A Study in Sin (7 page)

The late afternoon turned to evening, and I sat at the apartment reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez, comparing each musing on life and love and struggle and tribulation to my current situation. These things weren’t meant to be easy I persuaded myself. They were hard to figure out, hard to understand, and even harder to live through with any sense of grace. I turned the pages as the minutes ticked by. Why was my life supposed to be any different than Florentino’s? For the first time I can remember as an adult, I thought of my life as my own, not as a cog in a bigger machine, not as a “follow the orders given no matter what” Airman. This was who I was now, and I looked around at our apartment, happy to be sharing it with someone as unique as Remy, someone that I cared about more than I had ever realized. At that exact moment, she burst through the front door.

“So, did you find her?” I said, glad to see her safe and back home.

 “No!” she said with a little too much force and far too much attitude.

“What happened?”

Remy paced back and forth, storming over to her computer, pulling up a window, before quickly turning the monitor off again. Refusing to sit down, she launched into her story.

“I caught up to that girl and followed her to the Foggy Bottom Metro. I knew something wasn’t right with her because she walked within view of the Dupont stop on the way. She was in heels; nobody would walk that far out of their way in heels,” she said, still pacing all over the apartment. “I kept in her in my sights and joined her on the platform waiting for the next train. I imagined her leading me straight to our killer. It excited me and –” she hesitated and looked away from me, “and I made a mistake. The orange line came to a stop and I watched as she stepped on two doors down from me. When she got on, she was in a crowd of kids from the college. I positioned myself to get a better look, temporarily losing her. The doors closed and I looked through the group as they sat down. It struck me that she wasn’t where she should have been. I looked around for her blonde hair as we started to move. A little voice pulled at me and I looked back at the platform and she was there, staring right at me, as the train pulled away. I walked back from Roslyn!” she said, kicking at a bar stool. “But, this only proves that I’m on the right path, and that this man is not so alone and desperate as I would have thought.”

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me. Remy Moreau was given the slip by a little blond girl?” I regretted the attempt at playful mockery even before it had fully left my mouth. Remy stopped pacing and stared back at me.

“Jay, you’re looking a little tired,” she said, “why don’t you turn in for the night.”

“Nope, I’m not tired. And I’m in the middle of a chapter.”

“You wouldn’t want to irritate your injury, would you? Then tomorrow, instead of helping me track down a murderer, you’ll have to drag your broken body back to your psychiatrist so you can cry about Afghanistan. Save us both the trouble and go to bed before you start twitching again.”

Remy’s words were soft and deliberate, her intention clear. Beat at me to keep from feeling she had been beaten herself. I decided to let it go and play along.

“Ah, you’re probably right. You know, I might even check to see if she’s got any openings tomorrow morning, just to be safe. Goodnight then.”

As I closed the door to the bedroom, I gave Remy a quick smile, just to let her simmer. I lay awake in bed, pleased with the way I had handled her, listening to the melancholy sounds of her at the piano as she played a slow and haunting piece. I fell asleep envisioning her turning over the specifics of the case she had set herself to unravel, her hair falling into those wide eyes, her small fingers lightly dropping down onto the keys.

Chapter 6
Lambert Catches a Killer

I woke the next morning and found Remy seated at her desk, busy at work on the computer. She looked disheveled, her hair a chaotic mess, still wearing the same clothes from the night before. Today she smashed away at a different set of keys, with much greater urgency, all the fiery grace of the prior night gone.

In an attempt to arouse her attention, I coughed loudly as I went into the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on. I feigned confusion, slamming cupboard doors, picking up and replacing numerous unnecessary utensils. Not even a hint of a response from her. I hummed as I worked, purposely screwing up a Yo-Yo Ma piece that I knew was one of her favorites. Still nothing. I even pretended to stub my toe on the corner of the kitchen island, bursting forth with a barrage of
damns
and
shit
, all to no avail.

I finally conceded that whatever had her attention was far more important than I was. I filled my travel mug with the now burnt coffee, announced I was heading out to see my psychiatrist, and slammed the door behind me.

I had no intention whatsoever to meet with my therapist, although the thought did cross my mind. But we met at the same time every week and she didn’t seem to be too keen on the idea of drop-ins; I knew that from experience. The last few visits had actually gone really well. I was making progress, or so that’s what the professional opinion of my shrink was. Apparently, staying active and finding a hobby is the first step in the right direction to dealing with PTSD. It’s the downtime that brings on the episodes. And, I had to admit, I was feeling better over the past few weeks.

I walked around for a while, stopped into a café and got a refill of coffee, before turning back towards the apartment, hoping to have proved some point to Remy. When I got there, two hours had passed, and I heard voices coming from inside as I climbed the interior set of stairs. I immediately placed one as Detective Lambert’s and turned the handle to enter, wondering to myself if his visit was business or pleasure, the biting pain coming back in a quick flash.

Remy greeted me before I was half way through the door.

“Jay, glad you’re here. Come join us. Lambert here seems to think he’s solved the entire case and has come to gloat.”

Her words were laced with obvious sarcasm, but I couldn’t help but notice the slight look of anxious worry on her face.

“Detective,” I nodded as I joined the two around the coffee table.

“Mr. Watts,” he said coldly, turning back to Remy. “Would you mind if I used your restroom before getting into the details?”

“Sure. You know where it’s at,” Remy said.

I sat down in the chair next to her, separated by the Union Jack lamp she insisted on keeping on the side table, no matter how gaudy I thought it was. She leaned forward, around the table, in my direction.

“Jay, about last night, I think it would be best to say my behavior was not completely necessary. You shouldn’t take me literally when I’m in fits like that.”

“Is that your idea of an apology?”

“Well – under the circumstances –”

“The word you’re looking for is
sorry
.”

“Yes, exactly,” she said, leaning back in her chair as Lambert rejoined us. I thought it was probably more than anyone else had ever gotten from her in the way of apologies.

“So,” she started as Lambert sat down on the couch across from us, “let’s hear this theory of yours.”

“No theory, I have a suspect in custody. He’s down at the station right now. Won’t talk though; we’re waiting on his lawyer.”

I felt the hesitation in Remy’s voice as he continued. Was she actually worried that Lambert had bested her?

“Who is this suspect?”

“Thomas Chapman, a young desk clerk at the Hotel George.”

Remy let out an audible sigh and smiled, sinking comfortably into her seat.

“And you know what the best part is? I bet Arruda a hundred bucks that I would figure this one out before him. He’s been out all morning trying to track down James McKeague,” Lambert said, pleased at the idea of his partner’s misfortune. “We traced the credit cards we found on Cormack. Seems that he and McKeague were supposed to be on a flight to London out of Reagan, but they missed it. We’ve got tape of them outside the airport getting into an argument and then they split up; Cormack left in the car while McKeague stayed behind. But he never got on another flight, and Arruda’s been trying to piece together where McKeague was from the time Cormack left the airport until his body was found the next morning. I really should call him and let him know. Ahh, he’ll be fine for another hour or two, the extra effort won’t hurt him.”

“How did you locate Thomas Chapman?” Remy asked.

“The same credit cards; came back that he’d been going to the Hotel George every day at the same time. I drove over first thing this morning after I got the call. When I got there, I went straight up to the woman working the front desk. And, damn, was she easy on the eyes.” Lambert said this last part with extra emphasis, probably for Remy’s sake. “Tall, thin, blonde; she was one of those perfect DC pant-suit girls. You know, the ones the politicians and the big business guys go crazy over. Well, as soon as I asked her name and told her who I was, she got really nervous. Her hands were shaking and she wouldn’t look up at me.

“ ‘I need some information on a man you might be familiar with, can you help me with that?’ I asked her.

“ ‘Yes sir,’ she answered, all sheepish like, ‘but it might be better if I got my manager, if that’s alright with you, sir,’ and never once did she make eye contact with me. I told her it was fine and to fetch the manager, but I had that feeling she was hiding something.

“The manager comes out and joins the two of us and I told him that I was looking for information on a man named Finton Cormack, who was found dead. And the first thing this guy does is look over at the blonde girl and gives her this look, like a father scolding a child. He goes over to the computer and tells me that Cormack was last there on Tuesday. I asked him if that’s the last time anyone remembers seeing him, and again, he shoots a look over at the blonde girl who sinks her chin down on her chest. That was the last straw.

“ ‘Ok, what the hell is going on here?’ I ask.

“ ‘Bridgette, you need to tell the detective what happened,’ the guy says and this girl just loses it, starts sobbing into her hands. It took forever to get her calmed down so I could get her story.

“ ‘Mr. Cormack was one of the biggest asshole drunks I’ve ever encountered here, and that’s saying a lot,’ she started after she finally gained her composure. ‘He’s stayed with us before and comes in to the bar all the time. He was working with a group of business guys this week, I saw him take a few meetings during the day, but most of the time, he was drunk off his mind. And that little shit got mouthy and aggressive with me every time. When he pinched my ass on Monday, I was over it. I told Tom about the guy – he’s my boyfriend, works here too – and he was beyond pissed.’

“By this time, the girl Bridgette is getting her confidence back and I can feel her building towards a point,” Lambert said.

“ ‘It was around noon on Tuesday when Mr. Cormack came to the front desk because he wanted me to call a cab, and he already smelled like a barrel of whiskey. He slurred his words and asked me if I wanted to come have a drink with him. I just ignored him, but he leaned over the counter and grabbed my arm. It was instinctive; I slapped him hard across the face and he turned bright red. He looked like a tomato. He stared at me for a few seconds, then turned and left. I thought about telling Tom but the guy was gone and I was hopeful I’d never have to see him again.’ ”

“Get to the point, Ian,” Remy said.

“I’m getting there, don’t be so anxious,” he answered smugly. “So Bridgette goes on to tell me how, unfortunately, that wasn’t the last time she encountered Finton Cormack.

“ ‘I remember Mr. Cormack saying at one point that he had a flight to catch on Tuesday afternoon, but later that night, he comes stumbling back into the lobby. He walks right up to me and I can tell he’s completely smashed. He tries to come around the desk, the whole time mumbling threats, saying how he’ll teach me a lesson and how I’ll learn my role, stuff like that. Only this time, Tom was working and he walks around the corner and sees Cormack. Tom comes over and puts his foot into the back of Cormack’s knee and drops him. Then he drags him through the lobby towards the front door, picks this guy up from the floor, and literally throws him out the door onto the sidewalk. Cormack runs off and I go over to try and calm Tom down.’ She hesitated here but I urged her on. ‘Tom’s got this umbrella that he carries everywhere, one of those large ones with a curved wooden handle. It was his father’s before he died. I thought he was fine, but when we got back behind the desk, Tom grabs the umbrella and runs out after Cormack, holding the thing like a club.’

“ ‘And when did you see him again after that?’ I asked the girl. Again, she had to fight back her emotions before continuing.

“ ‘He didn’t come back.’

“ ‘What do you mean he didn’t come back?’

“ ‘I mean he didn’t come back. I called his phone, but he left all his stuff here at work. I finished my shift and went back to our apartment, hoping he would be there, but he wasn’t. I stayed up all night; thought about calling the cops a few different times. It’s like four or five in the morning at this point, and all of a sudden, I hear keys at the door and Tom walks in. He was drunk. Said nothing happened and that he never caught up to Cormack. He told me he stopped at a bar to calm himself down before coming back to work and some old college friends were there. Said he just lost track of time.’

“ ‘But you don’t believe Tom, do you?’

“ ‘It’s just not like him. I mean, he didn’t come back to finish his shift, didn’t call or text or anything. I was so worried about him,’ she said and then fell back into hysterics. I guess she realized that she had basically just pegged her boyfriend for murder. I asked the manager if he knew where Tom Chapman was and he told me he was due in any minute.”

Remy yawned at Lambert’s pause. “What happened next?” she asked in an uninterested tone.

“Well, knowing that Chapman was unaccounted for during the hours of Cormack’s death, I radioed for backup. When he came in to start his shift, two officers and I took him into custody. He put up no fight. But what’s really interesting is that as soon as we had him in cuffs, he turned and very plainly said, ‘So I guess this is about that asshole Cormack, right?’ He did offer up a statement that he caught up to Cormack a few blocks down from the hotel, and watched him as he stumbled and ran into a street sign. He said that he had walked behind him past Union Station over towards H Street when Cormack turned and saw him. Cormack hailed a cab and took off. Chapman said that he stopped in at a bar, which matched what he told his girlfriend. His whole story is bullshit, though. He’s been silent ever since. Hasn’t said a single word since we put him into the back of the car and took him down to the station.”