The False Mirror

by Dana V. Moison

  Rob intended to reply, but she interjected, “Besides, this case is close to home, literally. I’ve known Rebecca Hershenberg for years; how could I not try to help her?” she asked, piercing Rob’s eyes with a heart-rending gaze.

  “All right, Davis,” he said submissively. “Darn it, I really hope the commissioner won’t hear about this, at least not anytime soon. In light of your recent success catching the Sleeping Beauties Affair’s murderess, he asked me personally to put you in charge of the case.”

  “Thanks, Captain. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “As long as you’re back before the commissioner knows it.”

  ***

  It was just before noon. Sharon felt her stomach begin to growl but ignored it. She had a long day ahead of her, and not a minute to spare.

  She had to find someone who would handle Tracy’s investigation until she got back in case more developments arise. She was hoping there wouldn’t be any, especially if it involved more dead bodies of other high-profile call girls. That was the last thing she needed right now.

  The cops who’d been around for a while knew the downsides of working on a case with such well-connected suspects, and they preferred to steer clear of it all. The rookies, on the other hand, who were just looking for a way to prove themselves, jumped at the opportunity to work on such an important and televised case that could possibly bring them their fifteen minutes of fame, along with a new promotion.

  Oh, the age of innocence.

  She spent the morning delivering a briefing on the case to a pair of rookie cops. The first thing she told them was that if anything came up, they must immediately inform her or Captain Jackie.

  At the mention of the big boss’s name, the two newbies exchanged excited looks.

  Sharon stressed, repeatedly, that they were only assisting, with no real authority. Furthermore, she emphasized, it was merely a formality since she had to go out of town for work. If it were up to her, she would have continued flying solo. Also, they better not become a pain in her neck for the next few days – even though she would be in a different state.

  Sharon wondered why Rob was complaining that she wasn’t a team player. So far, things were going great.

  The little clock hand showed it was already past noon, and Sharon was facing the harder part of the day: speaking to the men whose names were on Tracy’s little black book. Since it was a lengthy list, and due to the lack of concrete evidence linking even one name to the murder, she preferred to start with a courteous phone call before summoning New York’s top one-percent for questioning. Besides, if there was something she’d learned from dealing with these types of people, it was that they couldn’t call their lawyer while they were already on the phone with the police.

  Sharon thumbed through her yellow notepad and looked at the disorganized list she had been working on the last few nights: the names of potential suspects in the Navarro murder case.

  “Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe,” she whispered while passing her finger along the list.

  The lucky winner was none other than William McKenzie, who also happened to be one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.

  With a feeling of anticipation, not quite sure about what, she dialed the phone number. It was answered on the second ring by McKenzie’s assistant.

  Unexpectedly, she transferred the call rather quickly to the entrepreneur’s direct line.

  “Detective Sharon Davis . . . to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  To her surprise, she didn’t hear a shred of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Tracy Navarro,” she opened without any official mannerisms. “Rumor has it that you were involved with her.”

  “Oh, right. One drunken night with her has gotten me in the notorious ‘Little Black Book’.” She could almost hear the air-quotes. “But it was a long time ago,” he stressed.

  “When, exactly?” she asked.

  “A couple of years ago, I think. I was at an opening party for this new club in the Meatpacking District around Chelsea and had too much to drink. I didn’t even know she was a call girl.”

  That’s what they all say . . .

  There was a suspicious silence from the other side of the line. Did she just say that out loud?

  “Yeah, I know it probably sounds like the lamest story ever,” continued William, assuring her that, at least this time, she had kept her tactlessness all to herself. “But believe me when I say that I’m not in the habit of paying for these sorts of things . . .”

  She could almost hear the smile in his voice. William McKenzie had a good reason for being chosen as New York’s most eligible bachelor. In other words, he had the looks of a movie star with the bank account of Donald Trump. At least, that was how he looked in the photos that flooded the search screen when she typed in his name for her preliminary research.

  “All right, let’s say that’s how it was. Have you seen her since then?” she continued probing.

  “I’m sure I’ve seen her as some tycoon’s arm candy over the past couple of years, but we haven’t said a word to each other since that night. Between you and me, she wasn’t much of a conversationalist.”

  Sharon couldn’t stop herself and let out the smallest laugh.

  “Finally,” he declared triumphantly. “I managed to break the ice!”

  She could hear him smiling again. This time, she envisioned a smug grin of a Don Juan managing to charm every maiden crossing his path, even if she was a homicide detective questioning him about a recent murder.

  “And now, it’s my turn to solve the mystery,” she retorted.

  “Beautiful and sharp,” he said. “Just how I like ‘em.”

  Sharon shifted uncomfortably in her chair. It seemed as though McKenzie had done some preliminary research of his own. She returned her gaze to the yellow notepad, where she’d drawn a five-column table. The first column referred to the suspect’s identity and was labeled “Name”. The second column was for the identification of tension or nervousness throughout the conversation or, in short, “Stress”. The third column regarded the existence of an alibi for the night of the murder and was aptly named “Alibi”. The forth column addressed any suspicions that the interviewee wasn’t fully forthcoming and was entitled “Liar”. The final column was for additional remarks and therefore called “Additional Remarks”.

  So far, she hadn’t recognized in McKenzie's tone of voice any sense of stress or an attempt to hide anything, but she noted in the fifth column with her black pen, full of himself. Now it was time to check what would go in the third column.

  “I hope you weren’t offended by what I said,” he quickly added, misinterpreting her silence as a sign of uneasiness. “I only meant it as a compliment.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. McKenzie. I deal with brutal crimes on a daily basis; I think I can handle a few failing flirting attempts.”

  POW!

  “Wow. That hurt, Sharon. I haven’t asked you out yet, and already you think I’m a failure?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find someone who’d disagree with me.”

  Or rather, every other woman in New York . . .

  “But what about The New York Times’ favorite detective? Ever since I read the profile article about you catching that crazy serial killer, I thought to myself that we should meet. Pretty and witty, have I mentioned?”

  Sharon could feel the flush rising up her cheeks and was glad he couldn’t see her. She had to regain control of the conversation.

  “Mr. McKenzie,” she said reproachfully.

  “You can call me Will,” he interrupted.

  “Will,” she continued, “I’m sure you’re a great guy, but I’m spoken for. Now, let’s get back to the subject. Where were you last Sunday night, September 12th?”

  Will didn’t answer.

  Could it be that he doesn’t have an alibi?

  “Lucky fellow.”

  Sharon was completely dumbfounded. The man needs to answer a question that could possib
ly incriminate him of murder, and that’s what he cares about? Could he be stalling?

  “And about Sunday night?” she insisted.

  “I would like to say that I have no alibi in the off-chance you’d invite me over for a questioning and we could meet in person . . .” his voice lingered. “But last weekend I was at a conference in San Francisco. I only got back on Monday morning. I can have my assistant send you the details.”

  “I’ll be waiting to hear from her,” said Sharon and made a note to herself in small writing in the corresponding column, San Francisco. Confirm alibi. “The NYPD thanks you for your cooperation.”

  “It was a pleasure speaking with you, Sharon,” he deliberately used her first name. “And I certainly hope it won’t be the last time . . .”

  CHAPTER 33

  September 17, 2013. Manhattan, New York

  While waiting for the subway, Sharon reviewed the names of her “privileged” suspects. She wasn’t able to get a hold of all of them as some were out of the country, in the middle of a meeting, or just playing hard to get, as expected of people of their stature. She could cross off two names due to rock-solid alibis: Robert Chase, the renowned architect, who had spent the last three months in his new building project in Dubai, and Harry Dolton, the famous businessman. He just undergone heart surgery in Cleveland and was still in recovery.

  The other names on the list, however, also seemed to have satisfactory alibis for the night of Tracy’s murder, which made Sharon wonder if she should start shifting her thinking. After all, people with so much to lose most likely wouldn’t do the dirty work themselves. It was true that considering the timing of the revelation of the little black book – and the obvious motive of preventing any additional publicity and, perhaps, even revenge – it was reasonable to assume that the killer’s name was among those in the book. Nevertheless, it was also possible that the killer was the one whose name wasn’t there.

  The train arrived at the station, and Sharon absentmindedly stepped into one of the last cars. Did Tracy have a boyfriend? Perhaps a secret lover who could no longer tolerate her involvement with other men and became enraged with jealousy? After all, it was a well-known fact that, in the vast majority of murder cases, the culprit was someone close to the victim, like a family member or spouse. On the other hand, this murder had all the markings of a professional “hit”. In fact, if it weren’t for Ivory Lambert’s exceptional observation skills during the autopsy, this meticulous murder would probably never have turned up. It didn’t fit the assumption that someone close to Tracy simply lost their temper and killed her. No, this was a cold, well-thought-out, and strategically planned act. Tracy needed to be eliminated, yet, as intricate as the reasons might have been, Sharon still did not know why. What she did know was that Tracy’s murder was premeditated. Tracy had constituted a problem for someone, and her death was a necessary solution. It wasn’t improbable that in order to solve this problem, someone had been paid a lot of money – the one commodity her current roster of suspects didn’t lack.

  So, what was she missing?

  Sharon texted the pair of rookies who were supposed to work on the case in her absence; she asked them to forward her the contact list from Tracy’s phone as soon as possible. Tracy’s little black book was purely metaphorical, and there was no physical booklet hidden in a secret drawer in her nightstand. The names were all saved in her phone under the “Clients” group she had created, strictly on a first name basis. Tracy completed the missing information only after she had closed a deal with the tabloid that published the story and had cashed her big fat check.

  It was time for the Sisyphean task of rolling up her sleeves and starting to cross off the names saved on Tracy’s cell with the published list. Perhaps someone had managed to avoid exposure? Well, in that case, she would have their phone number to trace them. Thank you, Tracy.

  But until she got the necessary information, she would have to concentrate on the task at hand. She and Jacob were supposed to fly tomorrow morning to Oklahoma in hopes of finding, in Becky’s house, a hint of any information regarding the money’s whereabouts. Maybe a secret safe or a bank account overseas where Emily Webber could have hidden millions of dollars? As long as they found something.

  The announcer’s voice interrupted her thoughts and reminded her to get off at the next station. Sharon glanced at her watch: Chris was supposed to meet her in twenty minutes, and she hadn’t packed yet, let alone arrived home. What an ironic misfortune that he had returned from his business trip just the night before her upcoming flight – a tight schedule indeed. Chris was supposed to come to her place straight from the airport. Sharon tried to call him and make sure he had landed safely, but there was no reception underground.

  Twenty minutes later, she was climbing the staircase to her apartment. As Sharon ascended, she noticed the doorway was blocked by a giant vase with beautiful white orchids. A broad smile appeared on her face.

  “Oh, Chris,” she whispered excitedly.

  Sharon skipped up the last few steps. The scent of fresh flowers filled her nose. She noticed a white envelope tied to the vase with a golden bow. What was all this formality for?

  Sharon, join me for dinner tonight. Will.

  “Damn it,” sighed Sharon.

  A few seconds later, Chris came up the stairs.

  “Flowers, for me? You shouldn’t have,” he joked.

  “It’s not funny, Chris.” She folded the card and tucked it into her pocket.

  “So, who got you the flowers?” he asked teasingly, although there was a slight note of jealousy rising from his voice. “Did you manage to find yourself a secret admirer while I was away?”

  “He’s not that secret. Actually, he’s one of the potential suspects in the Navarro case.”

  “Geez, these old rich folks think they can get you fancy flowers and avoid questioning?!”

  Sharon wondered whether she should correct Chris and tell him that the person in question was actually a young and handsome entrepreneur who had been crowned the most eligible bachelor in New York.

  She decided she’d better not.

  “Yeah . . .” The sweet smell of flowers rose up her nose again, and a tiny smile snuck its way onto her lips.

  “Well, it may not be a two-hundred-dollar bouquet of flowers, but I brought you a little something, too,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.

  From his pocket, he drew out a keychain decorated with a flower illustration.

  “I saw it while I was at the airport and immediately thought of you. It’s a Cherokee rose, the state flower of Georgia.”

  Sharon looked at the white petals, centered around the golden stamens. Their simple beauty captivated her even more than the delicate elegance of the expensive orchids.

  “It’s perfect!” She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

  CHAPTER 34

  September 18, 2013. Manhattan, New York

  Dawn broke over the city. Sharon, wrapped in Chris’s arms, was awakened by the alarm clock.

  “I should get moving,” she mumbled, her eyes still closed.

  “Stay,” said Chris and fastened his arms around her.

  “I wish I could.” She slowly opened her eyes and reached for her cell phone. The blurry digits on the screen became clearer. It was 5:00 a.m.

  “Catch the next flight; I’ll pay for it,” he said in a half-asleep voice.

  “Yeah, I’m sure Rob will be just fine with that.”

  “Me too,” he mumbled. “Now, go back to sleep.”

  “Chris, I mean it. I have to go,” she repeated, feeling more awake.

  Well, as awake as one could be before their morning coffee.

  “All right,” he resigned.

  “Then let me go!” she cried aloud, trying to free herself from his grip.

  In response, Chris mobilized his legs to the binding task and squeezed her even harder.

  “Argh, you can be such an idiot sometimes!” She tried to sound irritated despi
te the smile that had already appeared on her face.

  “If I were you, I would try flattery rather than insults,” he said calmly. “For example, tell me how smart I am, how handsome I am, how I’m God’s greatest gift to women . . .”

  Sharon burst into laughter and repeated in a slightly different intonation, “You are smart and handsome and God’s greatest gift to women.”

  “Open Sesame!” he called and opened his arms.

  Sharon hopped out of bed and got ready swiftly while Chris was still napping. She brushed her teeth while operating the espresso machine, tossed a few more clothes to her overnight bag, and got dressed quickly. She kissed Chris goodbye and headed to the front door.

  As she was about to leave, she noticed the keychain Chris had given her the night before lying on the dresser. Before she headed out the door, she took it and added it to her keyring.

  CHAPTER 35

  September 18, 2013. JFK Airport, New York

  Justin: I can’t believe I’ll finally get to see you again :):):)

  Becky: I can’t wait!!! It feels like foreverrrrrrrrr.

  Justin: Everybody misses you.

  I miss you.

  Becky: Me too. You can’t even imagine.

  Just a few more hours :D

  Justin: You’re already on the plane?

  Becky: Soon . . .

  Justin: I hope you got a window seat so you can look at the city from above :)

  Becky: Uncle Jake, Sharon and I are all sitting in the same row. I don’t think it’ll be a problem ;)

  Justin: Sharon?

  Becky: Ahh, not sure how much can I talk about her yet. Let’s just call her a nice lady who’s helping us.