The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

  As soon as Arora hangs up, I call the number Artemis Black wrote on the back of the Starbucks receipt. My call is picked up on the first ring.

  “Who’s this?” a man’s voice demands.

  “I want to speak to Skinner.”

  “Who are you?”

  “George Washington.”

  “You some kind of joker?”

  There’s a long silence. I sense rapid, muffled consultations at the other end of the line, hand cupped over the receiver. Finally, a new voice comes on the phone.

  “Who are you?”

  “I told your friend. I’m George Washington.”

  “Clown!” the voice tells me.

  “I want to negotiate the delivery of one thousand Skorpion machine pistols.”

  “Not on an open line, asshole!”

  “I understand you’re expecting a delivery of such items.”

  “I already have a buyer.”

  “You don’t have a place to deliver the shipment. I do. If you want the deal, you’re going to have to go through me.”

  “I’m owed a fee. Ten thousand dollars.”

  “If you behave, you’ll get your fee.”

  Another long silence. “I’m supposed to take delivery the day after tomorrow. So if you’re legit, we have to close soon.”

  “When can we meet?” I ask.

  “I’m coming to Washington tomorrow. We can meet when I arrive. At midnight.”

  “Where?”

  The man gives me the address of a motel on New York Avenue. “You better be on the level, George. If you’re not kosher you end up in a culvert somewhere. I kid you not.” Skinner has obviously been watching too many bad gangster movies.

  I dial a new number. The phone rings seven times then a voice answers.

  “Leave me alone!” I’m instructed.

  “Guess who, Leonard?”

  “I never guess. And I know who you are. Go away. I’m trying to sleep.”

  “No time for sleep, Leonard. Wakey-wakey. There’s work to be done.”

  “Not interested.”

  “I have $15,000 dollars for you. Does that pique your interest?”

  “How illegal is this?”

  “Not very,” I explain.

  “Not very?” the man at the other end of the line exclaims. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The part I want you to do isn’t especially illegal. I think.”

  “Can you come now? With the money in cash?”

  “I’m on my way,” I tell him and cut the connection.

  There is just enough time to go home and retrieve the tote bag Sister Grace gave me that still holds $25,000 in cash.

  Leonard works out of an apartment in the Adams-Morgan district of Washington. It’s an old, low-rent building occupied mostly by out-of-work actors and artists. It’s on a street cluttered with bars and Ethiopian restaurants.

  I trudge up five flights of stairs. The place smells of weed and South Asian cooking. A man lies crumpled on the second landing. I feel for a pulse, but there is none. Almost certainly he’s a victim of an overdose of some street drug. I’ll call the medics but there’s no hurry. The man is not going anywhere.

  I knock on Leonard’s door and, after a delay, I hear the sound of chains removed and locks unlocked. Leonard opens the door a crack, peeps out.

  “You alone?”

  “I’m alone.” I push my way through the door. Leonard shuts, locks, bolts, and chains the door behind me.

  As usual the breath is knocked out of me by the essence of cat that overwhelms Leonard’s apartment. I have no idea how many cats Leonard has. I asked him once and he claimed not to know. I’m not allergic to cats but I always have a hard time breathing the first few minutes I visit Leonard.

  “You been in a fight?” he asks.

  I still have the bruises from my encounter with the tree. “Something like that.”

  Leonard is tall and stooped and frail. He looks emaciated, his face creased with deep, vertical lines. His head is crowned with thick brown hair, obviously dyed, that appears to grow straight up from his scalp. He must be over seventy but could be much older.

  I’ve never asked him what it is he actually does, holed up in this crowded apartment. He never asks what I do, which suits us both. As far as I can tell, Leonard hasn’t left his apartment in a decade. I suppose someone from time to time must deliver cat food and whatever it is he eats. What I do know is that, when it comes to electronics and cell phones, he is a magician.

  Leonard’s home is a one-bedroom apartment with a small kitchen. Not that the kitchen looks much like a kitchen or is ever used as a kitchen. Every square foot of the apartment is crowded with cardboard boxes overflowing with electronic tools and devices and coiling wires and heaps of circuit boards. Today there are several disassembled telephones on the stove and a partially disassembled old cathode ray TV set in the kitchen sink. Every chair and table is heaped with boxes, spilling tools, wires, USB jacks. What space is not taken up with boxes is covered with sleeping cats.

  I asked Leonard once where he ate his meals. He said he ate, when he found the time, while sitting on his bed. He told me he lived on a diet of cold breakfast cereal he eats directly from the box.

  “You know your phone is being tapped,” Leonard tells me.

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “That’s why I prefer that you not call me in the future.”

  “How am I supposed to contact you?”

  “You’re supposed to not contact me. What is it you want me to do for you that isn’t especially illegal?”

  “Do you have two burner phones you can modify for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me see them.”

  Leonard opens the refrigerator and removes two cell phones from the crisper drawer and places them on the kitchen counter. “What do you want done to these?”

  “Two things. I want you to rewire these two phones so they will only connect with one another. If you punch in a number on phone A.” I hold up one phone. “It must connect only with that phone.” I pick up the second phone. “Phone B. No matter what number you dial.”

  “Why do you come to me for that? Any ten-year-old kid can do that for you.”

  “I don’t know any ten-year-old kids.”

  “Get to the point. What else do you want me to do? That’s not especially illegal?”

  I lift the second phone. “I want you to wire this phone so it becomes an electric detonator.”

  “I told you last time I don’t like to work with detonators.”

  “You’ve done this for me before. Besides, there’s nothing illegal involved. Maybe I’m just setting off fireworks.”

  “I’ll bet. You planning a Fourth of July party for your friends?”

  “It’s a kind of party.”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars?” he asks.

  “Fifteen thousand,” I answer.

  “Let’s see the money,” Leonard demands.

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Not for a second.”

  I open my tote bag and pull out fifteen thousand dollars in small bills, still bundled together with rubber bands. He counts it out quickly, but carefully, and drops the money into a kitchen drawer.

  Leonard pushes away a laptop computer and several coils of heavy wire to make room on the kitchen table. He rummages around for tools, pulls up a wobbly barstool, hunches over the two phones, his back to me, and gets to work, snatching up tiny screwdrivers and needle-nose pliers from time to time.

  “There you are!” he announces after twenty minutes, swinging around on his barstool to face me. “All done. Ready for your fireworks display. You’ll need a nine-volt battery to give it juice. Otherwise, you are good to go.” He pushes the two cell phones into my hands. “Mind the polarity when you do the final assembly. You notice, I’m not asking what you plan to use this detonator for.”

  “You notice I’m not telling you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


  THE DEAD MAN is where I left him on the landing. Once on the street, I call 911 and report there’s a man who looks like he’s OD’d. I give them the address, cut the connection, hail a cab, and tell the cabbie to take me to the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown.

  When I arrive, I find a comfortable lounge chair in the reception area where I observe who comes and goes through the front entrance. Almost exactly on time, a woman enters the hotel lobby. She’s in her early forties, conservatively dressed, wearing a bright red beret. She looks definitely anxious and stands uncertainly, studying the crowd. I get to my feet and approach.

  “Mrs. North?” I ask.

  She looks me up and down. Cautious and suspicious. “I’m Valerie North. You are?”

  “Marko Zorn. Let’s find somewhere we can talk.”

  “Sure,” she says. “Somewhere private.”

  I lead her away from the reception area and into a quiet corridor that, for the moment, is deserted. We sit on a small couch not far from the elevator banks.

  “Thank you, Mrs. North, for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “It’s Miss North.” She examines me strangely. I realize I still look like I’ve been in a brawl. Probably not what she imagined a DC homicide detective is supposed to look like.

  “You should know,” Valerie North says to me, “I almost didn’t come. After our phone call, I decided not to meet with you. Then, at the last minute, I changed my mind.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “I want to see justice for Sandy.” She bites her lower lip

  “What do you mean by justice?”

  “I’ve been told not to talk to you, you know.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Someone named Jessica Kirkland. She’s in the Secret Service. She says it’s a question of national security. I’ll lose my job if I speak with anybody but her.”

  “You don’t work for Jessica Kirkland.”

  “No, but if I cross the Secret Service, I could lose my security clearance.”

  “Yet you’re prepared to talk to me anyway.”

  “You know what they’re saying about Sandy. They’re saying she’s a traitor. That can’t be true. And Mrs. Kirkland said you’re dangerous and not to be trusted. She said you were making trouble, even hinted you might be involved in some kind of conspiracy with domestic terrorists.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “Did you know Sandy well?”

  “We met when she was assigned to the Presidential Security Detail. She being new to the city, I was able to give her some advice. We kind of hit it off.”

  “Did you know she had a peanut allergy?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “In the White House Health Room. We were both into serious workouts.”

  “Did you know she had a brother?”

  “Tony? The one in the Army? She mentioned him. They were very close. I never met him.”

  “What can you tell me about Tony?”

  “Sandy didn’t talk about him much. It was kind of a private, family thing. I just know she was worried sick about him.”

  “What was Sandra worried about?”

  “Her brother got involved with some really bad people. Sandy said they were crazies. At one point she was so worried she tried to persuade him to break off his connection to these people. He refused.”

  “Do you know if Sandy had any close friends here in Washington?”

  “She was very private about her personal life. I think at one time she was seeing a fellow Secret Service agent.”

  “Do you think there was anybody new in her life?”

  “I think there was. Sandy was very much in love with someone. I don’t know who he was.”

  I take the photographs of Sandra Wilcox from the police file from my pocket and I show Valerie North the photo of Sandra Wilcox sitting on a couch holding a can of beer. “Do you recognize this picture?”

  “Sure. I took it.”

  “Tell me about when it was taken.”

  “There was a party. White House staff mostly. About a year ago. Somebody was retiring. You know. I persuaded Sandy to come.”

  “Did she have a good time?”

  “I guess. Although she didn’t stay late.”

  “And you took her picture?”

  “I borrowed her camera and took it. Then emailed it to myself.”

  I show Valerie the other picture—the one with Sandra Wilcox sitting on a broken column. “You know this picture?”

  “Sandy sent it to me. She was on one of those official Presidential tours. She had a day off.”

  “Did she send you lots of pictures? Like when she was on her official travels?”

  “This was the only one. I don’t think she ever used her camera.”

  “So who took the picture?”

  “She never said.”

  “Do you have other pictures of Sandra Wilcox?”

  “No. Those are the only ones.”

  “It was you who sent them to the police?”

  She nods.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “The day Sandy died, Jessica Kirkland came to my office. She told me to clear out my things and go home and to wait for further orders.”

  “Did Mrs. Kirkland ask about photographs?”

  “She asked whether I had anything from Sandy. Letters. Emails. Pictures. Anything.”

  “You didn’t tell her about these two pictures.”

  Valerie bites her lip again. “I didn’t much care for Mrs. Kirkland. Or her attitude. When I got home, I searched around and found those two pictures. I didn’t know what to do with them. I thought of burning them, but that made no sense so I put them into an envelope and mailed them to the police. Anonymously.”

  “Tell me about the night Sandy was killed.”

  “I work on the secretarial staff at the White House and my shift ends at one in the morning. On that night, as usual, I caught a cab to go home. As I was leaving the security entrance on 15th street, I caught a glimpse of some people about a block away and I thought I recognized one of them as Sandy.”

  “What time would that have been?”

  “I can’t be positive. About one fifteen. Maybe one twenty.”

  “Where did you see her?”

  “Just outside of the perimeter fence.”

  “You said ‘one of them.’ There was someone with Sandra?”

  “There were three of them. At first I thought she might be out walking with her lover. She was walking very close to one of them.”

  “Who was she with?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know. It was dark.”

  “Tall? Short?”

  She shakes her head. “Sorry.”

  “This person—was he walking in front? Side by side?”

  “He was walking behind Sandy. Now that I think about it that was a little strange. Not like a normal couple would walk, you know.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  Valerie closes her eyes. “I’m trying to remember.” Long pause. “A poncho. The hood pulled up around his head.”

  “But it wasn’t raining. Hadn’t rained in days.”

  She nods.

  “Color?”

  “I couldn’t tell in the dark.”

  “What made you call the White House Operations Center?”

  “I knew Sandy was on duty that night. She’d never be outside when she’s on duty. And I heard the Secret Service detail was looking for her. It was then I realized something was wrong. That’s when I called.”

  A man enters the far end of the corridor. He’s dressed in a business suit and wears a blue shirt and a blue tie. He takes a seat on a divan some distance from us and opens a newspaper. He doesn’t look at us at all. Which is worrisome.

  “It’s time we finish here,” I say to Valerie. “I want you to walk away. Go to your right. Not the left. That will take you to t
he main reception area. Don’t stop. Just go out the front door. There are usually taxis waiting. Take the second one in the queue. Tell the driver to take you to the Mayflower Hotel. When the cab drops you off at the Mayflower, take another cab and go home. When you get home, please lock your doors.”

  “Am I in danger?”

  “No, Miss North. But I don’t want to take any chances. Now go. And don’t look back.”

  She grabs her purse, gets to her feet, and walks away. As soon as Valerie North has disappeared around the corner, I stand up and go to the man at the end of the corridor ostensibly reading a newspaper. Except he isn’t reading anything. He’s staring at me.

  “Hi, Norm,” I say, holding out my hand. “What brings you to DC?”

  The man is clearly disconcerted and gets awkwardly to his feet, clutching the newspaper to his chest.

  “Norm? You remember me. Alan,” I say. “Alan from Des Moines.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man says, trying to look over my shoulder, looking for Valerie North. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he says, anxiously.

  “Sure we have. I’m Alan. Term insurance. Sarasota. You remember.”

  The man tries to slide away from me, nervously looking to his right and left. “We’ve never met. If you’ll excuse me …”

  “You’re telling me you’ve forgotten that cute honey blonde? What was her name? Dora something?”

  “We never met, mister.” He steps away. “I’m busy.”

  “How about drinks later? Meet in the bar at six?”

  His face is red with anxiety and he walks quickly away.

  “Six at the bar,” I shout. “Don’t forget.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THIS TIME I ride by myself in a comfortable seat in the back of a government limousine. The two men who pick me up at my home are courteous and solicitous, but they don’t say why they’ve been sent to take me to the White House or who I’m supposed to meet.

  When we stop at the West Wing, one of the men leaps from the car and opens the back-passenger door for me. Miss Shaw waits for me on the steps of the main entrance. She skips down the stairs to meet me. The weather is warm and she wears a summer frock in a pastel print.

  “Hello, once again, Detective Zorn,” she says. “I hope you got home safely last night.”