The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

  “That’s right. He doesn’t answer his phone.”

  Vernon winces. Something I’ve said has struck a nerve, but I don’t know what.

  Vernon studies Kenneth’s photo carefully. “He’s a cop. Right?”

  “Did he say that?”

  “No. But he’s a cop.”

  “So he was here?”

  “Sure. A couple of hours ago. Snooping around.”

  “How was he snooping around?”

  “You know. Asking questions.”

  “What kind of questions was he asking?”

  Vernon is getting worried. “I don’t know what questions.”

  “Did he ask you questions?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What did he ask you?”

  “About who comes here? What our membership is? He said he wanted to join a shooting club, but that was bullshit. We don’t have terrorists here.”

  “Did my friend use the word ‘terrorist’?”

  “No. But might as well have.”

  Vernon is silent for a while. I think maybe he’s going to shut me down. “I got nothing against cops, understand,” he says at last. “My brother-in-law’s a police sergeant in Alexandria. About a week ago,” Vernon goes on, “two guys come here. One of them a young guy. Nervous type.”

  “They do any shooting?”

  “The young guy did. And he was amazing. A professional, I could tell.”

  “What do you mean by professional?”

  “Ex-military. SEALs maybe. Maybe Special Forces. You can tell. It’s the way they handle their weapon. The way they prepare for the shooting. Very methodical and steady. They never hurry. They follow a set routine. Most of the guys here, hell they’re paying by the hour. They want to get as many rounds off as they can. Most of the guys who come here, they’re basically plinkers. Not this kid. He was a power shooter. Looks like he’s in training for competition. Then, when he’s ready, he blows away his targets.”

  “Was this shooter left-handed?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “How often did this guy come here?”

  “Maybe six, seven times. Including this morning. There was another guy with him. An older fella.”

  “Did you get their names?” I ask.

  “They signed the register. I never really talked to them. They weren’t friendly types. In fact, none of our regulars spoke with them. These guys didn’t mix. That’s why I noticed them. They just come here and shoot. And go.”

  “I’d like to see the register.”

  “Follow me.” Vernon leads me to the front counter, opens a heavy volume and flips through the pages, then swings the book around so I can read the entries. He points to one handwritten entry. “Annie Oakley,” it reads.

  “That’s when they first came,” he tells me. “Their first day here. They came again two days later. Then missed a couple of days. Then pretty regular after that.” He flips through the pages, pointing out each relevant entry. I note the times and dates.

  “I wouldn’t normally do this. Show you the register and all. But …”

  “But what?”

  “There was something funny about these two guys. Usually when someone comes here when they’re not shooting, they stand around and talk. You know—gun talk. About their weapons. About special weapons they’d seen for sale. New ammunition. Our regulars love to talk guns. It’s one of the reasons they come here, to meet people like themselves, to gossip. You know.”

  “And these two men didn’t gossip?”

  “Not even to each other. It was strictly business from the moment they walked in the door.”

  I take the photo of Tony Wilcox from my pocket. “This the shooter?” I ask.

  Vernon studies the photo closely. “This is an old photo.”

  “An old photo.”

  Vernon passes the picture back to me. “That’s the shooter.”

  My heart is racing. The hunt is on and I’ve gotten the first real sight of my quarry. “Can you describe the man the shooter was with?” I ask.

  “I’d say around fifty.”

  “White hair?”

  “That’s right. Curly white hair. Wears a bow tie. He had a swastika tattooed on his left arm. Just above the wrist.”

  “You see many tattoos like that?”

  “Sometimes. We don’t encourage that sort here. People like that aren’t welcome here.”

  “What kind of weapon did the shooter use?”

  “Military issue M-14. Modified for a lefty.”

  “Thanks, friend,” I say. “I’ll look around.”

  Arora is about halfway down the line, and I stand behind her for a few minutes, watching her shoot, until she’s emptied her clip.

  “What kind of weapon’s that you’re using, lady?” I demand.

  Arora switches the safety on and places the rifle by her side onto the mat. She rolls over and studies me. The men who surround her stare at me, annoyed at being interrupted.

  “It’s a Dragunov.”

  “Why are you shooting a piece of communist shit?”

  Arora looks offended. Or pretends to look offended. “It’s not a piece of shit, sir. It’s a precision sniper rifle.”

  The men around her nod their heads in vigorous agreement. I look up and down the range. “I understand there was a serious shooter here earlier today.”

  “We’re all serious,” one of the men tells me.

  Arora gets to her feet. “My friends tell me there was a guy here,” she says. “What, just an hour ago, you say?—this guy was shooting at a professional level. He was a lefty. That right, Marv?”

  A skinny man with a thick beard answers, “That’s right. Fired fifty rounds. All shots clustered. Every time. Dead center.”

  “What range?” I feel the adrenaline surge through my arteries.

  There is a confused exchange among the men.

  “Cal,” Arora murmurs. “You were spotting the targets. You know the range?”

  A young man in need of a haircut says, “There was another guy spotting …”

  “Can you give me a range estimate?”

  Call scratches his nose. “I’d say 1,000 meters. Easy. Maybe 1,200.”

  “That’s some shooting.”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Arora says, packing the Dragunov in its carrying case.

  I take the picture of Tony Wilcox from my pocket and show it to the men. “This the guy who did the shooting?”

  They pass the picture one to another. Several nod. “That’s him.”

  “What’s this about?” one of them asks. “How come you have a picture?”

  “I’m a freelance photographer. I’m planning a photo shoot of skilled snipers.”

  “You gonna include this guy we’re telling you about?”

  “If I can find him. If I can’t, I might settle for some cute girl shooting at something. Like this pretty lady here,” I say, staring hard at Arora.

  She scowls at me.

  I take out the photograph of Kenneth. “Have any of you guys seen this man?” I ask.

  They glance at the photo. Most shake their heads.

  “He a shooter, too?”

  “An associate.”

  “Never saw him,” another murmurs. “Me neither,” a heavyset man says, loudly.

  “I saw him,” the man called Cal says. “He was with his friend.”

  “His friend?” I ask. “What friend?”

  Arora studies the man carefully. The others turn their attention to him.

  “You know. His friend. The sniper.”

  “You’re saying my friend was friends with the shooter?”

  “Sure.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “When the shooter left, your friend went with him.”

  I’m finding it hard to breathe. “They walked out together? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I saw them get into a car together. Your friend and the shooter.”

  I nod to Arora and she moves away, waving to her new
friends.

  “Anybody else with them?”

  “I guess. There was the guy he was with. And there were a couple of other guys waiting for them in the car.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Sorry. Didn’t notice.”

  Arora is waiting for me in her Datsun. “My partner, Kenneth, left the range with the shooter. We have to assume it was not voluntary.”

  “That means we don’t have much time,” Arora says.

  She gets out of her car, removes the Dragunov in its case from the back seat, and silently passes it to me. I store it in the trunk of the Jag.

  “That means we have no time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “YOU DID WHAT?!!” Frank Townsend bellows, jumping to his feet, his fists pile-driving onto the top of his desk. “You did fucking what?!!”

  “I’ve lost Kenneth.”

  “How the hell did you manage that?”

  “I’m investigating the murder of a Secret Service agent named Sandra Wilcox. Her murder may be connected to a domestic terrorist group and this group recruited a sniper—former Delta Force. This group has come to Washington to start the revolution.”

  “How?”

  “By assassinating the President.”

  “Oh, shit! What have you gotten us into?”

  “I believe the would-be assassin’s name is Tony Wilcox.”

  “Wilcox? Like the victim in the Reflecting Pool?”

  “Her brother. I figure Tony Wilcox would need some place to practice shooting a high-powered rifle.”

  “Why would he need to practice?”

  “Sniping is like any other skill. If you don’t practice every day you lose your edge. Tony has come to Washington to fire one shot. One shot to change his life. One shot to change the world. He plans to kill the President.”

  “Where does Kenneth fit in?”

  “I sent him to check out local shooting ranges.”

  Frank’s face is ashen. “On his own?”

  “It looks like Kenneth found Tony Wilcox,” I explain lamely. “Then Kenneth left the gun club with the shooter.”

  “You mean he’s with the presidential assassin now?”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  “How could you let that happen?”

  “I didn’t think Kenneth would find anything.” That sounds pathetic, even to me.

  “You should have kept an eye on the boy. Why the hell do you think I assigned Kenneth to you? To protect him. Not send an inexperienced, unseasoned officer off on some lunatic investigation involving people who plan to assassinate the President of the United States. You were supposed to keep him out of trouble. That was your job, Marko.”

  “I screwed up. Maybe he’ll turn up. Maybe he’ll be okay.”

  “He damn well better be. Or it’s your ass.”

  “I think I know somebody who can help.”

  * * *

  “I’m here to see Sister Grace,” I tell the tall African American in dreadlocks standing in front of the liquor store.

  “You’re in the wrong place, mister. Ain’t nobody by that name live ’round here.”

  “That’s a shame. She’s a good friend of mine.”

  “I don’t think you got any friends in this neighborhood.”

  The door to the liquor store opens, and the kid with the hoodie comes out and grins at me. “What you doin’ here, Mr. Detective?”

  “I’m here to see Sister Grace.”

  “She send for you?”

  “I’m here on my own account.”

  “Sister Grace don’ normally talk to people she don’ send for.”

  “Just tell her I’m here. Tell her we need to talk.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Twenty bucks. Fifty if you get me inside in five minutes.”

  The kid looks at me quizzically, then pivots and disappears into the liquor store. Less than five minutes later the kid is back and gestures for me to follow. He leads me into the store and the same old white-haired man smiles at me. Then I’m in the back alley. This time there are at least ten armed guards patrolling the area. I follow the boy into the former show room and Cloud steps directly in front of me. Once again, he pats me down, and finds nothing but my cell phone. Four men stand immediately behind Cloud. I don’t see Lamont anywhere.

  “Know what I think?” Cloud mutters. “I think you overstayin’ your welcome.”

  The kid opens the door from Sister Grace’s parlor and gestures for me to enter. He holds out a hand and I give him a twenty.

  “You said fifty.” I press two more twenties into the kid’s hand.

  Sister Grace is seated on the same divan she’d been on last time. The obese cat lies sleeping in her lap. Sister Grace gestures for the boy to leave. “Get out! You hear!”

  She points with her cigarette toward the armchair opposite the divan and I sit, facing her. She strokes the obese cat’s fur. Is it my imagination or does Sister Grace look worried?

  Sister Grace stabs out her Marlboro. “I ain’t seen no action yet, Detective. Far as I can make out, Cloud still walkin’ ’round.”

  “These things take time, Sister Grace.”

  “I don’ got time. You don’ got time.” She studies my face. “Looks to me like you got in a fight. An’ you lost.”

  “I ran into a tree.”

  “Looks to me like the tree won. My people tell me somebody tried to shoot you down t’other night. From what I hear, it was a near thing.”

  “Was it your people doing the shooting?”

  “If it was my people they wouldn’t ’a missed. I believe the people after you were a couple of white crackers. Why you here, Detective? I din’t invite you.”

  “I need your help, Sister Grace.”

  “What kind a’ help you lookin’ for?”

  “You said you have eyes and ears everywhere. You know everything that goes on in the town.”

  “What if I do?”

  “My partner has been kidnapped. I want you to help me find him.”

  “You mean your police partner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Missing policemen ain’t none of my business.”

  “The kidnapping is connected to a big gun-buy in a few days’ time.”

  Sister Grace studies the cigarette in her hand. Her hand is shaking. “I heard about that gun-buy. I have my people tryin’ to find out what’s goin’ down.”

  “The man who snatched my partner is the buyer.”

  “You want me to be a police snitch. That don’ sit well with me.” She lights another cigarette. “I don’ know who the buyer is. All I know, it’s close to a million-dollar deal. The guns are supposed to arrive here in a day or two. The buyer’s from out of town so I have no connections. This gun-buy a big concern to me. I can’t afford to have a lot of heavy-duty weapons fall into the wrong hands.”

  “You mean Cloud?”

  “I mean I don’ want these weapons in anybody’s hands but mine.”

  “If I find the buyer, I find my partner. Will you help me find the buyer?”

  “I’ll ask around. If I learn somethin’, I’ll let you know. But if I do, you gotta do somethin’ for me in return.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “I find I have a new problem.” She stares silently for a long time at the burning end of her cigarette. “Where was I?”

  “You said you have a new problem.”

  “’Course I do. I want you should hammer Lamont. I want him gone. Understand?”

  “I told you, I won’t do that.”

  “Things be gettin’ way outa hand ’round here. They’s a war ’bout to start ‘tween Cloud and Lamont.” She crushes out her cigarette. “I need ’em both out of the way.”

  “Get one of your boys to do the job.”

  “My boys are tough, but they ain’t no match for Cloud or Lamont. You think Cloud be bad,” she goes on. “Wait till you meet Lamont. Lamont a truly wicked man.”

  “Just le
ave Cloud and Lamont to work out their differences between them. You can stay out of it.”

  “Ain’t that simple. The day the guns hit the streets, war begins, and I’m dead. That for damn sure. Lamont’s got ambitions. Big ambitions. He plan to take over the city. And he startin’ to make his moves now. My people tellin’ me Lamont was after some of Cloud’s crew when he shot up the schoolyard. They’s real bad blood between Cloud and Lamont now. Real bad.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “The same as always. A woman. Lamont want what Cloud got. That include his woman, Mariana.” Sister Grace studies me carefully. “I think you know this Mariana girl. My people tell me Lamont’s been lustin’ after that girl for months but ’til now he had sense enough not to show his hand. Now he’s makin a play for the girl.”

  “Tell me how to find the man who’s buying the guns, and I can deal with both Cloud and Lamont.”

  She studies me skeptically. “You can really do that? You can fix this?”

  “Absolutely, Sister Grace, don’t I always?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A BLACK CHEVROLET Suburban swings around the corner at the end of the block and comes barreling toward me. I’m almost at police headquarters on my way back from meeting with Sister Grace when the Suburban comes to an abrupt stop and two men climb out.

  The Suburban has tinted windows, and I can’t see inside so I don’t know how many more big men are waiting to pile out if called upon. Tinted windows like this are illegal in Washington, so I know this is no ordinary vehicle. It has US Government plates. I don’t know whether this is reassuring or whether I should be worried.

  “Detective Zorn, come with us.” The man is muscular, with an almost bald head. It isn’t a request.

  “What if I say no?” I ask.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you.”

  I’m hustled into the back seat of the Suburban where I sit between two burly men in identical blue suits. One wears a pink tie, the other a red tie. I suppose that helps tell which is which. The bald guy takes a seat in front. The Suburban pulls away and speeds down the street.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Depends on your definition of arrest,” the man on my right says. He’s the one with the pink tie. I figure these guys aren’t into small talk, and we pass the rest of the trip in silence.