The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

  It’s a rhetorical question and I don’t feel a need to answer. “Did they identify the shooters?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m not sure where this is going.”

  “One of the neighbors reported seeing a convertible parked on a side street near the gardens about the time of the shootings. It was described as a foreign roadster. Green. You drive a green Jaguar convertible. Isn’t that right?”

  “It’s not really green. It’s more lime colored.”

  “The phone used to call 911 was one of those cell phones that are untraceable,” Carla Lowry says, looking at me intensely. Her eyes flick to the gash on my head. “I’ve asked the NSA to identify the caller. I’m not optimistic.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “I think so. Do you know anything about this incident?” Carla demands.

  “Not a thing.”

  “I didn’t think you would. Now get out of here, both of you. Go find the son-of-a-bitch that killed that woman.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “DO YOU AND Carla Lowry have a history,” Arora demands, placing her coffee mug into its saucer. Arora watches me, her expression unreadable, as we sit in the FBI cafeteria, waiting for the call. There’s a coolness between us. “Because, if you do have a history,” she says, “I need to know.”

  “You could say we have a history,” I say.

  “Good history? Bad History?”

  “You know. History.”

  “You mean like The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire?”

  “Not quite that long but more complicated.”

  The cafeteria is one you find in most government buildings, an operation outsourced to a large corporation that won the contract with the General Services Administration by making the lowest bid. Which accounts for the quality of the coffee.

  Arora picks up her mug and drinks. “It’s none of my business,” she says. “But if we’re going to work together, I need to understand the conditions. Is there anything in your past relationship with Director Lowry I should know about?”

  “Nothing that affects this case.”

  She looks at me skeptically. “What about last night?—after we parted company at the restaurant. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “You have bruises on your face. You have a cut on your head. You’re limping. You didn’t have any of that last night when we had dinner. Was there anything to the incident Director Lowry mentioned you want to tell me about?”

  “Nothing. I was at home, on my deck overlooking Rock Creek Park, when this incident took place.”

  “How do you know when the incident took place? Director Lowry didn’t mention a time.”

  “Just guessing.”

  Arora’s cell phone rings. She looks at me enigmatically, then answers the call. Arora nods and murmurs a few “yeses” then the conversation is terminated and Arora gives me a thumbs-up. “We’re on!” she says. “There’s a plane waiting for us at Andrews.”

  We take my Jag, figuring we’ll get to Andrews faster than by either of us requisitioning an official car. Arora is silent on the hour’s drive. There’s clearly a lot on her mind that she doesn’t want to talk about. When we reach the main gate of Joint Base Andrews, we’re stopped by a heavily armed Air Force sergeant wearing a Kevlar vest and combat helmet. He’s not impressed by Arora’s FBI credentials. Even less by my Metropolitan Police ID. He is impressed by my Jag convertible. Arora makes a quick call to the FBI base-liaison office and, on speaking with someone there, the guard grudgingly opens the gates, lets us through, and gives us directions on how to find our destination.

  The FBI office is housed in one of the many undistinguished buildings scattered around the base. An FBI clerk meets us as we drive up, shows me where to park the Jag, and escorts us through the building directly out onto the tarmac. A few hundred feet away a Learjet 70, with FBI markings on its tail, awaits us. We hurry across the tarmac. The front steps have already been lowered and we clamber up quickly. At the top, we’re met by a man in some kind of uniform who gives us a half-assed salute.

  “Terry Snowden,” he tells us. “Second officer. We’re all fueled and serviced and ready to roll. Buckle yourselves in. We leave in a few minutes.”

  With that, he pulls up the steps behind us, secures the hatch, and disappears onto the flight deck while Arora and I find our places on the empty 8-seat aircraft that’s obviously been operating for some time. The seats are comfortable but worn. There is no cute flight attendant offering free drinks or instructions about flotation devices. Instead we hear the disembodied voice of what I suppose is the First Officer.

  “We’re cleared for takeoff and will be leaving momentarily. It looks like clear weather to Greensboro and it should be a smooth flight. Hang on.”

  We’re in motion, rolling along taxiways, and then turning onto the takeoff runway. We pause briefly, and then we’re moving again. Fast. Out my window I catch a glimpse of a monster Boeing 747 aircraft half a mile away—Air Force One. Surrounding it are uniformed service personnel and armed guards. Almost before I know it, we’re airborne, rising into thin clouds.

  Our FBI aircraft lands without incident at Piedmont Triad Airport in North Carolina. When the plane has come to a stop in front of what appears to be a service building, the Second Officer emerges from the flight deck, smiling.

  “Good trip, folks?” he asks and, without waiting for an answer, opens the hatch and lowers the steps. A hurricane of hot air sweeps into the aircraft as if he’d opened a furnace door.

  “We’ll wait for you here,” the officer tells us. “We must be airborne no later than three forty. If you’re later than three thirty, you’ll have to find your own transportation back to DC.” He makes another half-assed salute, and Arora and I hurry down the steps and across the broiling tarmac.

  An FBI sedan is waiting for us at the edge of the landing strip. A man climbs out as we approach and holds the passenger door open for us.

  “Martin Tolls,” he tells us. “Charlotte field office.” Arora introduces herself. “Special Agent Lovelace.” She shows Tolls her FBI ID. “That’s Detective Zorn. DC police.” She waves vaguely at me.

  “Get in,” the local FBI guy tells us. “Get out of the heat. I’ve got the AC going full blast.”

  We climb into the car and Tolls quickly closes the doors behind us. We gratefully breathe in the cool air. Tolls gets in the driver’s seat, slides the shift into drive, and we’re on our way, out of the airport and onto a four-lane highway, through a small town with some fast-food restaurants, a filling station, a small motel, a Waffle Shop, and two tanning salons. I wonder why there are two. Then we’re in the country.

  “How far are we going?” Arora wants to know.

  “Fifteen miles. Give or take.”

  “Is Mrs. Wilcox expecting us?” I ask.

  “It’s Miss Lovell now. She uses her maiden name. I talked to her within the hour and told her you were on the way.”

  I think about how I’m going to approach this Miss Lovell. I imagine Arora is doing the same.

  “There’s a guy there with her,” Tolls informs us. “His name is Ron.”

  “Permanent guest?” I ask.

  “Pretty much.”

  Twenty minutes later we turn off the interstate highway onto a two-lane road, go through a small town, past an Exxon filling station, a motel, a garage, and a Dollar Store and, just outside of town, we pull into a driveway. In front of us is a small ranch-style house with a breezeway in which is parked a Ford pickup. On the front lawn a child’s blue tricycle lies on its side.

  “You want me to come in with you?” Tolls asks.

  “You stay here and keep cool,” Arora answers. “I don’t want to overwhelm Miss Lovell by having a crowd question her.” She glances at me but adds nothing.

  Arora and I climb out of the car and, once more, into the heat. We walk briskly, or as briskly as the heat allows, to the front door. Arora rings the bell.

  After a
long delay, a big man with a bushy beard, wearing an earring in his left ear and tattoos on his arms, opens the door. He does not look happy to see us.

  Arora holds out her FBI ID. “Hello,” she announces amiably. “My name is Arora Lovelace. I’m with the FBI.”

  The man doesn’t bother to examine the ID. Instead his eyes turn to me.

  “Who’s this guy?”

  “That is Detective Zorn. Of the Washington DC Police Department.”

  “What’s he doing here? We’re not in Washington, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “May we come in?” Arora asks. “We’ve come to see Anne Lovell. And it’s very hot out here.”

  “Too bad.” The man stands in the doorway, ostentatiously blocking our entry. “Annie’s tired. She’s said all she has to say.”

  “Our office called a little while—”

  “Why can’t you just leave her alone?”

  “We’re investigating a murder, sir,” Arora announces firmly.

  “And you think Annie’s involved?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is, I’m dying out here.”

  Grudgingly, the big man moves aside and Arora and I step into the foyer and the man shuts the door behind us. It’s a bit cooler.

  From somewhere in the interior of the house I hear a woman’s voice. “Ron, who’s at the door?”

  “Nobody,” the big man answers.

  “I heard the doorbell ring.”

  “Some cops, honey. I’ll take care of it.”

  It’s clear we have a problem. A problem we must fix. Somewhere in the house, there’s the sound of a child laughing.

  As Arora steps ahead, I hold out my hand to the bearded guy. “I’m Marko,” I say. “Thanks for letting us meet with you folks.”

  The big man allows himself to have his hand shaken. Reluctantly. I use a firm, manly grasp. Then I put my left hand on his right arm, just above the elbow, where it’s a friendly, man-to-man kind of thing.

  “I’m Ron,” he says, cautiously.

  I’m halfway there, I think, and I lean into him, speaking in a low, sympathetic voice. “How she doing, Ron? How she holding up?”

  I can see the confusion in his eyes. I’m supposed to be the enemy. But I seem to be almost human. Arora stands a few feet away, watching. She understands what I’m doing and keeps her distance.

  “What do you people want?” Ron asks.

  “We’re here to ask about Sandra Wilcox,” I say. “Can I ask you a favor? Can you stay with us while we talk to Miss Lovell? I’d feel a lot more comfortable if Miss Lovell had a friend present. Know what I mean? Maybe, if it gets too stressful—” I glance at Arora standing a few feet away but too far to hear what I’m saying. “Sometimes the Feds can get a little pushy. Particularly women agents. Know what I mean? Maybe you could jump in and cut us off if it’s getting too much for Miss Lovell. It would help me and I’d really appreciate that.”

  He looks at me, a bit baffled, then nods. We’re allies now. Against the universe of uppity women. And against Washington.

  “Let’s talk to Annie,” he says and gestures for us to proceed down a hallway.

  Arora goes first. I follow. Ron presses a card into my hand. I take a quick glance. It’s a standard business card and it tells me the man is Ronald Bannister MD Pediatric Surgeon. I’d had him chalked up as a car thief or chicken farmer. I’m once again reminded not to judge people by their tattoos.

  We enter a small, sunny living room furnished with a couch and coffee table and a couple of old armchairs. The place is neat and clean.

  A large, shaggy dog lies sleepily on the floor in a pool of sunlight. He or she raises its head and regards us without interest. In one corner, a young boy, wearing a Captain America T-shirt, is playing a video game. I can hear the faint sound effects from across the room.

  A woman of about thirty sits on a couch. Her face is worn and prematurely lined, her eyes red-rimmed, her posture tense, her hands clenched.

  Arora goes directly to her. “I’m Arora Lovelace. I’m with the FBI. Thank you for seeing me.”

  The woman on the couch starts to get to her feet.

  “Please don’t get up, Miss Lovell.”

  The woman settles back onto the couch and tries to smile.

  “Somebody called,” the woman on the couch says. “Said to expect visitors from Washington.”

  “This is my associate, Mr. Zorn.” Arora makes a gesture to include me. The woman studies me carefully. She is clearly trying to sort us out, to figure out who is who.

  “Won’t you both sit down,” the woman says. Habits of a lifetime, habits of being a good host, overcome her suspicion of two strangers in her home. She turns to her companion: “Ron, why don’t you get us some iced tea. That’s a dear.” She turns to me. “Iced tea?”

  “I’d love some,” I say.

  “Some cookies? You, Miss Lovelace?”

  “No cookies for me, thanks,” Arora says. “But the iced tea sounds great.”

  “Bring four glasses, Ron. And bring a plate of cookies just in case.” Ron disappears into what I assume is the kitchen.

  “You folks come all the way from Washington?”

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  “You come by bus?”

  “Actually, we flew into Piedmont Airport,” Arora explains. “We were lucky to catch a ride.”

  The woman looks a bit mystified as she tries to parse that. “And you come all this way to talk to me?” She turns to me, as if expecting an explanation from me.

  “That’s right, ma’am,” Arora says. “We have some questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “I didn’t know the FBI had lady agents.”

  Arora’s mouth tightens.

  “There are many women in the FBI,” I explain quickly.

  Anne Lovell looks dubious. Or maybe just confused. “You’re not an FBI agent?” she says, looking at me. “Are you?”

  “I’m with the Washington DC police. Would you like to see my identification?”

  She shakes her head. At this moment Ron comes back into the living room carrying a plastic tray decorated with a picture of Santa Claus drinking a Coke. Ron gives Anne a glass of iced tea, ice cubes clinking, then passes one to Arora, then one to me, and finally, takes one himself. He places a heaping plate of cookies on the coffee table and settles onto the couch next to Anne Lovell.

  Anne Lovell looks directly at me. “Is Tony in trouble?”

  I can see Arora flush slightly. She’s upset, or at least peeved, that Anne Lovell acts as if she’s not there or doesn’t count somehow. I don’t know Arora well enough to know whether she will keep her cool.

  “It’s all right, Annie.” Ron squeezes her hand.

  “What happened to Sandy?” Anne Lovell asks.

  “She died,” Arora says, gently.

  Anne’s face crumples with grief.

  “Mrs. Wilcox …” I say.

  “It’s Miss Lovell now.” The woman takes a deep gulp of air. “Please call me Anne.” She seems to relax a bit.

  “Here’s the situation, Anne,” I say. “We’re investigating the death of Sandra Wilcox. We think she may have been murdered.”

  Anne puts her hand to her mouth but says nothing.

  “Did you know Sandy?” Arora asks Anne Lovell.

  “Sure.”

  “Did you know she had a peanut allergy?”

  “God, she never let us forget.” Anne laughs gently. “We didn’t see her as often as we’d have liked. She was at our wedding. Tony and mine. She was in the Service then, you know.”

  “I heard,” Arora says.

  “She was away a lot so we couldn’t get together as a family very often.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  “But then, when Tony took sick,” Anne continues, “you know, Sandy came and stayed with us. She tried to help with Tony. Toward the end, it was more than I could deal with.” She glances briefly at the child in the corner who is absorbed with a computer game. “Sandy was a li
fesaver. Really.”

  “Have you talked to Sandy recently?” Arora asks.

  “She was here over Memorial Day weekend,” Anne tells us. “Just a few weeks ago.”

  “She was here? In Greensboro?”

  “Sure. She took little Tony to the water park.”

  “Little Tony?” Arora says. She looks at the child. “He’s Tony Wilcox’s child?”

  “That’s right. Tony!” Anne calls out. “Come over here and say hello to our visitors.”

  The boy switches off his Xbox and crosses the room to stand next to his mother. He clutches his device closely to his chest.

  “Tony, these people have come all the way from Washington to talk to Mommy.” She ruffles the boy’s hair affectionately.

  Little Tony, who seems to be about five years old, does not seem impressed with that information. “Say hello,” his mother says.

  The boy says “hello” silently.

  Anne gestures toward me. “This is Mr…. I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

  “My name is Marko,” I say.

  “And this is FBI Agent Arora,” Anne goes on.

  The boy’s hazel eyes open wide.

  “You’re a real FBI agent?”

  “That’s right, Tony,” Arora replies. “I’m a real FBI agent.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “Tony!” Anne says loudly. “You know what I’ve told you about asking too many questions.”

  “That’s all right, Miss Lovell,” Arora says. “I don’t mind.” To Tony: “Sometimes I carry a gun. Not today.”

  “Have you ever shot anybody?”

  “Tony!” Anne exclaims.

  “No, Tony, I haven’t.” Tony looks disappointed and loses interest in Arora.

  “I apologize,” Anne says. “He’s usually very well behaved.”

  “It’s all right, Miss Lovell. People always want to ask me that question, but they’re usually just too shy to ask.”