The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

  “Detective Zorn,” Nat Blake booms from across the room. “I’m glad you came. I wanted the chance to thank you.” He strides around Kenneth’s hospital bed and grasps my hand. “I want to thank you, personally, for saving Kenneth. I can’t tell you how grateful Mrs. Blake and I are for all you’ve done.” He waves at Frank Townsend, who stands near the window. “Frank told me all about it. How you took down that terrorist group and saved Kenneth. Great job!”

  He stops and waves at the gray-haired woman. “I want you to meet Kenneth’s mom, Mrs. Blake.”

  He kind of pushes the woman so she’s standing a few feet from me. “Thank you, Mr. Zorn. Thank you for saving our boy from those awful people. Kenneth told us about how you saved him. I don’t know how we can ever thank you enough.”

  “Just doing my job, Mrs. Blake,”

  “It’s Lucille. Please call me Lucille.”

  “Would you like a doughnut, Detective Zorn?” she asks.

  “No thank you, I’m on a diet.” I disengage myself from Lucille and go to Kenneth’s bed. “How are you doing?”

  “Pretty good, now that I’ve had a shower and a square meal. And I’m with my family.” He looks at me. “Family and friends like Captain Townsend and you.”

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “Not really. The scary part was they kept saying they were going to kill me. But now, here with you, it all seems like a bad dream. I can’t believe it happened.”

  “Wasn’t he brave, Detective Zorn?” Mrs. Blake chimes in. “Wasn’t our Kenneth brave?”

  “He certainly was, Mrs. Blake. Your son was a real hero.”

  “You hear that, Nat? Kenneth’s a hero.”

  “He was key to uncovering this terror group. If it hadn’t been for Kenneth’s undercover detective work, we wouldn’t have found the assassin. They might have succeeded in assassinating the President.”

  “Didn’t I say?” Nat Blake announces, his face beaming. “I told you he was a hero.”

  “And he kept his head under the most difficult circumstances imaginable,” I say, deciding to lay it on thick.

  “Do you think the President will want to meet with Kenneth? Maybe give him a medal?” Mrs. Blake asks hopefully.

  “I can’t really say.”

  “Detective Zorn,” Kenneth calls from his bed. “I have something I have to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve been thinking … today …”

  “Kenneth’s been offered a position in the Richardton sheriff’s department,” Kenneth’s father explains. “A real good position. With good prospects. And medical. He’d be in charge of the anti-terrorism section. He certainly has the experience.”

  “I’m seriously considering the offer,” Kenneth says. “I hope you aren’t too disappointed, my leaving you like this.”

  “You have to do what’s right for you, Kenneth,” I say.

  “In point of fact, I’m not sure I really fit in with the DC police homicide squad.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “You think so, sir?”

  “But you’ve got to do what’s best for you,” I add hastily.

  “I’d be near my parents. You know.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing, Kenneth. You keep in touch. Don’t be a stranger.” I move toward the door. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Blake.”

  “Lucille.”

  “Lucille. Mr. Blake. You should be proud of your son.”

  “Detective Zorn,” Kenneth calls from across the room. “Thank you for saving my life. I never had any doubts you’d find me. Not for a moment.”

  “How could you be so sure?”

  “Because we’re partners. I trusted you.”

  “See you at the office,” Frank Townsend says. “You need to write up the Sandra Wilcox case.”

  “I’m not quite ready for that. I need to arrest someone first.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  IT’S TWO IN the afternoon before I’m able to reach Miss Shaw through the White House communications center.

  “Good afternoon, Detective. The President and First Lady want to thank you for your help in putting an end to this terrorist threat. They just returned from Arlington National Cemetery. The ceremony went without incident. Thanks to you. How may I help you?”

  “I need to talk to the First Lady.”

  “Can I tell her what you wish to speak with her about?”

  “The murder of Sandra Wilcox.”

  There is a long silence at the other end. “I thought that case was closed. I understand Agent Wilcox was killed by the leader of the terrorist group.”

  “That’s the official version.”

  “And you don’t accept the official version?”

  “That’s right, I don’t. But I do expect to close the case today.”

  There is a long silence. “You’ve found the note, then.”

  “Yes, Miss Shaw, I found the note.”

  “The First Lady is engaged until six this evening. I will arrange for you to see her then.”

  Miss Shaw must have made very special arrangements for me this time. When I arrive at the 15th Street security entrance, a uniformed Secret Service agent meets me in front. He exams my police ID then informs me I’ve been cleared to drive directly to the East Wing entrance. Somebody opens the security barriers, and I drive straight through. No armed, suspicious agents accompany me. When I arrive at the East Wing entrance a young man I’ve never seen before is waiting for me. He shows me where to park my Jag. The space is almost directly in front of the entrance.

  “My name is Samuel Price. Please follow me.”

  “Where is Miss Shaw?” I ask.

  “Miss Shaw? Who is Miss Shaw?”

  “She’s on the White House staff.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know her.”

  “She’s the one who usually escorts me.”

  “I’m handling the First Lady’s appointments today. Please follow me. She is expecting you.”

  Price leads me through the West Wing, which seems all but deserted, into the East Wing and up the elevator to the private quarters of the President and First Lady. A few Secret Service agents stand at their posts, watching me without interest as I pass. There are no signs of Miss Shaw or her security detail.

  The young man taps gently on the door to the First Lady’s sitting room. I hear a faint voice from within: “Come in.”

  Price opens the door and I enter. Mrs. Reynolds is sitting on the same couch I’d seen her on during my first visit. She is dressed in dark clothes, suitable for a memorial ceremony, and wears two large diamond earrings. Her face is drawn, almost haggard. Was that the way she looked when I last saw her? I try to remember. She’s grown old in the last few days.

  “That will be all, Samuel. You may shut the door.” The young man silently leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

  Mrs. Reynolds looks at me with an expression I can’t read. “Sit down, Detective Zorn. I understand you have something to tell me.”

  I take a seat opposite her. “Yes, Mrs. Reynolds. I thought you should know; I plan to close the Sandra Wilcox case today.”

  Mrs. Reynolds pinches the bridge of her nose. “Matt Decker told me Sandra was murdered by this terrorist militia group.”

  “Mr. Decker is mistaken. As you know very well.”

  The pearl-gray phone on the side table next to the couch rings gently. “Excuse me. I must take this. A call I’ve been expecting.”

  Mrs. Reynolds carefully removes an earring from her left ear, placing it carefully on a side table, and lifts the receiver. “Yes,” she says softly. She listens for a long time. “I see,” she says at last. “Have Ken prepare a statement. Show it to me before it is released. The usual: our hearts and prayers go out to the family, etcetera, etcetera … No, I don’t think we need to trouble the President about this. Leave it to me.” She replaces the receiver on the hook.

  “Sorry, Mr. Zorn. You were saying.”


  “From the very first day of my investigation, I’ve been lied to.”

  “You’re a policeman. You should be used to that by now.”

  “Sandra Wilcox’s death had nothing to do with the assassination plot. It was a simple act of murder. It was murder about love gone wrong. Not all that different from hundreds of other murders that happen every day.”

  “I see.”

  “Except that …”

  “Except for what?”

  “Sandra Wilcox was murdered on orders from someone here in the White House.”

  Mrs. Reynolds is on her feet, staring down at me, trembling. She is shorter than I remembered, but that does not diminish the power of her anger.

  “Are you accusing someone of murder? Someone here in the White House?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I was at dinner with a dozen friends the night Sandra was killed. All of whom will vouch for me. Among my guests were the British ambassador and Lady Charles. Do you propose to haul them to your police station and beat them with rubber truncheons?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m not accusing you of murder, Mrs. Reynolds. I’m sure you have ensured that your alibi is solid. But we both know who the killer is.”

  “It’s time you left, Detective Zorn.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  “Who are you accusing?”

  “I’m accusing Miss Shaw.”

  Mrs. Reynolds turns away from me. She snatches up the diamond earring she left on the side table and nervously attaches it to her ear. Playing for time, I suppose. “Hogwash!”

  “On the night of the murder, Miss Shaw managed to get Sandra Wilcox to leave the White House and go onto the Mall. Only a senior member of the White House staff could enter and leave the White House without being logged in and out. She forced Sandra, I assume at gunpoint, to go to the Reflecting Pool. There she was murdered.”

  “How could Miss Shaw have done that?”

  “Miss Shaw certainly had help. I’d guess from her private security detail.”

  “Why on earth would Miss Shaw want to murder Agent Wilcox? They barely knew one another.”

  I remove from my pocket the note I’d found hidden in the lampshade in Sandra Wilcox’s bedroom. Mrs. Reynolds stares at it and abruptly sits on the couch as if her knees had given way. “May I?” she holds out her hand.

  I pass her the note.

  “What do the words ‘The moon has set, and the Pleiades; it is midnight, and time passes, and I sleep alone’ mean to you?” I ask

  “They mean everything to me.”

  “Did you send Sandra that note?”

  “Why should I answer your questions? And on what do you base your speculation that I sent that note?”

  “Your perfume. I recognize the scent. The scent on the note is the same you’re wearing this evening.”

  “That’s pretty thin.”

  “The handwriting on the note is yours.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “You were kind enough to inscribe a copy of your book for me. The handwriting on the inscription and on the note is undoubtedly the same hand. It also seemed unlikely to me that a man would quote the Greek poet Sappho about a woman longing for her woman lover.”

  “Where did you find the note?” she asks, after a long silence, holding it against her breast.

  “Sandra hid it in her apartment.”

  “She kept it?” Mrs. Reynolds whispers, barely audible. “She kept it after all. How very wonderful.” She turns the note over a few times. “It was foolish of me, wasn’t it?”

  “Why did you send the note to Sandra, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “I was desperately in love and love makes fools of us all.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Did your husband know about your affair with Sandra?”

  “Eliot is oblivious.”

  “I thought at first the President himself might have ordered Sandra’s murder. I suspected he was jealous of your relationship with Sandra.”

  “He could not have cared less about me and who I loved. Understand, my husband is a sexual predator. He wanted Sandra on his security detail for one reason only, to fuck her brains out.”

  “I suppose you hoped eventually he’d tire of Sandra and go on to some new victim. And she would return to you.”

  Mrs. Reynolds is silent.

  “But she didn’t, did she? Instead, she fell in love with your husband.”

  “Being pursued by the most powerful man in the world is irresistible, it seems. A middle-aged woman is no competition. It all came to a head one evening about a week ago. I called Sandy here to my quarters to have it out with her. I told her to give up Eliot. I begged her. But Sandy was lost to me. She believed Eliot loved her. I told her Eliot knows nothing about love, but she wouldn’t listen. She became angry and said things … hurtful, hateful things. It was the end. I was furious and I suppose I lost my mind.”

  “So you decided to get rid of her.”

  “I’m certainly not going to answer that.”

  “But you told Miss Shaw, I imagine, how hurt and desperate you were and, in an act of fealty and devotion, she did what she knew you wanted.”

  “Imagine what you please. Our conversation here is at an end.”

  I make no move to leave.

  “Must I call my Secret Service detail?” She reaches for the phone, but her hand hangs suspended above the instrument.

  “When I told Miss Shaw this afternoon I had to see you, she realized I’d found the note you sent. You both knew then it was all over. You and the President would be disgraced. Lives lost to a moment of jealousy and rage.”

  “May I keep the note?”

  “I will need it for the prosecution.”

  Mrs. Reynolds shakes her head, a sad smile on her lips. “I don’t think so.”

  “Miss Shaw will tell me what I need to know to bring charges.”

  “I don’t think so.” She sits back in her couch, arms crossed. “You’re too late. That phone call I just received—that was my personal assistant passing along a report from the Maryland State Police. About thirty minutes ago the Maryland Highway Patrol found a car parked on the side of a highway. Inside was a body of a woman.”

  I take a deep, painful breath “Who was it?” I dread the answer.

  “The victim was carrying a White House pass.” Mrs. Reynolds pinches the bridge of her nose. “The pass identified the victim as Miss Shaw.”

  My throat is constricted and I have a hard time breathing. We sit in silence for a moment while I try to take in what she has said. “Did they give the cause of death?”

  “The police reported that it looked like a massive drug overdose.” Mrs. Reynolds sighs. “A long time ago Miss Shaw was an addict. I thought she was cured. But you never know about these things.”

  Maybe I’ve been in this job too long. There was a time, not so long ago, when I would be hard charging to fix this. I’d have told the Maryland police that Miss Shaw’s death was no accidental overdose or a suicide. I would insist they investigate Miss Shaw’s death as murder, that they search for members of her security detail. But I won’t do that. What would be the point? Her security guards will have long since vanished. Any investigation into Miss Shaw’s murder will be quickly shut down, just like the investigation into Sandra Wilcox’s murder.

  “Miss Shaw’s death is the end of the road for you,” Mrs. Reynolds very quietly interrupts my reverie. “I hope you’re satisfied. You realize, if you’d not been so stubborn in finding the truth about Sandra’s murder, Miss Shaw would still be alive. Was it really worth that price for the truth?”

  I have no answer to that. That question will haunt me for a long time.

  “May I keep my note?” she asks. “I don’t think you’ll be needing it anymore.”

  She’s right. This is the end of the Sandra Wilcox investigation so why not let her have the note? It may give her some comfort. Or maybe grief. I don’t know. In either case it’s of no further use to m
e.

  “I have one last question, Mrs. Reynolds. What was Miss Shaw’s first name?”

  “I’m not sure. Allison maybe. I don’t really remember. Does it matter?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  IT’S EARLY EVENING and traffic in Georgetown is heavy and I check up and down the street before going into Le Zink.

  “Hey there, Moon Man,” a familiar voice calls. Otis stands next to a UPS delivery truck. A big smile on his face. He holds a leather satchel in one hand.

  “Your mama know you’re out this late, Otis?”

  The smile fades and Otis looks at me with contempt. “You don’ know nothin’, Moon Man.” Otis sidles up to me, looking furtively around. “I got somethin’ for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You gon’ pay me something?”

  Another time I’d argue with Otis. Or tell him to get lost. Today, I don’t have the heart. I’m still shaken from the news about Allison Shaw so I give Otis a twenty.

  “Sister Grace sent me,” Otis announces. “She say you did good.” He presses the leather satchel into my hands. “Sister Grace say you and she square now.”

  The satchel feels heavy. Filled, I assume, with $25,000 in small bills.

  “See you around, Moon Man.”

  “That depends on what you do when you grow up.”

  “I am grown up.”

  “What about when you’re really grown?”

  “I’m gonna be a gangsta.”

  “You don’t want to be a doctor? Or a lawyer?”

  Otis makes a disgusted face.

  “How about an astronaut? Astronauts are cool.”

  “They losers. I’m gon’ be a gangsta.”

  “Then you’re going to end up just like Cloud and Lamont.”

  “No way. I’m too smart for that. You have somethin’ to do with what happened to Cloud and Lamont?”

  “None of your business.”

  “See you ’round, Moon Man.” Otis runs up Wisconsin Avenue, disappearing into the evening crowd.