A Study in Sin (3 page)

Then there was the Pluto incident.

Early one Monday morning, Remy had run out and returned with coffee and bagels from a place around the corner. We sat in silence as I clicked through websites on my phone and she read a copy of The Post. For all of her understanding of technology, she still chose to consume most of her information in print form. I looked up from my phone and took a sip of the scorching hot coffee, noticing an article on the back page of the paper. It was the science section and the article was an opinion piece railing against the physicist Neil deGrasse Tyson for his role in the demotion of Pluto as a planet.

“That still doesn’t seem right,” I said.

“What doesn’t seem right?” Remy asked from behind the paper.

“That article,” I answered, pointing. “It doesn’t seem right that Pluto isn’t really a planet. Don’t you remember
My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas
? Just not the same without the pizzas.”

“What’s that?”

“The saying? It’s just a way to remember the order and names of all the planets.”

“No, what’s Pluto?”

I was blown away. I didn’t know what to say. It was like being asked a question by a child that has no real answer, like being asked to describe the color yellow.

“Pluto. It’s the ninth planet in the solar system. Or at least it was.”

“Oh.” The way she responded baffled me. It wasn’t the fact she didn’t know Pluto was the ninth planet that bothered me, it was that she didn’t care that she didn’t know. How could someone that read constantly and consumed information like a sponge be so oblivious to something that’s taught in a third grade science class.

“What’s the big deal? Who cares if Pluto is a planet or not? I have absolutely no use for that,” she said.

“How can you not have use for the basic facts of the universe? Do you even know what gravity is?”

“I know what gravity is, but even if I didn’t, why would it matter?”

“You’re kidding right?”

“No. What changes if I know everything there is to know about gravity? Or Pluto? How does either help me? You say there’s eight planets now, well there used to be nine. Ten years from now there will be six. Or ten. But nothing actually changed. So why take up space with something that doesn’t matter?”

“But it’s basic freaking knowledge Remy!”

“Not to me it’s not, so I don’t care to remember it. Think about it like an iceberg. Everybody’s brain is a single iceberg floating in the Arctic. Most people spend their entire lives letting every random penguin jump on and take up space. But over time, things become too crowded. Have you heard the saying that humans only use ten percent of their brains? Well that’s ridiculous. Every human uses the full capacity of their own brain. What people fail to realize is that there comes a point where, for every new piece of information you obtain, another goes flying off the iceberg. Your memory becomes crowded and the edges of one fact can’t be discerned from that of another. And just when you need it the most, your brain will fail you. So you keep gravity and Pluto, I’ll keep what matters.”

It was the perfect opportunity to pull at her secrets.

“So what matters to you?” I asked.

“What matters to me is what allows me to do my work.”

“And what work would that be?”

Remy hesitated and I thought she would ignore the question. But instead, she straightened up in her armchair and folded the paper, placing it neatly on the table beside her.

“I help people who can’t help themselves. I’m a researcher; a consulting researcher. People come to me with unsolvable problems and I solve them. Some pay me a small fee, others I charge a small fortune. They all pay because they all have nowhere else to turn.”

“That’s who the people are who come to see you.”

“My clients, yes. Most are sent by referral from other people I’ve helped. They come to me, tell me their stories, I give them advice, and they pay my fee. It’s their choice whether or not they listen to what I say.”

“How can you be certain that your advice is correct, when most of the people who show up here never come by more than once? Do you solve their problems from the comfort of my leather chair?”

“Sometimes. Other cases are more involved and require that I get my hands dirty. Those are the times when I stay away from the apartment for hours on end. Every piece of information that I keep is invaluable to me and helps to solve the unsolvable. Every penguin has a place on the iceberg.”

“So why don’t these people just go to the police?”

Remy’s conceded grin turned to full on laughter.

“The police; that’s good, Jay. Who do you think some of the people that come here are?”

“The police come to you to solve crimes they can’t?”

“Of course. They would never admit to it, but I promise you’ve read about things in the news, about some successful police effort, that should have been attributed to me.”

“Bullshit.”

Remy looked across at me.

“You’ve seen me with a detective from DC Metro,” she said.

“Who?”

“The one you watched me with.”

I was about to respond when I registered what she was referring to. I stared, speechless, back at her.

It was the middle of the night a few weeks back and I was having trouble sleeping. My arm was killing me and I couldn’t calm my nerves. I got up to make a cup of tea, thinking it might help. Remy had come home after I went to bed, so I quietly made my way to the kitchen, assuming she was asleep. As I looked through the cupboard for our box of teas, I heard a deep sigh from the corner of the room. When I turned, I noticed a gap where Remy’s screens usually were. It was an area large enough to see into her bed. And large enough to see her naked and grinding at the man lying beneath her. Once I saw her, I couldn’t look away. I slumped down behind the kitchen island and watched as she moved her body and moaned in pleasure, her skin shining as the light from the street posts spilled through the windows. Part of me was exhilarated at the chance to be a voyeur in my own apartment, but mostly, I was pained at the sight of Remy with another man. My feelings fluctuated between that nervous pleasure and biting pain as I listened to the soft sounds she sent forth with every movement. Eventually, it became too much for me. I snuck back into my room, leaving the cupboard open and my tea cup on the counter.

“Remy, I didn’t –”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, smiling. It wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. I didn’t know what to say.

I finally managed to pull together a response, “Are the two of you together then?”

“Lambert and I. No, don’t be ridiculous.”

“So, then he and you just –”

“Yes. We have sex. Although, not very often. Lambert is adequate enough, and he seems to think that us having sex will lead to something more, no matter how much I insist it’s not a possibility. I’ve ceased trying to convince him, since he’s been allowing me access to more and more crime scenes lately. I let him think whatever he wants. And the sex clears my mind.”

Remy’s views on sex seemed to match her views on every other social aspect of life. She did exactly what suited her needs at any given moment and cared very little of the opinions and feelings of others.

“Well, I crossed the line and I apologize for that,” I said.

“I don’t understand your need to feel sorry, Jay. You enjoyed watching and I enjoyed having your eyes on me.”

“Um, what?”

“You’re an attractive man,” she said, looking blankly back at me. “I really don’t see why that surprises you. I’ve seen you talking with women down at the bar and you’re quite gifted. You have a very confident manner about you. I have to admit, I admire your abilities in social environments.”

“It’s not something I even think about.”

“I imagine you don’t. Everyone has a unique talent, Jay. Maybe that’s yours. You really should learn to harness it.”

Remy stood up and started to walk away, but after a few steps, she turned to face me.

“It’s a very powerful man that can sway the minds of the opposite sex. You should remember that.”

Chapter 3
A Capital Offense

Remy hovered over her order of chicken and waffles as the two of us sat at the Silver Diner in Clarendon.

“Watts,” she said between bites, “What do you think about our waitress? Social standards would say you two are a likely match.”

I had paid a little extra attention to our beautiful porcelain-skinned waitress when she took our order. Remy must have noticed me staring. She was short, muscular in a yoga instructor sort of way, with jet black hair and tattoos that spilled from underneath her sleeves.

“Not my type,” I lied.

“What, you don’t like young aspiring guitar aficionados?”

“I don’t know, why?”

“Because our waitress most definitely had a gig last night.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“The next time she comes over, tell her that you caught one of her shows and ask her when she plays again. Oh, and ask for more tea.”

A few moments later, Fawn, as her nametag said, came by our table and asked if we needed anything.

“Can we get some more tea?” I said. I hesitated to ask more, but Remy nodded at me. “Hey, I think I caught one of your shows recently, are you playing again soon?”

“Oh yea? What did you think?”

“Would I be asking when you played again if I didn’t think you were good?”

Fawn tried to hide a smile and grabbed an unused napkin from the table. She pulled out a pen from her apron, wrote something down, tossed it on the table, and said “I’ll get you that tea.”

Written across the napkin was:
Thursday at 10 at the Hamilton
. Underneath, she included her phone number and the words:
See you there?

I looked up at Remy who was studying me. “Ok, how’d you do that?”

“Easy. She’s exhausted from last night’s gig and this morning’s early shift.”

“She could have been at a party, or studying for a college exam, or maybe she just has insomnia.”

“The fingernails on her right hand are cropped short, but the ones on her left hand are longer and freshly hardened with a layer of acrylic, a common technique for experienced guitar players who use the nails to pick the guitar strings. My assumption is further backed by the small tattoo on the back of her left calf that reads ‘I heart Jimi’, a reference to famous left-handed guitar player Jimi Hendrix. Then there’s the guitar pick lodged between the laces of her shoe.”

“Damn, that’s impressive.”

“Easy as two plus two,” she said, turning her attention back to her waffles and reading her phone which had been vibrating during her explanation. I thought I caught a glimpse of pleasure in her cold response, though.

“Wait,” I said, realizing something, “You know Jimi Hendrix played the guitar left-handed, but you didn’t know Pluto wasn’t a planet?”

“Hmm, fair point,” she conceded. “Here, take a look at this email,” using her napkin to wipe the chicken grease off her phone before handing it across the table.

It was from Detective Lambert. I read through the email twice before looking up at Remy. It explained that, during the night, a body was found in an empty rowhouse on Capitol Hill. A patrol car had seen a beam of light shining through the first floor window. The home was being renovated and the officer thought it seemed suspicious, so he investigated. The front door was ajar and as soon as he entered, he saw the body on the floor of the front room. Lambert asked Remy if she could meet him at the house. There were a few odd details that he had never experienced before and it was obvious he was asking for her advice.

“I always love when Lambert emails asking for help,” she said as I handed back the grease covered phone. “He hates asking me for anything. He’s actually a good investigator, very thorough; his problem is that he lacks the imagination necessary when things aren’t immediately obvious. And he gets no help from his asshole partner.” 

“Who’s his partner?”

“A crotchety old bastard named Arruda. Just looking for a pension.”

“Well I guess I’ll get to-go boxes from the counter. And I’m paying for breakfast this time.”

“There’s no rush. I’m not sure I want to get involved with this one.”

I stopped, half hanging out of the vinyl booth, and laughed.

“Oh, you’re going. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve been a bit of a crotchety old bastard yourself lately.”

“No, I’m working on another case that is much more important.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve been contracted to investigate the bloodline of a rich importer who died recently. A group he worked with contacted me because they’re hoping to find an heir. If I can’t locate a living relative, all of his assets will be donated to charities and the group would much rather not see that happen. I still have plenty to learn in the fields of genealogical and financial studies. Not to mention, DC Metro doesn’t pay my fees.”

“Come on. This will get you out of the apartment and maybe it will be interesting. Lambert did say something about odd details. That sounds promising.”

“Not this time, Watts.”

“Look, from what I can tell, you’re no more than two days out from another one of your episodes where you lay around and mope while you stare out the window. And I know neither of us wants to deal with that again, right?”

Remy stared back at me with her wide glossy eyes, without an ounce of emotion to be found. She blinked. Then there was a quiver at the corner of her mouth.

“You think you’ve got me figured out or something?”

“Whatever, Remy, I just don’t want to pick up all those balled up tissues off the floor.”

She laughed and I counted it as a victory.

“Well you’re driving,” she announced.

“You don’t even have a license,” I snapped back as we walked out of the diner and into the sound of late morning traffic.

I remember it being exceptionally bright as we drove to meet Detective Lambert. The rays of the sun beat down on the road and shimmered back at us, turning the streets from dark pavement into paths of iridescent movement. Remy’s newfound mood matched the intensity of the day as she rambled on about tracing bloodlines and offshore bank accounts. As she described the difficulties of tracing any family line that traveled through Ellis Island, my thoughts drifted and all I could concentrate on was the thought of seeing a dead body in person. For all that I had seen and done in the Air Force, most was relegated to the screens we stared at. There were a few injuries I witnessed, some more gruesome than others, but it was never death itself. I had never seen a dead body in person outside of a funeral. I couldn’t shake the image of a bloody mass of flesh and bones as we continued on towards the address Lambert had emailed over.