It Takes Two to Strangle (11 page)

His mind told him to pull back, to stop. This woman, while beautiful and more seductive than any other he had ever kissed, was vulnerable and possibly even a murderess. Her father had just died, her boyfriend had confessed to the killing and she had just told him that the boyfriend was protecting her. And on top of everything else, he had just made a date with Bethany Krims, who he’d been fantasizing about for two years. But Clara’s hands were now on both sides of his face, lightly grazing his jawline and her open mouth began a slow descent back down his neck. Damon let her continue while he wrestled with his conscience.

Clara made the decision for him. When she reached the base of his neck, she pulled back, let the point of her tongue dance playfully against his skin for a moment longer, then tucked it back inside her mouth and straightened up. She gave him another smile and reached to the table for her wine glass. Damon inched to the side so their bodies were no longer touching.

“Jordan didn’t kill my father,” she said. “I doubt he ever left our hotel on Wednesday night.”

Damon waited for more, noticing a mosquito that was noisily exploring the joint where the wall met the ceiling.

Clara continued. “Wednesday was an early night for us. We had dinner in south Arlington with friends. I know a good number of people in this area. A few years ago, I had a nursing externship at George Washington University Hospital in downtown D.C. Most of the nurses from the program still live here. We finished dinner at about nine o’clock, then Jordan and I came back to the hotel. We haven’t been talking too much for the past couple of weeks. I’ve been trying to find a way to break things off with Jordan but haven’t had the stomach to do it. We laid side by side on the hotel bed for about an hour. I was reading a magazine and he was reviewing a medical paper on his computer.”

The mosquito gained courage, and flew in a direct line toward Clara’s exposed ankles. She noticed and shook a foot when the mosquito came within close proximity. It changed course and left to survey the kitchen.

“Jordan and I had discussed my mom’s will a little bit. Both before and after that scene at the Fish Barrel. He said we didn’t need the money, but that’s not true. He doesn’t need the money, but I’m not going to marry him and I do need it. I don’t need it so badly that I’d murder my own father to get it, but Jordan thinks I killed him.”

“Why, Clara?” asked Damon.

She closed her eyes. “Because after we went to sleep on Wednesday night, I crept out of our hotel room to meet a man. A married man I know who lives in the District.”

Damon watched Clara closely. Eyes still shut, she folded her arms across her chest. It wasn’t a gesture of anger but one of comforting herself.

“Jordan and I were in bed by ten thirty and he was sleeping soundly before eleven. I waited another ten minutes, then crept out of the room. I never even left the Sheraton. My companion made up an overnight work trip and booked into the same hotel where Jordan and I were staying.” She opened her eyes and shook her head in a self-deprecating gesture. “I know I’m a horrible person. Trust me, I do. But it is what it is. I can’t let Jordan go to prison because I cheated on him.”

“Clara, you have to tell Gerry Sloman all of this.” The mosquito returned and landed directly on the point of the widow’s peak on Damon’s forehead. He blushed with self-consciousness and shooed it away.

“I just wasn’t ready to speak to the police yet,” Clara said. “I feel better about it now. Maybe you could take me down to the station, if you don’t mind.”

“I will, Clara. You know they’ll ask you who the man is.”

“I know. He’s an anesthesiologist at the hospital where I did my externship. He had just gotten married when I met him. We didn’t do anything at the time, but the tension was always there. In the past year, we’ve seen each other five times. Either up here or down in Richmond. It’s terrible. He has two children under the age of three and he loves them to death. He doesn’t stop talking about them. I think he loves his wife, too.” She wiped at dry eyes. “It’s just physical with me. But I think it makes me more comfortable with the relationship we have. I know that it can’t go beyond discrete encounters, so it doesn’t make me claustrophobic. If that makes sense.”

“It does,” Damon replied.

“I hope for his sake, our interlude doesn’t come out publicly. I’ll stop seeing him now, and I don’t want to have wrecked his marriage. I would hate for those kids to grow up without a father, or knowing that their father wasn’t faithful to their mother.”

Damon didn’t comment. He suspected that even if Clara broke it off with the anesthesiologist, another woman would take her place. Rather, he asked, “What time did you go back to your room that night?”

“About two in the morning. I didn’t want to stay away all night. I was ready to split with Jordan, but I still didn’t want him knowing that I was sneaking off behind his back.”

“So you think Jordan woke up while you were out of the room and he suspects you went to the fairgrounds?”

“I do. When I returned to the room, he appeared to be sleeping, but he could have been pretending. Or he could have been sleeping by then for real. But even before he made his ludicrous confession, I suspected he knew I snuck out. ”

“Why’s that?”

“The next morning, after the police called, we were driving to the fairgrounds and Jordan looked at me in a way I’ve never seen before. It was a combination of fear and protective determination. He thought I had killed my father during the overnight hours and I knew exactly what he was thinking.”

“I assume the police interviewed you separately at the fairgrounds,” Damon said. “You must have felt confident that Jordan wouldn’t say anything about you leaving the hotel room in the middle of the night.”

“I did. That’s why I didn’t tell the police.”

“So if neither of you said anything, why did he turn himself in now?”

“I don’t know. The police were digging into our histories. Some of my friends in Richmond have called me and said they spoke with the police, but I think the authorities were just grasping at straws.”

Clara went to freshen her face while Damon called Gerry. He couldn’t reach him so he told the receptionist at the police station to tell Gerry and Margaret Hobbes that he and Clara were coming in with information pertaining to Jordan Hall.

Chapter 10

Margaret was waiting in the station’s lobby and led Clara to a witness room. She ushered Damon into a holding area and requested that he remain so they could interview him after they spoke with Clara. Gerry turned up, looking significantly healthier than he had earlier in the day. He nodded at Damon as he passed by on his way to join Margaret and Clara.

Damon surveyed his surroundings. It reminded him of a dentist’s office, except not a single picture hung from the once brash, but now muted, pink and green flowered walls. Old magazines were strewn about a low center table.

Damon sat in an uncomfortable chair and read an article in Smithsonian Magazine about Samoa’s decision to move across the international date line to the west. The government of the tiny South Pacific nation had passed a law to align the country’s date with nearby Australia because it was difficult to accomplish business with the Aussies on Mondays when the Samoans were still enjoying their weekend. The upshot was that December 30, 2011, was never recognized by the Samoans—when the clock struck midnight after the night of December 29, the next minute was twelve o’ one on December 31.

Damon’s thoughts turned to Gerry. He probably felt similar to the Samoans who lost a day. Gerry had seen a murder confession vanish.

Damon felt a chill of sweat as the thought crossed his mind that Clara and Jordan had concocted an elaborate ruse to allow the pair to murder Lirim. It would account for the two separate ligature marks. But that didn’t add up. The police would question the anesthesiologist and he would confirm Clara’s story. And that in turn would clear Clara, unless the anesthesiologist and Clara were the co-murderers. Damon didn’t relish the thought of a new suspect.

Damon’s cogitation was cut off when Gerry stuck his head through the door. “Are you ready?”

Damon looked up. Despite the lateness of the hour, which was approaching eleven o’clock, Gerry was clean shaven and wearing a crisp white dress shirt and blue blazer. Damon followed him into an interview room, which Gerry described as the one for “friendly” witnesses. It was a square box of ten by ten feet, with light orange painted walls and a small window overlooking a massive parking lot. Margaret joined Gerry and Damon around an oblong table and brought in a bottle of water for each of them.

They took Damon methodically through the conversation he had that evening with Clara. Damon left out the three-minute interval of interwoven tongues and mashed bodies but relayed the remainder with as much accuracy as he could muster. From the look Gerry gave him when he recounted their move from the kitchen table to the leather sectional, Damon gathered that Clara hadn’t shied away from that part of the story.

After forty-five minutes, Gerry walked Damon outside to his car.

“I drove Clara here,” Damon said when they reached the Saab. “She took a taxi to my place.”

“I know. One of the patrol officers gave her a lift back to the Sheraton.”

“You’re not keeping her here?” Damon dug around in his jeans pocket for his keys.

“No. I had a brief conversation with the anesthesiologist before we brought you to the interview room. He volunteered to come into the station tomorrow morning.”

Damon lingered at the car door. “Will Clara and Jordan both be off the hook once you speak with him?”

Gerry gave him a knowing smile. “Would that suit you?” he asked with friendly maliciousness.

“Let’s not go there,” Damon responded. “But she told you?”

“She did. No worries, I won’t say anything. Especially when Friday night with Bethany is quickly approaching.” Damon had told Gerry, with pride, that very morning at the Dunkin’ Donuts about his upcoming date. Gerry switched gears back to the case. “It doesn’t let either completely off of the hook, but once we confirm the story, we’ll have to tell Jordan where Clara was the night Lirim died. I suspect he’ll recant his confession on the spot. Theoretically he could have had the time to get to the fairgrounds and back while Clara was with the other doctor. But it seems pretty unlikely, so he’ll drop to the bottom of the suspect list.”

“Will you ask the anesthesiologist’s wife if he was home on the night of the murder?”

“Probably not. The guy might be a slimeball, but we try to avoid wrecking families when we can avoid it. We’ll confirm with the Sheraton that he booked a room on the night in question. The problem is, even if he was staying at the hotel, it doesn’t help us much. He could have gone on a late-night murder outing with Clara or he could have watched television in the hotel room to provide Clara an alibi while she killed her father.”

Damon drove home through the intensely lit streets. The sidewalks were crammed with people. Saturday night revelers crowded rooftop bars and upscale clubs on the busy streets surrounding Arlington’s police headquarters. But two miles away, when Damon entered the pocket of Hollydale, the crowded sidewalks gave way to empty ones, save for a smattering of late-night dog walkers.

He had a message from Rebecca, apologizing for her emotions from the previous night and asking Damon to call her back. He looked at the clock. Twelve fifteen. Rebecca might still be awake but he wanted to speak to her in person. He sent a text message asking her to meet him at his house for coffee in the morning.

After taking out his contact lenses and scrubbing his face with a citrus-smelling soap that had appeared in his bathroom after one of his mother’s visits, Damon climbed on top of his bed’s comforter. He remonstrated himself for giving in to temptation with Clara earlier that evening. He had longed to take out Bethany Krims for two years, and six days before that dream became a reality he was exchanging saliva with a woman he just met. He wondered whether he would have had the fortitude to halt the encounter had Clara not done it first.

Had Clara really been too timid to go directly to the police? Damon didn’t have too difficult of a time landing dates, but Clara was a breathtaking woman. And she had thrown herself at him. He thought hard and put his ego in check. Clara knew he was close to Gerry Sloman. Was she trying to curry favor with Damon so that he would defend her to the police?

Damon checked his phone, saw Rebecca’s confirmation of “ok, be there at nine” and then opened his laptop. Margaret and Gerry didn’t know that Clara hadn’t told Damon the name of the anesthesiologist and the detectives used it freely. Dr. Anthony Weams. Damon didn’t have access to the library’s Lexis account remotely, so he decided to see what he could find using the Internet.

A straight Google search followed by a LinkedIn profile using George Washington University Hospital as a key word revealed a basic biography of the man. College at Washington University in St. Louis, medical school at Penn, followed by a residency at George Washington, where he was now on staff. Damon found a few distinctions and awards but nothing more. What had he expected to find, a detailed account of a crime spree?

He went to Facebook and waded through a bevy of profiles for men named Anthony Weams until he found the right one. There material available was sparse, but he found a tidbit of new information. Dr. Weams had attended “Battle Park High School.” Damon plugged the school’s name into his search engine and inhaled sharply when he saw the result. The high school was located less than ten miles outside of Uniontown, PA, where Clara’s grandparents had settled and only fifteen miles from the Cheat Lake suburb of Morgantown where Clara had grown up.