The Reflecting Pool Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Otho Eskin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-60809-411-0

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing

  Sarasota, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  For Therese

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank Judith Ehrlich, my literary agent, for her patient and invaluable guidance and advice; the late Richard Marek for his thoughtful editing suggestions; and Gregory Murphy, novelist and playwright, and Ludovica Villar-Hauser, theater producer and director, for their encouragement and support.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE LOOKS AT me through three feet of water. Rose? I ask.

  As a homicide detective I see the faces of the dead all the time. This one is different. I remember those blue eyes. But that can’t be possible.

  “On my count of three,” the EMS man shouts. Four of us have waded into the Pool to retrieve the body. Her hair moves softly.

  “One. Two. Three.” We stagger from the unexpected weight and lift the body to the surface. Her clothes are heavy with water. We wade to the lip of the Reflecting Pool where we gently place her on the granite edge. I haul myself out of the Pool and stand to one side while two medics examine the body. We’re too late, of course. There’s nothing we can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.

  It’s dawn and morning shadows rake across the Mall. The Lincoln Memorial looms at the far end of the Pool and Lincoln watches us from his marble throne. I think about the girl with the blue eyes.

  “She’s dead,” a medic announces, getting to her feet. “I call it at zero seven twenty-two. She’s all yours, Detective.”

  She is dressed in a gray pants suit and white blouse. She has dark brown hair, cut short, and wears what looks like a watch on her left wrist—a watch with no numbers. She wears no jewelry and has no wallet or purse and no cell phone. She has no shoes.

  I call for the medical examiner staff and crime scene techs and for uniforms to secure the area then walk along the edge of the Pool, looking for signs of what happened during the night. I kneel down to examine faint marks on the granite ledge.

  “We’ll take it from here,” a loud voice announces from over my shoulder. A tall man in a police uniform stands above me.

  “Who are you?” I ask as I get to my feet and face him.

  “Captain Darryl Fletcher. United States Park Police,” he replies. “This is my jurisdiction.” His voice is loud, meant to intimidate. Park Police troopers gather behind their senior officer. “Who are you?” he demands.

  “My name’s Zorn. Detective Marko Zorn, Washington DC Metropolitan Police. Homicide.” How in hell had the Park Police gotten here so fast? There’s something seriously wrong going on here.

  “You and your people must leave,” the captain tells me, loudly. “My men will take over the investigation of this incident.”

  “This is a homicide,” I say, keeping my voice calm and professional. “That means the Metropolitan Police has jurisdiction. That means I have jurisdiction.”

  “Who says it’s a homicide?” the Park Police guy asks. He has a couple of inches on me. Stands maybe six two. He has broad shoulders and his brass buttons and belt buckle sparkle in the morning sun. Even his shoes glow. Obviously, Captain Fletcher spends a lot of time polishing things. He wears aviator sunglasses even in the dawn half-light, so I can’t see his eyes. I don’t like it when I can’t see the opposition’s eyes.

  “I say it’s homicide.”

  “By whose authority?” Fletcher demands.

  I show him my DC Police shield. “By this authority.”

  “We’re on the National Mall, one of the crown jewels of the National Park system,” the captain announces officiously. “This incident took place in the Reflecting Pool, a site revered by millions of visitors. Events that occur in the nation’s National Parks are the responsibility of the National Park Service. You have no business trespassing on my park.”

  “This is not an event. This is murder,” I say, firmly. “That gives me jurisdiction.” I have no idea who has legal jurisdiction here. But then neither does this Park Police joker.

  “Right now this part of the National Mall is a crime scene,” I announce. “It belongs to me.” This captain is getting on my nerves. I haven’t had my morning coffee. My feet are wet. And I badly need a cigarette. “Get your people out of here, Smokey,” I say, real calm like, “and let me do my job.”

  “What did you just call me?” Fletcher asks. “Did you just call me Smokey?”

  In the distance there is the sound of multiple sirens. A fleet of DC Police cruisers and vans and ambulances is sweeping up to the edge of the Mall and disgorging teams of uniformed police officers and crime scene investigators. Fletcher becomes aware of the on-coming mob.

  “What did you say your name was?” Captain Fletcher demands angrily, trying to preserve as much dignity as he can.

  “Marko Zorn.”

  “I’ve heard of you, Zorn!” He doesn’t make it sound like that’s a good thing.

  “Then you should know to stay out of my way.”

  Fletcher spins around, and I think for a moment he’s going to charge my guys. Fletcher probably feels a bit like George Custer.

  “You’ll hear about this, Zorn,” Fletcher announces, looking back at me over his shoulder. “I guarantee! You’ve not seen the last of me!” With that he storms off across the Mall, followed by his crestfallen troops.

  The medical team moves in quickly to make a preliminary examination of the body. Members of the tech teams begin their investigation of the scene, spooling out yellow tape that reads “POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS” to cordon off the area. Others photograph the body and the area around the Pool, their camera flashes lighting the Mall.

  As I walk away through the grass, my shoes squelch. My pants, soaked through, stick to my shins.

  One of the crime scene techs, a guy named Carl Nash, calls to me. He’s crouched in the grass about twenty feet from the Pool. “I’ve got something, sir.” He’s found a single woman’s shoe lying on its side in the damp grass—an Ecco loafer. Left foot.

  “Where’s the other shoe?” I ask.

  Carl shrugs. “Haven’t found it.”

  “And why so far from the Pool?” It’s a rhetorical question. I don’t expect an answer.

  Somebody takes a flash photo and I see a bright glint in the grass on a slight rise among a cluster of elm trees. There’s another flash and the glint is about twenty feet ahead of me and to my right. I head toward it.

  I get down on one knee and put on my glasses. The object appears to be a metal bracelet consisting of a small medallion and chain. I remove a pen from my jacket breast pocket, slip it through the chain, and lift it up. The medallion is engraved, but in the dim light I can’t read it.

  I call Carl over and he places the bracelet into an evidence envelope, marks the envelope with the time, date, and location, and seals the envelope with evidence tape. He presses a red evidence marker into the ground, imprinted with the number “8.” I put the evidence envelope in my inside jacket pocket. Strictly against police rules, of course.
But then, I’m not big on rules.

  There’s no more I can do here. It’s up to the crime scene technicians to search for the woman’s identity and any evidence about what happened to her. I walk back toward my Jag where I left it parked at the edge of the Mall when I arrived in response to the 911 call.

  The cops and techs are spreading out in search patterns. The medical team lifts the body, now covered with a heavy blanket, onto a gurney. The National Mall is filling with early morning light. At one end stands the Lincoln Memorial. A quarter of a mile to the east, the Washington Monument rises five hundred feet above the Mall, a brilliant white obelisk. Beyond, at the far end of the Mall, the United States Capitol dome gleams in the morning sun. The White House is just visible through a gap in the trees.

  In the distance, curious early morning joggers stop to look at the police activity. The sky is turning bright blue with thin cloud streamers tinged with pink. The American flags on the government and museum buildings stir in the wind. It looks to be a fine day.

  I take a crumpled pack of cigarettes from my coat pocket along with my silver lighter. I’m trying to quit smoking and normally don’t have my first cigarette until late in the afternoon but I feel strangely affected by the death of the young woman in the Reflecting Pool—a woman I’ve never met, whose name I don’t know. I light the cigarette and inhale the poison and wonder vaguely whether the US National Parks are “No Smoking” areas and half expect Captain Fletcher to arrest me for desecrating public land.

  A man leans against the front fender of my Jag, arms crossed, watching me intently. He’s an African American with handsome features, tall and slender, wearing a double-breasted Italian silk suit.

  He calls himself Cloud.

  I’ve arrested Cloud several times—most recently about a year ago for attempted murder. Mine. Thanks to him, I carry a fragment of a .38 caliber bullet about half an inch from my spleen. Every time I see Cloud, I feel a pain in my midsection. I think it’s the bullet fragment twisting. My doctors tell me it’s my imagination. I know better. Cloud and I go way back.

  A few feet away stands another young African American I recognize from mug shots as Cloud’s number two—a man named Lamont, Cloud’s bodyguard and driver. He is short and muscular and has bright orange hair.

  “Yo, my man,” I say to Cloud. “You better not mess up my car.”

  Cloud moves slowly away from my Jag.

  “I don’t want any scratches,” I say. “I like to keep the car looking sharp.”

  “Your car got no scratches, man.” Cloud stops directly in front of me, close and menacing. “You may scare a lot of folks in this town but you don’t scare me.”

  “That’s your first mistake of the day, Cloud.”

  “Sister Grace wants to see you. This morning. Nine sharp.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Detective. Be there!”

  “I’m investigating a murder.”

  Cloud shakes his head. “Your stiff can wait. Sister Grace can’t. You don’ want to keep her waiting, know what I mean? You disappoint Sister Grace, you die. That be the rules. You of all people should know that.” Cloud glances at the police activity on the Mall. “That your new murder?”

  “That’s the victim,” I tell him.

  “You tag a brother?”

  I shake my head as I open the door to my car.

  “Better not,” Cloud says to me. “Remember, Sister Grace expectin’ you at nine. Don’ be late.” He walks away, followed by Lamont. They climb into a gleaming black Lincoln Town Car parked in a “no-parking zone” on Constitution Avenue, Cloud in back, Lamont at the wheel. They drive away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MY FENNIX ITALIAN oxfords are ruined. When the EMS team and I, along with the two uniformed cops, responding to the 911 call, arrived at the Reflecting Pool we plunged right in, hoping whoever was in the pool might still be saved. Naturally, we gave no thought to what the water would do to our shoes. It’s a shame though; I was particularly fond of those oxfords. I wonder, vaguely, whether I can put the cost of new shoes on my expense account but decide that’s not a good idea. The department would probably give me grief about the price and it would not be a good idea to draw attention to the cost of my wardrobe. At least I had the presence of mind to take off my Vacheron Constantin watch before reaching into the water. That would have been a major loss.

  After changing into dry clothes and new shoes, I go to the kitchen to make myself a dark Sumatra espresso. My kitchen faces east and, at this hour, is filled with cheerful morning sunlight. Through the window I can see the trees of Rock Creek Park swaying in the morning breeze.

  I start up the espresso machine then turn on a small television set that sits on the black stainless-steel countertop and I half listen to the morning news while the machine does its thing. A perky young woman stands in front of a weather map pointing at numbers showing temperatures and wind directions and humidity. “The fourteenth day without rain,” she announces cheerfully. The program shifts to national news and a story about the death of a former Army general and prominent political figure. I switch off the TV. I have no interest in dead generals.

  I put the evidence envelope on the counter and study the bracelet through the transparent plastic. The bracelet is a slender, rather delicate, affair, with a metal link chain and a medallion with an inscription that reads:

  SANDRA WILCOX

  PEANUT/TREE NUT

  This is followed by a telephone number beginning with a 202 area code.

  There are three miniscule red dots on the medallion. Using my cell phone, I dial the number on the bracelet. It’s picked up before the second ring. A man’s voice repeats the number I’ve just called.

  “My name is Marko Zorn,” I announce. “District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department. Homicide Division. Who am I speaking to?”

  “I am not at liberty to provide that information.”

  “What is the name of your organization?” I ask.

  “I am not at liberty to provide that information.”

  Okay, I think. I’m dealing with some kind of high-level security organization whose employees are trained to be sphinxlike. So I say: “Please pass along this message. One of your employees was found dead this morning. The name of the employee is Sandra Wilcox. If your organization has an interest in this individual, call me.” I gave the voice my cell number.

  “That is not the number of the Metropolitan Police,” the voice informs me.

  “You are quite correct.” I cut the connection.

  I place a small porcelain cup under the brass nozzle of the espresso machine and pull a shot. While the steaming, black liquid flows, my cell phone rings. A woman’s voice says: “I want to speak to Detective Zorn.”

  “You’re in luck. You’ve reached him.”

  “I’m told you have information about a Miss Sandra Wilcox.”

  “That’s possible,” I say. “Who are you?” I take a sip of coffee. It’s very hot and strong.

  “I am not at liberty—”

  “I know,” I say. “What’s your connection to Sandra Wilcox?”

  “Can we meet at your office, Detective? Say in half an hour?”

  Someone’s in a hurry, I think. “Make it eleven,” I say. “I have an appointment at nine.”

  “Can’t your appointment wait? This is important.”

  “My appointment at nine is important.”

  There’s an impatient sigh at the other end. “Very well. Eleven.”

  “My office is at police headquarters,” I start to explain. “Homicide Division. That’s at—”

  “I know where your office is, Detective Zorn. We know all about you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MY 1971 LIME green Jaguar drop top is kind of conspicuous—probably the only one in the city—and I don’t like parking it on the street in this part of town. It’s not that I’m afraid it will be lifted—there are those here who know it belongs to me and will see that it
is not touched. But I prefer not to advertise I’m visiting Sister Grace. A taxi or Uber would leave an electronic trail I can’t risk being traced so I drive.

  The street seems empty except for a young African American wearing fierce dreadlocks. A Lincoln Town Car with low-number DC tags is parked in front of a liquor store. I park the Jag behind the Lincoln.

  “Haven’t seen you around this neighborhood,” the man in dreadlocks says to me. “You sellin’ or buyin’?”

  “I’m here to see Sister Grace.”

  “Ain’t no one here by that name.”

  “That’s too bad.” I enter the liquor store, its doors and windows covered with heavy steel mesh. It sells cheap booze, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. An elderly black man with white hair sits behind the counter. He looks up at me, smiles pleasantly, and gestures toward the back door. I remember the same gentleman from my last visits, nod in a friendly way, and walk past racks of vodka and wine bottles out the back door into a narrow alley. A basketball hoop has been set up at one end. Two large dumpsters are at the other. Four CCTV cameras cover the length of the alley.

  A boy of about ten or eleven wearing a gray hoodie stands in the alley waiting for me. “I’ll take you in,” the kid says.

  “I know the way,” I say.

  “I’ll take you.”

  We cross the alley and go through a steel door marked in stencil “Do Not Enter” and into a small entryway. The kid punches the keys to a cyber lock and pushes open a second heavy metal door. We step into a room that might once have been a commercial showroom. There are a dozen or so unmatched chairs scattered around the room, a regulation-size pool table at the far end, and a large plasma TV set on one wall showing a college basketball game.

  A dozen armed men intercept me at the door. One is Cloud. I vaguely recognize one of the others who, I’m pretty sure, is wanted for murder and drug trafficking. There is no sign of Cloud’s number two, Lamont. Almost tangible tension fills the room. In all the times I’ve been here, I’ve never before seen so many armed guards. Something big is going down. Or is about to happen. Something bad and dangerous.