The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

  “I’m making it my business. You’re more than an employee. You are a trusted and loyal aid. How did that come about?”

  She shakes her head. “You’re out of bounds, Mr. Zorn.”

  “Save us both a lot of time and trouble. I will find out, with or without your help. You’re hiding something. I’m quite capable of learning what it is you’re hiding.”

  She looks deep into her martini glass and seems to be making up her mind. “You know, that can work both ways.”

  “How do you mean, both ways?”

  “I’ve done research on you.”

  “You’ve looked me up on Google?”

  “I have access to more powerful search engines and resources than that.”

  “Then you must know all about me.”

  “I find I know almost nothing about you, really. I know the superficial stuff, sure. I also know that, from time to time, you engage in activities that are, to say the least, questionable, if not strictly illegal. You cut corners. You are sometimes involved with some very dubious people and some very dangerous organizations. If you insist on looking into my past, I might be obliged to dig further into yours and reveal some of what I learn.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  She regards me steadily with her hazel eyes. “If I should share something with you—something about my history with Marsha Reynolds—will you promise to go no further with your investigation into my past?”

  “If what you tell me does not bear on the murder investigation of Sandra Wilcox, I promise to go no further.”

  “I guarantee it has nothing to do with Sandra. It’s something that happened many years ago. And for my part I will reveal nothing of what I learn about your past. That seems only fair.”

  “So we have an arrangement? A kind of mutually assured destruction pact. That sounds like a deal I can live with.”

  She takes a deep breath. “Marsha Reynolds saved my life. Many years ago. I once lived in a small town with my mother, my step-father and my two brothers. Never mind where that was and what the family name was. Bad things happened there. Very bad things. When I was thirteen, I ran away from home and ended up in Cleveland, Ohio. For over a year I lived on the streets there. I became crazy addicted on drugs. That was before fentanyl came on the market, but the stuff I took was bad enough. If something hadn’t happened, I would certainly have died in the gutter. Or worse.”

  “What happened that changed things?”

  “I murdered my pimp.”

  That’s not quite what I expected Miss Shaw to say. My brain reels as I try to reconcile that image with this cool, poised sophisticate sitting across from me wearing designer clothes.

  “Surprised, Detective Zorn? I guess I’m not exactly your idea of a strung-out street whore killer.”

  “Not quite what I expected. But you have certainly got my attention. What happened to you? Because something obviously did happen.”

  “The police arrested me soon after the killing and I was assigned a court-appointed lawyer who spent almost five minutes with me and told me to plead guilty to all charges. I was facing life in prison and I knew I’d never come out alive.”

  “Where does Mrs. Reynolds enter your story?”

  “Eliot Reynolds was at the time governor of Ohio, and Marsha was personally active in juvenile criminal reform. She was particularly concerned about wayward girls living on the streets. Somehow, she heard about my case, and we met briefly in prison and talked. She talked. I doubt I said much. Marsha hired some high-powered defense lawyer who persuaded a judge that what I did was an act of self-defense. Completely bogus, of course. I gutted the fucker because he wouldn’t pay the money he owed me.”

  “Who knows about your past?”

  “Nobody. Except Marsha. And Hollis Chambers, of course. And now, you. Not even the President knows for sure.”

  “What happened when you were released?”

  “Marsha Reynolds got me into a drug rehab program. And, would you believe? I got clean. I’ve been clean for over twenty years now. Marsha found me a foster home. A lovely, loving, elderly couple from Oklahoma named Shaw who straightened me out and later adopted me as their own. My entire past was erased, and I found a new life for myself. And I took to that new life—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, church socials, proms. I became captain of the high school girls’ soccer team. The whole bit. I did well in high school. My grades were good enough to get scholarships for my choice of colleges. After graduating from Yale, I got a break and was hired by a New York investment firm. I’m pretty sure Marsha had something to do with that. After two years I was hired by a hotshot New York hedge fund and I made heaps of money.”

  “Did you keep in touch with Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “Not much. She sent Christmas cards and occasionally a birthday note. I think she wanted me to forget my past, forget what I once was. Forget what I might have become. Then Eliot ran for president and was elected and everything changed. Two days after his inauguration, Marsha called and offered me a position on the White House staff.”

  “You accepted?”

  “Of course, I accepted. Although I had to take a major cut in pay. But I didn’t hesitate. I said yes.”

  “Why did you say yes?”

  “Loyalty, Detective. It’s that simple. I owe a fierce loyalty to Marsha Reynolds. I owe my life to her. I would do anything for her.” She sips her martini and looks at me over the rim of her glass. “Are you satisfied now that you’ve discovered my dirty little secret?”

  “I suppose I must be satisfied.”

  “And my sordid history will stay between us? You won’t poke around any further into my past? And, for my part, I will be discreet about yours.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I was sure you would agree. We’re very much alike.”

  “Should I take that as a compliment?”

  “It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

  Our server appears at the table ready to take our next order. Miss Shaw waves her away, impatiently.

  “Are you always on duty like this?” Miss Shaw asks. “Do you never think of anything except murder and crime?”

  “Sometimes I think about other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know—marching bands, kittens, a leisurely day at the beach. The smell of suntan oil and the taste of mimosas. That kind of thing.”

  “Just you alone? That doesn’t sound right. You don’t seem like the kind of man who has to put on his own suntan oil.”

  “Certainly not. I need help with my back.”

  “I don’t imagine you have a problem finding help.”

  “Call me Marko.”

  She bites her lower lip. “I don’t think I’m there just yet. I’d need to know you better.”

  “We share one another’s secrets. We are kind of coconspirators. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I don’t really know you. Except for a few illegal bits.”

  “Ask me anything you want.”

  “Are there any significant others I should know about?”

  “Not for the time being.”

  “Have you ever been in love? I mean seriously in love.”

  “I’m not sure where this is going.”

  “Where do you want it to go?”

  “I don’t even know your first name, Miss Shaw.”

  “I think it’s more interesting to keep some mystery in our relationship.”

  “I didn’t know we had a relationship.”

  “Why not wait and see?”

  “I don’t like mysteries.”

  “Is that why you became a detective? To solve mysteries?”

  “Would you like another martini?”

  She studies her glass. “I would, thank you. But perhaps not here. There are people watching us, have you noticed? I am not unknown around town and am an object of much curiosity. I have a better idea.” She drinks down the rest of her martini. “Why not come home with me and I’ll make you a proper drink. Maybe we
can share some more secrets.”

  “I never say no to an invitation like that.”

  “Did you use your own car to come here?”

  I nod.

  “Good. Then you can drive me home. I came by official car but I told the driver not to wait. I told him I expected to be engaged for the rest of the evening.”

  I drop some bills on the table and we leave. On the way to the front door, she stops and speaks briefly to her security man. He glances at me and nods. She takes my arm, and we go to pick up my car. The valet parking attendant looks admiringly at Miss Shaw, then runs to retrieve my Jag.

  Miss Shaw lives in a small, elegant home in the Palisades area of Washington, a quiet, upscale neighborhood. Her house is on an out-of-the-way, tree-lined street where all the cars are parked in their own driveways or garages. Her house is of red brick, partially covered by ivy. I park in her drive, lined with small, carefully trimmed yew trees, and follow her inside her house. We stand, for a moment, awkwardly facing one another in the vestibule.

  “Do you still want a drink?” Her voice is husky.

  “Maybe later.”

  She grasps me by the back of my neck and pulls me toward her, her pelvis tight against me. “Hope you have plenty of time.” She kisses me, mouth open. I can’t answer. Not when somebody’s tongue is down my throat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE TASTE OF her, the scent of her, the feel of her under me—she’s in my blood. Maybe if I pace around the empty squad room, I’ll get her out of my system. It doesn’t work. I stand by the window and observe a dozen police cruisers and police vans and two police buses lined up in front of headquarters, uniformed officers in riot gear, piling in, ready to be transported to trouble spots. Hal Marshal’s large form moves slowly among them.

  I examine Kenneth’s desk as if I might find some clue to his whereabouts. The desktop is empty, except for a photograph of a middle-aged couple. The man I recognize as Nat Blake, Kenneth’s father. I assume the woman is Kenneth’s mother. It has a cheap, faux-leather frame, the kind you buy in any drugstore. I’m pretty sure Kenneth’s is the only desk in the police department with a photograph of the detective’s mom and dad.

  My phone rings and the caller ID indicates “unknown.”

  “Detective Marko Zorn?” the voice at the other end announces.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “We have your boy.”

  “If you harm him—” I start to say but am cut off.

  “Let’s keep this short. And don’t bother to trace this call. You can’t. Kenneth is breathing and is in one piece. I can’t say for how long.”

  It’s a man’s voice. Not young. I detect no identifiable regional accent.

  “Keep your hands off Kenneth.”

  “You are in no position to make demands, Detective. If you don’t do as I say, your boy’s in serious shit.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You’ll find out. Soon you’ll know my name. If you survive that long. Knock off your investigation,” the voice orders. “Same goes for your girlfriend from the FBI. Tell her she’ll make a lovely corpse. Got that?”

  I’m silent.

  “Are you hearing me? If you don’t stop nosing around, we cut off your boy’s thumb. Are you listening? Would you prefer the left thumb or the right thumb? Your call. We will have it delivered to your office. By special courier. I don’t trust the Post Office on these important things, do you? Then comes a hand. A foot. Every six hours. Well, you get my drift. If my people see you doing any further investigation like the fun and games at the garage this morning it will be all over for your boy. I kid you not.”

  “Do you not know who I am?”

  “I care not at all who you are.”

  “You should. I don’t like threats. People who threaten me end up badly. If you touch Kenneth or Agent Lovelace, I will destroy you. You must have heard by now what I’m capable of. Let Kenneth go and we can talk.”

  There’s a short laugh. “You are droll, Detective Zorn. There’s nothing to talk about.”

  The connection is cut.

  I call our IT unit and tell them to trace the incoming call. I don’t expect them to find anything, but it has to be tried. I sit back in my chair and feel a pain in my left shoulder and think about the voice on the phone. “Stop the investigation,” the man said. Strange, he doesn’t say which investigation.

  I’d got as far as Fast Freddy, but that led to the bottom of a grease pit. Fast Freddy is never going to tell me how to find a man named Black. I call forensics and tell them to bring me the photograph of the soldiers Kenneth and I found on Sandra’s bedroom wall. While I wait, I open the Wilcox murder file and go through dozens of photographs of the crime scene, witness statements and detailed forensics reports. They tell me nothing I don’t already know.

  Stapled to the murder file are three photographs of the victim. One is obviously a picture taken at the Department of Motor Vehicles for a driver’s permit. Another shows Sandra Wilcox in a group at some kind of party. A notation states this picture was originally taken with Sandra Wilcox’s own cell phone camera. She’s sitting on a couch holding a can of Coors beer. The notation indicates the photo was sent to the DC police anonymously. The third photo shows Sandra dressed in a casual summer dress sitting on a broken column. Behind her are what seem to be ancient ruins. A typical tourist photo—a trip to some exotic location. It must have been summertime. Or at least somewhere tropical. Sandra Wilcox is smiling happily at the photographer. The notation states this was also sent to the police department anonymously. Who took that picture? And who is sending these pictures secretly?

  A messenger from the forensics lab delivers the photograph of the soldiers. It’s wrapped in a thick envelope with official police forms taped to the outside showing who had possession of the photo, dates and times, what tests were done and what was found. Nothing useful was discovered. Only Sandra Wilcox’s fingerprints. No surprise there.

  I remove the picture from its envelope and lay it flat on my desk and study the men in the photo. Fourteen men, young and eager. I compare the faces with that of Tony that Arora gave me. He’s there—standing in the back row. There’s nothing to discover in his face. He looks like a thousand other young recruits. Looks like a nice kid. They all do.

  I switch on the desk lamp to give me more light and turn my attention to the men standing to one side. One is a sergeant. I can make out a lot of stripes on his sleeve—an old-timer. The second is an officer wearing a sleeve patch with an emblem. It’s hard to read in the poor quality of the photo, but I recognize the lettering: “AIRBORNE,” and below that, the outline of an arrowhead crossed by three diagonal lightning bolts. I am looking at a Special Operations detachment. Almost certainly Delta Force.

  I can just make out the outlines of the officer’s name stitched above his left pocket. But I can’t read it. I realize I need a magnifying glass; I have none. I’m supposed to be a detective and I don’t even have a magnifying glass. It occurs to me there is one place I might find what I need so I cross the squad room again to Kenneth’s desk and pull open the middle drawer. There I find a magnifying glass. We have at least one serious detective in the police department.

  I take the glass with me—I’m sure Kenneth won’t mind—sit at my desk, and look for name patches in the photograph. The enlisted men have no name patches—which would be standard in a Special Operations unit. But the officer does. I shift the photo around in the light until I can’t make out a name. Crowley. A lieutenant colonel in Delta Force.

  I call Arora immediately. Her voice is sleepy.

  “You remember what you told me about your informant in Denver?”

  “Of course I remember,” she tells me impatiently. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “He told you he thought Sweet Daddy had been a light colonel in Special Forces.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I have a name for you. Crowley. No first name. Just check military records for a man n
amed Crowley dishonorably discharged. Maybe we can nail this guy.”

  I sit at my desk feeling mildly pleased with myself for identifying Crowley until my shoulder begins to hurt again. I figure I’d better find out what’s wrong and go to the men’s room for an inspection. I twist around in front of the mirror and see small smears of blood seeping through my shirt. Miss Shaw, I think, doesn’t have fingers. She has claws. I must remember that.

  As I put my jacket back on, I remember the jacket I left in my locker with the torn seam and the book in its inside pocket. I retrieve the jacket and return to my desk where I remove the book from the pocket. It’s small, bound in fake leather, old and tattered, held together by a thick rubber band. At some point, coffee or soda must have spilled on it. Many pages are warped and stained a brownish color and some stick together. The book is filled with notations—names and addresses—written mostly in pencil in an almost unreadable scrawl. Many entries have blurred to the point they are barely legible and many have been scratched out.

  I recognize some of the names. Many are deceased or in prison. Some I remember as murder victims, their bodies found in some landfill or floating in the Potomac. I don’t know quite why but I’m beginning to feel optimistic—or am I just desperate?

  One name jumps out at me. Black. First name Artemis. Next to the name is a notation that reads: “Other Worlds Action Comics,” followed by an address on Capitol Hill. Black. That’s the name Sister Grace gave me. “Look for a man named Black. He’ll lead you to the man you’re looking for.”

  The name Artemis Black comes up frequently on our online police records system, but there is no home address listed—only his so-called business address. I need to pay Mr. Black a personal call, but that will have to wait until first thing in the morning.

  I go home and dispose of my bloody shirt and ruined jacket. The shirt is a lost cause, which is a shame as it came with the last special order from my purveyor in Jermyn Street. I take a cold shower to wash away the blood from the scratches on my back. And maybe to wash away Miss Shaw. That doesn’t work.

  * * *

  Early in the morning I go to visit Artemis Black. Other Worlds Action Comics bookstore is closed tight. A sign on the door informs me the store opens at ten. Across the street is a coffee shop where I take a table near a window where I can observe the store and I order a cup of what passes for coffee. While I settle in to wait, I make a call to someone named Susan Watkins from the White House stenographic pool. After several rings, the phone is answered. “Hello?” A female voice is cautious. Or maybe just sleepy.