The next morning, Sin said her goodbyes to Manuel and Serena.
She and her unit made their way back to a small executive airport next to Tonconin International where Charlie met them for the flight home.
58
Sin sat in her rented apartment in Georgetown, mesmerized by what she saw on her computer monitor. Charlie had provided her with all the information he had amassed on Westcott and Marilyn.
He walked around the sparsely furnished room while Sin studied the screen. “You’ve been trailing Westcott for months,” he said, “and the best you could come up with was a card table, two chairs, and a mattress?”
Sin pointed to the kitchen. “There is a coffee maker and a fridge—all the necessities.” She stared at the monitor, “If I wasn’t looking at both pictures side-by-side, I wouldn’t believe it was the same person.”
“The difference is amazing,” Charlie said, standing behind her.
On the left side of the monitor was a picture of a chunky, plain, redhead. In that picture, the woman was standing next to Folsom Westcott.
“This picture—the before picture—was on your wall at the hangar, right?”
Charlie swigged the last of his cold coffee. “Yeah, it was taken on the day you graduated from the academy, six years ago. The original had you, me, and Alex in the foreground.” He leaned over Sin’s shoulder and moved the mouse to another file and clicked. “Here’s the original picture.”
On the screen was the picture Sin remembered from Charlie’s hangar. In the background were the mysterious redhead and Westcott.
Sin raked her fingers through her hair. “What made you think of looking at this photo?”
Charlie poured another mug of coffee and sat down in the metal folding chair beside Sin.
“After Heap was killed, there was a picture of his wife in the paper. Something about it didn’t sit right. It was as if she was too familiar and, it gnawed at me. I drove to the airport because I always think better when I pace the hangar. That’s when I saw this picture.” He pointed to the original. “Every time I looked at it, those eyes kept looking back at me. I scanned it into my computer, enhanced it, and stared at it with the same expression on my face as you have on yours right now.”
Sin sat back in her chair and stretched. “As farfetched as that is, I can accept it because you’re such a conspiracy theorist. But how did you go from point A,” she pointed at the before picture, “to point B?” she asked, pointing at the after photo. “I mean, damn, look at her. She must be at least eighty pounds lighter and her entire facial structure is different, not to mention the blond hair.”
“In this business, Sinclair, sometimes it’s not the things you see, but the things you don’t that are the biggest clues.”
“Come again, Obi Wan?”
“You can change a lot with plastic surgery. Hell, look at her. Every physical attribute was changed. But, what you can’t change in people are their postural cues. When people get stressed or too relaxed, they always go back to their natural movements.” Charlie took the mouse and scrolled down to another file. Opening it, he brought up a series of photos.
“You have to remember, I’ve been around Washington and Westcott for longer than I care to mention. I’d been in the company of Ms. Magdalene Ramirez a number of times.” He enlarged two photos. “This is the old Maggie. Look at the way she cocks her hip and stands with her right foot turned in. Back then,” Charlie said, “she used to walk with a limp.
“Now, look at the new and improved Maggie.” He enlarged a second photo. “I took this one two days after Heap’s funeral. Notice her posture.”
Sin eyed both photos. “I’ll be damned, same hip angle and same turning in of the foot.”
“Yeah, she even had a slight limp,” Charlie added, “it was just hard to notice because of her exaggerated hip sway.”
Sin stood and poured herself another cup of coffee. “Magdalene,” Sin mumbled under her breath, “all this time, I thought York was saying Marilyn and he was saying Magdalene.”
She looked at Charlie who had a smug expression on his face.
“Are you going to tell me how Westcott’s girlfriend; the fat, frumpy wall flower—Magdalene Ramirez, became the pious yet sexy, Maggie Heap or am I going to have to read the entire file?”
“Sit back down, young lady, and let Uncle Charlie tell you a story.”
“Wise ass,” Sin laughed. “I’m not sitting on your lap so don’t go there.”
Charlie chuckled. “As you know, everything is connected, and I’m not just talking this case.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Sin waved for him to proceed. “I know, the entire world is one big conspiracy. God and Satan are brothers and Bin Laden is still alive. So tell me something I don’t know.”
Charlie cut his eyes at Sin, turned his attention back to the monitor, and brought up another file. “Heap’s obituary told of how he had been married for nine years, but when I checked, there was no marriage license, so―”
“So, you kept digging.”
“Yeah,” Charlie pulled on his beard, “I kept digging. Now stay with me on this because it gets a little disjointed until it isn’t.”
“You mean like that sentence?”
“Anyway,” Charlie let the word hang for a few seconds before continuing, “Westcott has always kept his private life very private. A lot of people thought he was gay. Hell, maybe he is, it doesn’t really matter. Five years ago, he started to show up at functions unattended. A year later, Heap showed up in Tumbleboat with his wife.”
“Why would Heap show up with a fake wife?”
“It was all part Westcott’s plan. He handpicked Heap from the back woods of Louisiana. Heap was a small-time street preacher who claimed to be a prophet. He even preached that he was the second coming. He had no following and was just a bit delusional.”
“A bit? He sounds like he was more
