The Reflecting Pool Read online

  Cloud pats me down, very smooth, very professional and practiced, and I feel a pain in my midsection but try not to wince. I don’t want to give Cloud the satisfaction.

  Cloud leads me through an inner door, and we step into a small, cozy room furnished with old, but comfortable, furniture: a floral chintz-covered sofa; several large, overstuffed armchairs with lots of poufy cushions; and two side tables on which are vases filled with African violets. The walls are covered with wallpaper with images of roses, once bright red, now faded. There is a faint smell of lavender mixed with Marlboro cigarettes in the room. There are no windows; the only light comes in from two floor lamps on either side of the sofa. A picture on one wall shows Jesus Christ surrounded by adoring children.

  This is Sister Grace’s parlor—some would say the most dangerous place in the city of Washington.

  A tiny African American woman sits on the chintz sofa holding a seriously overweight ginger cat on her lap. Part of the cat’s left ear is missing. A green tote bag with the words “Smithsonian” printed on the side rests on the couch next to her.

  The old woman gestures with one ancient hand for me to approach. “Good morning, Detective Zorn,” she croaks.

  “You look lovelier than ever, Sister Grace.”

  “Don’t try your sweet talk on me. I be a very old lady and in no mood for crap. Especially your kind of crap.” She gestures at Cloud and the boy waiting by the door. “You! Get out! Both of you.”

  Cloud and the boy slowly back out the room, Cloud with obvious reluctance. They stop at the door and Cloud is about to say something. “Out! Now!” the old woman yells. Cloud moves through the door, eyes on the old woman. The boy watches me intently. “Out!” the old woman yells. They leave, closing the door firmly behind them.

  “Sit down, Detective,” the old woman orders.

  I sit in one of the armchairs across from her. She is older and smaller, even more dried up, than last time. Nobody knows how old Sister Grace is. Some believe she’s over one hundred. I’d guess she’s in her nineties.

  She’s dressed in a simple cotton ankle-length housedress with a delicate white-lace collar at her throat. Her white hair is cut short. She scratches the head of her cat who watches me suspiciously. Sister Grace picks up a crumpled pack of Marlboro cigarettes and I lean forward and offer a light from my lighter. She inhales deeply, coughs, then takes my lighter in one of her arthritic hands.

  It’s an old-fashioned, sterling silver, art-deco lighter made in Scandinavia. Sister Grace turns the lighter over slowly and examines the inscription. She smiles but that may be my imagination. “Pretty,” she says. I don’t know whether she means the lighter or the inscription. “Must have cost a lot.”

  “A gift from an admirer,” I say.

  Sister Grace coughs. “My doctors say smokin’s not good for my health. So far, I’ve buried ’em all, so fuck ’em.”

  “Cloud said you want to see me, Sister Grace.”

  “That a fact. I have a problem I need you to fix.”

  “I’ve been thinking of going into a different line of work,” I say.

  “Mercy, Mr. Detective, ain’t you a caution.” She rubs the cat’s head. “You will go into a different line of work when I tell you to.” She takes a drag on her cigarette. “Besides, I have reason to believe you have need of money.”

  “I’m doing just fine, thank you,” I say.

  “I know that not to be the case. You got expensive tastes. Like that lighter.” She passes it back to me.

  “I told you, it was a gift.”

  “That watch you wearin’—I bet that cost a pretty penny. How you afford that on a city employee salary?”

  I’m silent. She holds her cigarette in her left hand while she caresses the cat with her right. The ash on her cigarette is getting long, but she seems not to notice.

  “I unnerstand you just bought yourself an expensive painting,” she says.

  “What do you know about my painting, Sister Grace?”

  “They tell me it’s by some Frenchman named Melisa or somethin’. Knowin’ you, it probably of some naked lady.”

  “It’s not a naked lady.” I can’t seem to take my eyes off the ash at the end of her cigarette.

  “How you afford fancy pictures by a no-account French painter?”

  “It’s a beautiful painting. I’ve been waiting for it to come on the market for two years. And the name’s Soutine, not Melisa.”

  “Never heard of him … Musta cost a fortune. How you gonna pay for that?”

  “How do you know about that painting?” I ask. “It was a private sale. Supposed to be confidential.”

  “I keep an eye on my people.”

  “I’m not your people.”

  “You are when I say you are. And that car you drive. What kind of damn fool thing is that, I ask? A Jag-u-are car. That no car to be drivin’ in this neighborhood. You the biggest damn fool I ever did meet.”

  “I thought we had an understanding,” I say.

  “My boys will leave you and yor’ fancy car be so long as I say so,” the old woman says. “And I say so, so long as you of use to me. But if that should happen to change, you have no protection. And there’ll be nothin’ left of your car but one hubcap. If Jag-u-ares have hubcaps. I don’ know.”

  “How come you know so much about me?”

  “My boys, they look and they listen. You understand? I have eyes an’ ears everwhere. I know everthing that happens in this town.”

  “What is it you want me to fix?” I ask.

  “You know Cloud?”

  “I know Cloud. He tried to kill me,” I say.

  “I recollect that involved a woman. Cloud’s woman, Mariana. You got involved with her. Damn fool thing to do. French pictures and fancy cars and fancy women. That means trouble. Messing with one of Cloud’s women—that be fatal.”

  “So I learned.” The .38 fragment twists in my gut.

  A few years ago, I’d been assigned to a security detail at a concert featuring The Rolling Stones. I was standing near the entrance watching the crowd pushing and shoving to get in and I found myself staring into the eyes of a woman whose beauty still takes my breath away—tall and willowy, with olive skin, large brown eyes, and a warm, moist, seductive mouth. A woman who will arouse any man’s erotic longings and suppressed desires. And probably every woman’s, too. She looked frightened and lost so I slipped under the rope and went to her. “Can I help you, miss?”

  “I’m supposed to meet Cloud in the VIP lounge,” she whispers. She speaks with a slight accent. “I got lost.”

  “Come with me,” I say. “I’ll take you to Cloud.”

  I pulled her out of the surging line, and we ducked under the rope barricade. She slid her arm under mine in the possessive way beautiful women do.

  Mariana was a celebrity in Washington. Born in Argentina, she’d gone to New York as a teenager and become a celebrated model. She did gigs in Paris and Milan and her picture appears in glossy fashion magazines. Photographers love her and she loves the camera.

  I also knew this: She was Cloud’s woman and her smile will destroy people.

  A year before, a lawyer from a downtown firm took her out to dinner at some posh restaurant. Two days later he was stopped in front of his Georgetown town house and beaten by two thugs. This was in the middle of the day and there were witnesses. His attackers left the man, broken and bleeding, on the sidewalk.

  The lawyer died of internal injuries two days later. I was assigned the case, but it was hopeless. Although a dozen people witnessed the beating, no one would identify the attackers. Why would they? It doesn’t pay to annoy Cloud. As I’ve learned at my cost.

  I escorted Mariana to the VIP lounge where a cluster of security guards was gathered.

  “Thank you, sir,” Mariana whispered. “You saved my life. It proves there are still gentlemen.”

  She squeezed my hand. Even though we were surrounded by dozens of people, the moment felt exquisitely intimate. The do
or to the VIP lounge opened, and Mariana swept in. There was applause and I heard Cloud yelling: “Where the fuck you been, girl?”

  That should have been the end, but I couldn’t get Mariana out of my blood. As Sister Grace said to me, when it comes to women, I’m a damn fool. So it wasn’t the end. I couldn’t stay away from her and that ended up with a bullet in my gut.

  The cigarette ash finally falls onto Sister Grace’s lap and she brushes the ashes impatiently away. “I’ve told Cloud to stay away from you,” Sister Grace says to me, yanking a fresh cigarette from her pack. “That why you still breathin’ regular. Cloud my grandkid, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I say, offering her my lighter. “What’s Cloud’s real name?”

  “I don’ know.” She drags deeply on her cigarette,

  “Of course you know.”

  “Why do you care?” she asks. “Is it important?”

  “Probably not. I’d just like to know.”

  “I can’t remember,” she says. She looks once again at my lighter, then returns it to me. “It was a long time ago. When Cloud was just a cute little boy.”

  “Of course you remember,” I say. “You just don’t want to tell me.”

  She drags on her cigarette. “Tyrone. His name was Tyrone.”

  “Tyrone,” I repeat.

  “It was Tyrone,” she says. “It’s Cloud now. Satisfied?” Sister Grace stares for a moment into the middle distance.

  “Why am I here?” I ask.

  “I got a problem,” she replies. “One that takes special talent to fix. You get a substantial fee for this job. Fifty thousand dollars. Maybe you can buy a frame for yor’ new picture. Twenty-five thousand up front.” She pats the tote bag on the couch next to her. “The final twenty-five thousand when you fix my problem.”

  “What is it you want me to fix?”

  “I try to keep things under control ’round here, but Cloud becomin’ a serious problem. He has his young thugs. Like that Lamont boy. Lamont itchin’ to kill people.” She takes a drag on her cigarette. “Four people shot. In a schoolyard. Just this mornin’. One of ’em a little girl, itty, bitty thing. That just don’ sit right with me. I gotta put a stop to that. Before the police and politicians get serious and roll up the gangs and put me out of business.”

  “You’ve survived worse.”

  “The police ain’t the worst of it. I got enemies. All ’round. I know what they say ’bout me. I be old an’ weak. I losin’ my mind. But I’m not that far gone I can’t see danger. Cloud want to take over my organization. He want me out of the way. He becomin’ real impatient with me. Cloud be my Calvary. You be the fixer. Fix Cloud!”

  “Get someone else.”

  “It got to be you. For this kind of problem I can’t use my usual crack-head just out of lockup lookin’ for some pocket money. It got to be a professional job. You the professional.” She picks up the tote bag and hands it to me. “This your down payment. Do the job in the next couple of days. Cloud gettin’ tired of me naggin’ at him. Any day now he gonna put a bullet in my head.” She drags on her cigarette.

  “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “I want you should kill my Tyrone.”

  “I don’t do that kind of work.”

  “You suddenly got a conscience? I go to church ever’ Sunday. I tithe and I pray regular. I doubt you ever pray. Do the job. You done a lot a’ wicked things for me in the past. This is no different.”

  “You’ve never asked me to murder someone.”

  “I have a serious problem. Just fix it so Cloud no threat to me.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SY HOLLAND PULLS a plastic mask from his face and nods toward the four bodies stretched out on steel examination tables. “Came in just now. Another expected any moment. I don’t know where I’m going to put them.” Across the lab, Laura Kennedy, one of Holland’s assistants, is prepping a body for examination. There’s something by Santana playing on the sound system. “That’s in addition to yours.”

  “Some kind of accident?” I ask.

  “The investigating officers tell me it was a gang drive-by shooting. At a schoolyard in Southeast. Can you believe? Some young kids shot. One was a girl—she can’t be over eight.” He gestures toward the bodies. “What with the drug overdoses, it’s getting worse every day.”

  The woman I’ve come to see lies motionless on the steel slab. Laura Kennedy gently removes a plastic sheet from her face. Again, I have the shock of recognition. False recognition. I know this woman, but the girl I knew died over twenty years ago. When I last saw her, the girl I once knew had deep slashes in her chest, her abdomen was cut open. The woman lying on the metal slab in front of me today shows no signs of physical violence. Is this how Rose would look had she never met Clyde Fenton? I turn away, angry. I can’t look into her blue eyes and I gesture for Laura to cover her.

  “Female,” Holland says to me, his voice expressing no emotion. He never does. “Mid-thirties.”

  “She looks younger than that,” I say. Am I thinking of Rose?

  Holland shrugs. “Some people age well. She’ll never grow old now.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “Five foot seven and a quarter. One twenty-eight pounds. In good physical condition. Looks like she worked out a lot.”

  “Time of death?” I ask.

  “Between one and three.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Probably drowned. Can’t say for sure until I open her up.”

  “Any signs of sexual assault?”

  “None.”

  “How about drugs? Alcohol?”

  “I won’t know until we get the tox results and that won’t be for several days. We’re kind of backed up here, as you can see.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Scar on lower right leg. Very old. Probably a childhood scar. A recent minor wound on the left wrist. Abrasions on the knees.”

  “Show me the abrasions,” I say.

  Holland gently pulls the cover from the woman’s feet, revealing her legs. There are dark marks around her kneecaps.

  “Just these abrasions?” I ask. “Nowhere else?”

  “Just on the knees. I thought that unusual myself.”

  “You said there’s a cut.”

  Holland lifts the woman’s left hand. There’s a raw, red scratch, about two inches long, on her wrist.

  “When did this happen?” I ask.

  “Very recently. Definitely before death.”

  “Look at this.” I take the plastic evidence envelope containing the bracelet from my pocket.

  “It’s a medical ID bracelet,” Holland says. “The wearer was allergic to peanuts.”

  “Do you see the small red spots on the bracelet?” I ask.

  “Of course I see them,” Holland answers impatiently.

  “Could they be blood?”

  “I’ll find out, Marko. And, before you ask, I’ll match them to the victim’s blood.”

  “I need to look at the clothes,” I say.

  Holland leads me to an examination table on the far side of the autopsy room on which has been placed a clear plastic evidence bag containing clothing, neatly folded. I put on a pair of green vinyl evidence gloves and go through the contents. Inside the plastic bag are the gray pants suit, underwear, and a plain, white blouse. According to the labels, the clothes mostly came from Ann Taylor.

  “These look like workday clothes,” I say.

  “So?” Holland shrugs.

  “Why would she be wearing workday clothes in the middle of the night?”

  “I don’t know. I know nothing about women or women’s clothes. You’re the detective. You’re the expert on women. You tell me.”

  There is one shoe in the evidence bag—the one I saw lying in the grass. It’s been tagged by the forensic tech showing date, time, and location. Lying next to the clothes is a plastic evidence bag containing the device I’d seen on the woman’s wrist when we pulled h
er from the Pool.

  “I need to take this,” I say, picking up the evidence bag.

  “Isn’t this supposed to go to forensics?” Holland asks.

  “Of course it’s supposed to go to forensics. I’ll see they get it as soon as I’m finished.”

  * * *

  I wave the evidence envelope in front of Malcolm Wu, the senior IT guy in the police department who knows every electronic gadget and device ever invented.

  “Do you know what this is?” I ask.

  Malcolm grudgingly looks away from his array of computer screens and focuses on the plastic envelope. “It seems to be one of those gadgets people wear to monitor their activity. You know, people concerned about their weight, keeping in shape. That kind of thing.” Malcolm is at least forty pounds overweight and has probably never seen the inside of a gym.

  “Tell me what’s on it.”

  “You want me to open it up?”

  “That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

  “You will need a password.”

  “I don’t have a password.”

  “Ask the owner.”

  “The owner is dead, Malcolm. She’s in the morgue I’ve just come from and where I stole this device. I need to know what time the wearer died and what she was doing the last few hours of her life.”

  “Don’t you need a court order for something like that?”

  “Let’s not involve the lawyers, shall we? Why do you think I came to you? If I send it to forensics, they’d feel obliged to consult with counsel and that would lead to endless talk about laws and statutes and legal precedents. I don’t have time for that. Just sneak a peek and tell me what she was doing just before she died.”

  “This is totally illegal, you know.”

  “Are you saying you can’t open the device?”

  “Of course I can open it. Just saying it’s against the law. You’ll never be able to use what you learn in court.”

  “Whatever makes you think I expect this case to go to court? When can you give me a readout?”

  “Is it urgent?”

  “Very.”

  “You owe me a beer.”

  * * *