The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

“I have reason to believe she was at the White House until about one fifteen at which time she left and went to the Mall. Does any of this sound familiar to you?”

  Roth’s face is drained of color. “I can’t be of any help.”

  “How long was Sandra on the Presidential Protection Detail?”

  “I never said she was on the Presidential Protection Detail.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  I get to my feet and Roth rises, too, obviously relieved to see me go. “I’ll escort you to the front entrance,” he announces.

  “That’s not necessary. I can find my own way.”

  Roth opens the door to his office and gestures for me to go through. “I’m afraid outsiders must be accompanied at all times.” He smiles. Not friendly. “You know … rules.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “MR. ZORN?” A voice calls out urgently. A tall, athletic black man, in his mid-thirties, wearing a business suit, white shirt, an understated tie, and the five-pointed star, the badge of the Secret Service, on his left lapel, grasps my left arm. “You and I have got to talk.”

  “You are?”

  He looks around nervously. Crowds of men and women surge in and out of the entrance of the Secret Service headquarters. “Not here. Somewhere private. It’s urgent.”

  Am I being set up? I wonder. Is this some con Roth has cooked up to entrap me into something? But the man standing before me looks sincerely distraught. I don’t think he’s faking it.

  “There’s a bar on 7th Street. O’Toole’s Irish Sports Pub,” I say. “Meet me there in ten minutes. I’ll be in the booth at the back.”

  The man nods and disappears quickly into the scrum of pedestrians. I walk slowly away, careful not to look back. I stop at a small store with a sign that advertises “Food & Gifts” and pick up this morning’s Washington Post. Then, on impulse, I buy a pack of cigarettes. I promise myself I won’t open it until late this afternoon. I walk two blocks and, in less than ten minutes, I’m in O’Toole’s, sitting in a booth where I can watch who comes and goes.

  As usual, it’s cool and dark in O’Toole’s. At this early hour the lunch crowd hasn’t yet arrived. What makes O’Toole’s a sports pub are several large TV screens above the bar, all but one turned off this morning. Half a dozen employees are watching the one operating TV that’s showing a soccer game. The commentary is in Spanish. What makes O’Toole’s Irish are some sad-looking shamrock decals glued to the beer-stained bar.

  Two guys sit at the bar, one looks vaguely Hispanic, the other, a broad-shouldered man, could be anything. I can’t see his face. He wears what looks like a knock-off Rolex watch on his left wrist. The band and the bezel are bright gold and sparkle with fake diamonds. He has a thick roll of fat at the back of his collar.

  The Metro section of the Washington Post contains a two-column story about the discovery of a woman’s body in the Reflecting Pool the day before. No identification is given and no cause of death announced. There is an official statement from the Park Service saying nothing but no statement at all from the DC police. The rest of the article is taken up with irrelevant and trivial historical factoids about the Reflecting Pool, mostly involving sexual shenanigans. At the end, the writer adds a paragraph about the recent crime wave in Washington and the influx of illegal drugs and suggests a connection with the death of the woman in the Pool. I quickly lose interest and glance at the front page, which includes an article about the death of a general who, it seems, was a big deal and who is scheduled to be buried in Arlington Cemetery. The White House spokesman has announced that the President and the First Lady will attend the funeral. It’s a slow news day.

  Exactly ten minutes after I left him, the man I met on the street in front of the Secret Service headquarters enters. He glances quickly at the men watching the soccer match, a little more carefully at the two men at the bar, then slides into the booth opposite me.

  “Thank you for seeing me like this, Detective Zorn.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I was standing behind you at the reception desk at Headquarters. I couldn’t help but overhear you. Sorry. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  “Who are you?”

  The man pulls a laminated plastic ID badge on a chain from his shirt pocket and shows it to me. It’s just like the ones Roth and Mrs. Kirkland had except this dog tag tells me the man is named Larry Talbot and he’s a Secret Service Special Agent.

  “You’re with the DC police?” Talbot leans forward across the table, his voice low. “You’re investigating the death of Sandra Wilcox? Is that right?”

  “Tell me what your interest is.”

  Talbot glances around and assures himself no one is close enough to hear. “First some ground rules. Are you going to make a record of what I tell you?”

  “That’s what I would normally do.”

  “And you would put your notes in a case file. That right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t want you to write down what I say here today. Not for your case file. Not for anywhere. Is that understood? What I say is for you only.”

  “If I don’t agree?”

  “Then this conversation ends right now. I say goodbye and I walk out that door.”

  “You’d be trusting me to make no record. Somebody you’ve never met before.”

  “Sometimes you have to trust someone,” Talbot says. “Even a stranger.”

  “So I’ve been told. You think the Secret Service has ways to access confidential DC police files?”

  “Of course we do.”

  “Okay. No record. No file.”

  Talbot shifts his position in the booth, glances around to see no one is listening. The place is beginning to fill up with the early lunch crowd. Three young women take a table nearby but show no interest in us. Each places her cell phone on the table. Two more men take seats at the bar. One is tall and overweight with thinning hair. The second man is short and stocky. Neither looks at us.

  “I’m not supposed to be talking to you,” Talbot says. “I’m not supposed to talk to the police. I’m out on a limb here.”

  “Who told you not to talk to the police?”

  “The top brass. They say Sandra was killed in a robbery attempt that went wrong. End of story.”

  “And you don’t believe that.”

  “Of course not, that’s why I had to speak with you.”

  “Why don’t you believe it was a botched robbery?”

  “Why would Sandy be out in the Mall in the middle of the night?” Talbot glances around the bar. “That makes no sense.”

  “Did she like to take walks by herself ? You know—to get away from it all?”

  “She’d never do that. She was on duty the night she died.”

  “Tell me about you and Sandra Wilcox.”

  “Sandy was a friend. A very close friend.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Just what you think it means.” He takes a deep breath.

  “Do you know if she had any allergies?”

  “Of course. She was allergic to peanuts. What has that got to do with anything?”

  “When did you two meet?”

  “About two years ago we were both assigned to the Secret Service’s Atlanta Field Office. We started going out. It went on from there.”

  “Were you two thinking of getting married?”

  “Nothing formal. No engagement. No ring. But yes, we talked about it.”

  “And then you two were no longer thinking about getting married.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What changed?”

  “Maybe I changed. Maybe she changed. Who knows?”

  “When did this change happen?”

  “Our relationship was fine until she was transferred here to DC.”

  At this point, one of the waiters decides to acknowledge the existence of paying customers and wanders over to take our orders. He glances over his shoulder, anxious not to miss a goal.

  “One cerveza
negra,” I say and look at Talbot who shakes his head. “Nothing for me. I’m on duty.”

  The waiter disappears.

  “When Sandy was transferred to DC,” Talbot goes on, “it was kind of sudden. I was transferred here three months later—to a Counter Assault Team. I tried to pick up the relationship where we’d left off. But it didn’t work out. I’d invite her to dinner. She’d have an excuse. It was very polite and cordial. No harsh words. Nothing like that.”

  “You think Sandra might have fallen in love with someone?”

  Talbot actually grimaces. “I think she was seeing someone.”

  “Who was it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. She would never tell me.”

  The girls at the nearby table order a round of margaritas.

  “You think it was somebody in the Secret Service?” I ask.

  “Sandy didn’t really know anybody except the people she worked with. She wasn’t a party girl. It had to be somebody in the Service.”

  At this point our waiter places a bottle of beer in front of me.

  “Where were you the night before last?”

  “You can’t suggest …”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I just want to know where you were the night Sandra was murdered.”

  “Are you saying I killed her? I loved her.”

  “Sorry, that doesn’t wash,” I say. “In my experience, love is the prime motive for murder.”

  “I was on duty at our office in the Old Executive Office building until about ten that evening. Then I was out drinking with friends.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “Many.”

  “About a month ago Sandra took a trip.”

  Talbot nods. “She went to Greensboro, South Carolina.”

  “Did she tell you about that?”

  “She visited her sister-in-law.”

  “What’s her sister-in-law’s name?”

  “Anne Lovell.”

  “Sandra had a brother?” I ask.

  “Tony, I think his name is. I never met him.”

  “You ever meet Anne Lovell?”

  “Never.”

  “Do you know why Sandra visited Anne Lovell?”

  “Family business, I think. Sandy never said. She was very private about family matters.”

  “Who’s handling the investigation of the Wilcox murder within the Secret Service?”

  “A man named Patrick Grier,” Talbot says. “He’s the Director of the Office of Protective Operations.”

  “I need to talk to Grier. How do I reach him?”

  Talbot takes a small book from his inside jacket pocket and scribbles a note, tears the page off and hands it to me. “That’s his private cell number. Whatever you do, don’t tell him I gave it to you. He’ll kill me.”

  At this point, Talbot’s cell phone rings and he takes it from his pocket. “Yes,” he says in a low voice. He listens intently then returns the phone to his pocket. “I’ve got to go. That was Headquarters. They want me back on the double.”

  He places his business card on the table and stands up. “Will you find the son-of-a-bitch who killed my Sandy, Detective?”

  “I will.”

  “I know you can’t bring Sandy back, but I’ll never rest until I know her killer is burning in hell.”

  “I’ll try to arrange for that,” I assure him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE PUB HAS filled up. Customers, young people mostly, from nearby offices, take their seats at their tables and study the food-stained menus. The staff disperses from watching the game on TV and returns to their stations. The girls at the next table are beginning to show the effects of the margaritas. They laugh loudly and their voices rise in pitch. My waiter shows up to ask whether I need anything else.

  The beer the waiter brought earlier is now almost drinkable. Like most sports bars, the beer is served ice cold to the point it has no taste. I order another beer and some onion rings. I figure I’ll be at O’Toole’s for a while.

  My cell phone rings. It’s FBI agent Lovelace. “I have something for you,” she says. “Something’s going on, something I don’t understand. And don’t like. I keep running into a stone wall. My investigation is being blocked.”

  “I’m having the same experience,” I tell her.

  “What’s happening?”

  “We should compare notes. Can you meet me for dinner this evening?”

  “You buying?”

  “Depends.”

  “Le Zink? At eight o’clock. I like Roberta.” She hangs up.

  Kenneth Blake is next on my call list. “Kenneth,” I say. “How are the Park cops doing?”

  “They’re still wading through the Pool. They’re not happy.”

  “They find anything?”

  “Lots of really disgusting stuff.”

  “Then you might as well go back to the office. I’ll be away the rest of the afternoon.”

  My onion rings and frozen beer arrive. I drink some of my old beer, and eat two greasy onion rings. Then make what will be the first of two more calls.

  Howard Walsh is so high up in the federal government that my nose bleeds when I visit his office. It takes most people a week just to get an appointment to speak to his assistant. My name usually serves to cut through this. The fact that I can get through doesn’t mean my calls are welcome.

  “Zorn? What do you want?” The voice is a deep, rumbling baritone familiar to millions of TV viewers from his appearances before congressional committees and Sunday talk shows.

  “How is Billy?” I ask. This is mean, but I’m in a hurry and I need to get to the point.

  “Leave Billy out of this,” Walsh says, impatiently. “What do you want?”

  “I need your help.” Silence at the other end. “Have you ever heard of a woman named Sandra Wilcox?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “She was murdered. Her body was found in the Reflecting Pool on the Mall. I’m the investigating officer.”

  “I saw something in the paper about that. What’s it got to do with me?”

  “She was a Secret Service agent.”

  “What of it?”

  “The Secret Service is part of the Department of Homeland Security. That’s your department.”

  “It’s not my department. I just work here. And the Secret Service is not part of my portfolio.”

  “Somebody has issued a gag order on my investigation into the murder of this Secret Service agent. People have been told to shut me down. No one is supposed to cooperate with me. Or with the FBI.”

  “Why is the FBI involved?”

  I ignore his question. “Here’s what I want, Howard. I want to know why this gag order was issued. What are people worried about?”

  Long silence. Then: “You just want to know why someone has issued a directive not to cooperate with your investigation?” Walsh asks. “Is that all?”

  “That’s all.” Another silence.

  “What was the name of the victim again?”

  “Sandra Wilcox.”

  “Okay. I’ll make a few calls. No promises. That’s all I’m prepared to do.”

  “Just a phone call or two. And say hello to Billy for me.”

  “You make me sick.” Walsh slams down the phone at his end.

  I really hate to bring up Billy. A few years ago Howard Walsh’s son got himself into some trouble that could have resulted in serious prison time and, incidentally, end Howard’s political career. I was the investigating officer on that case and I overlooked a few issues and cut some corners. Walsh owes me. I don’t like to call in my debts so callously, but I need to bring home the urgency of my situation.

  I dial the number Talbot gave me.

  “Hello! Pat Grier here,” the voice on the other end of the line announces.

  “My name is Marko Zorn. I’m with the—”

  “I know who the fuck you are, Zorn. How the fuck did you get my telephone number?”

  “I’m investigating the murder of Sandr
a Wilcox.”

  “I know that. Don’t bother me!”

  “You’re in serious violation of the District of Columbia Penal Code, sir,” I say.

  “What are you talking about? What violation?”

  “Obstruction of justice. Illegal seizure of property. The details will be explained at the hearing.”

  “What property are you talking about? What hearing?”

  “Your people entered the apartment of the late Sandra Wilcox and seized her computer, private papers, and correspondence. All without a warrant.”

  “Fuck off, Officer. This is none of your business.”

  “I must insist that you turn over to me all items seized from Sandra Wilcox’s apartment. Forthwith!” I like the word “forthwith.”

  “We did not seize anything. Some items were given to certain authorized agents willingly by Sandra Wilcox’s roommate.”

  “Trisha Connelly had no authority to give you squat. Least of all items pertaining to a criminal investigation.” I also like the word “pertaining.”

  “This is a Secret Service investigation,” Grier yells at me. “The DC police have no business interfering. Understand? We are within our rights to take whatever materials we think necessary.”

  “You’d better have your lawyers review the DC Penal Code on that point. If you do not comply, forthwith, I’ll come to your office with a van and a couple of large cops. They’ll load the van with the evidence you stole. If you make trouble, I will charge you with resisting arrest.”

  “If you or your flatfoots come anywhere near my office, I’ll have you and your men fired.”

  “You might want to reconsider that, Grier.”

  “Fuck off!” The phone goes dead. The exchange with Grier went rather well, I think.

  There’s no point in hurrying. I wait patiently for the call I know is coming at any moment as I drink my beer and eat two more onion rings.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MY PHONE RINGS. “Damn it, Zorn, what are you up to?” Frank Townsend demands.

  “I’m investigating a murder.”

  “I know that. I’m getting more calls complaining about you. Yesterday it was the Department of the Interior. I’m told you made half the members of the Park Police wade through the Reflecting Pool. So far they’ve found nothing.”