I was surprised by how sad I felt at the thought of him leaving. “When?”
“As soon as I can make arrangements with the airlines-probably two or three days.”
“Oh. Well, it was nice meeting you. I hope you have a good trip back.” The inanities were a defense against the surprisingly strong stab of disappointment I felt at the news he was leaving.
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh?” If I said “oh” one more time, I was going to slap myself. The limo jolted into a pothole and I bobbled the phone, missing what Tav was saying. “Sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”
“I said I have had a couple offers for my share of Graysin Motion and I need to talk to you about them.”
“Oh!” I slapped my face lightly and the chauffeur eyed me doubtfully in the rearview mirror. “Who from?”
“I’d rather talk about it in person. Do you have plans for this afternoon?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.”
“Good. Would you mind if I played tourist while we talked? I have not had the chance to see anything of your nation’s capital-too busy working. I would really like to see the Air and Space Museum before I go back.”
His tone was half-sheepish, as if wanting to visit one of the world’s great museums was embarrassing in some way. With rare exceptions, every man I knew preferred the Air and Space Museum to any other museum on the Mall. I laughed. “You shouldn’t miss it. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
Chapter 16
A flowered halter top, denim shorts, low-heeled espadrilles, my yellow sunhat, and copious quantities of sunblock and I was ready to play tourist in downtown D.C. Yes, the Air and Space Museum was inside, but I bet Tav would want to stroll down the Mall and see a couple of the monuments while we were down there and since today was forecast to be record-breaking hot, I didn’t want to end up sunburned.
Tav stood near the museum entrance, long, muscled legs displayed by olive-colored shorts. A sprinkling of crisp black hair curled from the open neck of his white polo shirt, and sunglasses hung around his neck. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a smile. “Thanks for humoring me, Stacy. I know this is not the standard venue for a business meeting.”
I returned his smile. “Much better than a stuffy office or conference room.” We moved into the air-conditioned building with its megahigh ceilings hung with planes, and joined the clumps of people looking upward. I’d visited the museum several times over the years-no schoolchild in the greater D.C. area graduates without at least one field trip to the Air and Space Museum-but I had to admit that the history of flight and space travel pretty much left me cold. Planes were transportation, pure and simple, and I couldn’t get excited about a Pratt & Whitney engine the size of my car, even though Tav seemed fascinated. His enthusiasm was engaging and it kept a long afternoon of studying the Wright Flyer, an Apollo capsule, and various other artifacts of flight from being tedious. The museum wasn’t too crowded on a Monday afternoon in April, which made it possible to move freely and linger as long as we wanted-or longer-in front of exhibits.
“I wanted to be a pilot,” Tav confided as we stood beside a plane labeled MESSERSCHMITT ME 262.
“Why aren’t you?”
“I have always admired the American idea that you can be whatever you want to be,” he said, studying the plaque that described the plane. “It is not always that simple. Family expectations, financial realities… sometimes dreams take a backseat. Besides”-he looked at me and grinned-“I wanted to be a professional football player, too, but so far La Selección has not come calling.”
“My dad wanted me to study accounting,” I said. “He thought it would be a more stable career than ballroom dancing. I’m sure he was right, but I don’t regret being a dancer. It makes me happy-most of the time.”