The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  Kathryn slides next to Bucky and whispers in his ear. He opens his eyes and for a split second looks confused until he remembers where he is. He shifts forward, places both hands on the bench, and pushes himself to stand. Kathryn stands with him, her hand hovering next to his elbow.

  “Does she need a lawyer?” Bucky’s voice is thready and hoarse.

  “I don’t need a lawyer. I don’t do nothing wrong.” Then hearing the vehemence in her voice, Anjelika softens. “So nice people, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart. So sad. I cause too much trouble.”

  “Just talk to the police,” Bucky says. “Tell them whatever they want to know.”

  “I’m good person. In my country, Norway, I’m good student and athlete. I love children.” Her eyes gloss with tears.

  Manny opens the door to the interrogation room. He’s smiling, a warm, friendly spider-to-the-fly grin. “Anjelika.” He extends his hand. “Come in, we’re ready for you. You, too, Doc.”

  Anjelika has been holding my hand so tightly and for so long that I can’t feel my fingers. I’ve drunk two bottles of water and urgently need to pee. Manny doesn’t appear to be close to stopping. There’s a pile of soggy tissues on the table. Anjelika’s eyes are more red than blue.

  There’s no apparent logic to Manny’s interviewing technique. His questions come fast and furious, spinning and swirling from past to present, from California to Norway. I feel like I’m watching Jackson Pollock create a painting. And then suddenly he drops back to his same monotonous insistence that Anjelika must have a boyfriend somewhere. That she’s been taken in by this evil American boyfriend who forced her to help him kidnap Chrissy from her billionaire employer and promised her they’d run away together with the ransom money. Then he swerves again, asking about skiing and did she ever take her evil American boyfriend back to Norway to meet her family. Dizzy from going around this track a hundred times, I inject a question.

  “A ransom note? Has there been a ransom note?”

  In an instant, Manny shuts down the interview and allows Anjelika to go to the bathroom under the watchful eye of the redheaded PIO. As soon as she’s out of the room, he turns on me. “I’m the one who has to ask the questions, Doc. Not you.”

  “Manny, I’m not your enemy here. I’m your friend.” For a minute his face relaxes and then hardens back into his bad cop persona. He’s a man on a mission and nothing or no one is going to get in his way.

  “You’re here to help us establish rapport. Make her comfortable. Get her to talk. Not to ask questions.”

  If he’s going to play it like this, so can I. “Is there a ransom note or not?” I don’t care if he kicks me out, I need to pee and I think I need to tell Anjelika to get a lawyer.

  The door opens and Anjelika comes back.

  “Can I go now? I’m so tired. I loved Chrissy. I would never hurt her. I have a heartbreak that she’s dead. I told you. I have no boyfriend. Not even in Norway.”

  Manny leans over the table. He’s apparently been building up to this moment, wearing Anjelika’s defenses down to a nub.

  “Maybe you and your boyfriend kidnapped Chrissy, but you didn’t mean to kill her. Could have been an accident.”

  Anjelika’s hands knot into fists. “No accident. Never. You’re terrible man. You have terrible thoughts.”

  Manny and Anjelika are both on their feet, face-to-face across the table.

  “Then who, Anjelika, if you didn’t, who took Chrissy?”

  “You hate. Your heart is full of hate. Now I’m full of hate for you. You’re a terrible man. I want a lawyer. And I want my passport back.”

  “Sorry. No can do.”

  “You make me arrested? Mr. Stewart says if you don’t, you must give my passport back to me.”

  As soon as Anjelika leaves, Pence appears.

  “Hey, boss.” Manny gives him a limp salute. He’s sprawled in a chair, depleted of adrenaline and venom.

  “How’d it go?”

  We answer simultaneously. Manny says “Good.” I say “Not so good.” Pence laughs and pulls up a seat.

  “Which is it? You first.” He turns to Manny.

  “She’s hiding something. Someone. She isn’t capable of doing this on her own, but she’s involved. There’s a boyfriend someplace who smells money. Maybe she’s shagging the old man and he put her up to it so he can ditch his responsibilities and they can run off to Ibiza. He’s coaching her, told her that unless we arrested her, we couldn’t keep her passport.”

  “She asked for a lawyer,” I say.

  Manny straightens in his chair. “She’ll come around when she realizes I’m not backing off, lawyer or no lawyer.”

  Pence turns to face me. “You have a different perspective?”

  “I think she doesn’t have a clue about what happened. She never wavered from her story even though Manny was more than vigorous in his questioning. She seems genuinely distressed over Chrissy’s death and the pain it is causing the family.”

  Manny snorts. “She’s playing dumb.” He raises his hands in the air, fingers curled and his pinkies outstretched. “I don’t know anything. I’m just the nanny,” he says in a child’s singsongy voice.

  “She’s not dumb and she’s telling the truth,” I say.

  Pence turns to face me. “And you know this how?”

  “Anjelika was incredibly emotional, weeping, angry, all over the map. When a person lies in a high-stakes situation and only pretends to feel genuine emotions, the corrugator muscle in the face doesn’t move.”

  “The what muscle?” Pence sits up in his chair.

  “The corrugator supercilii, a little muscle close to the eye. It’s the frowning muscle, the principal muscle in the expression of suffering.”

  “Come on.” Manny shoves back in his chair. “I’m tired. I need a break.”

  “I took a class in grad school. Detecting high-stakes lies by observing facial, nonverbal, and verbal behavior.” Professor Charles Randall pops into my head with his roly-poly body and wild thatch of gray hair. Always late to class, flustered and red in the face. Wearing the same clothes he wore the day before; nothing laced, zipped, or buttoned.

  “When was that? A hundred years ago?” Manny mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. “You going to listen to her or me, Chief?”

  “I’m going to listen to both of you,” he says in a surprisingly conciliatory move. “You’re both tired and you’re both on edge. I suggest we call it a day, go over it again tomorrow. Good work, both of you.”

  Manny walks out. I start collecting my things. Pence holds the door open for me and waits.

  “Do you see?” I say.

  “See what?”

  “How Manny is changing. He’s turning into a bully. He’s angry, hostile, sarcastic. That’s not him.”

  “Of course. He’s under a lot of stress. And he’s not getting enough sleep. What do you expect? That’s a copper’s life.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “WHAT HAVE YOU done?” I say the minute I walk through Frank’s front door. So much for my intentions to stay calm and reasonable. Frank is in the kitchen wearing a denim apron that says “Kiss the Cook.” The house smells sweet and spicy.

  “Just a little something I whipped up for my sweetie. Duck confit with oven-fried potatoes, and green beans with mushrooms.”

  “I’m not talking about dinner. I’m talking about Anjelika, the girl in your photography class. Did you know she was Chrissy’s nanny? That she worked for the Stewarts?”

  He looks puzzled. Dries his hands on a towel. Takes a sip of wine and offers me a glass. I tell him I’ll pour it myself. He checks the food and turns down the oven. I sit at the kitchen counter. The motion-activated outside lights wink on and off in a brisk invisible wind.

  He sits on the second stool. “No, I didn’t know. Is that what’s got you so upset?”

  “Remember the evening she was arrested? Although it turns out she wasn’t really arrested. You told me that you didn’t want to get involved.�
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  “I didn’t. I don’t.”

  “Manny interviewed her today. And she asked for me specifically to sit in on her interview. Was that your idea?”

  He gets up, walks to the stove, and pokes at something burbling in a saucepan. “Want a salad?”

  “What I want is an answer to my question. Did you tell her to ask Manny to let me sit in on her interview?”

  “Do you really think I would do that without your permission?” He looks at me, his eyes like blue ice, cold and sharp. “If you do, you underestimate me.”

  “So how come she knows I work at KPD in the first place?”

  “We talk on breaks. The whole class talks on breaks. She asked if I was married. I said I was engaged. She asked what you did and I told her. That was months ago when the class first started.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have. How do you think this makes me look? She’s a potential baby murderer, for God’s sake. What else did you tell her about me when you were getting cozy with each other?”

  “What do I have to do, ask your permission to talk to people?” He stands up. “You want to eat or not?”

  I never turn down anything with duck in it. Or potatoes.

  Frank plates up the food, carries it to the table. I bring in the wine and refill our glasses. We eat in silence. The food is delicious.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?” I say.

  “About the interview.” His voice drops to a deep bass. “Did she do it?”

  “I doubt it, but I could be wrong.”

  “And Manny? Does he think she did it?”

  “He’s not finished with her. I’m certain about that.”

  “Okay, then. That’s all I need to know.” He starts to clear the dishes and stops. “I’m sorry that my relationship with Anjelika or JJ upsets you. I’ve never given you any reason to doubt my intentions. The fact that you do bothers me.”

  “It’s happened to me before.”

  “I know. You’ve told me. And I’ve told you that I’m not like your ex. I’m sorry for what he put you through, but you are going to have to get over it someday. There is a statute of limitations. You only get so long to blame your ex because you’re scared of commitment. After that, if you push me away, it’s on you.”

  Manny is waiting for me the next morning as I drive into the parking lot at headquarters. It is cold and windy, but he stands in his shirtsleeves, watching me try twice to back into a parking space, give up, and drive to where there is enough room to park an eighteen-wheeler. I can feel his eyes on me as I bend to retrieve my briefcase from the trunk, my backside in the air, feeling clumsy and old.

  “Morning, Doc. How are you this fine morning?”

  The truth is I spent a very restless night at home. Frank invited me to stay but given the frosty air between us I opted to leave. Bad move on my part. The minute I got into bed I couldn’t stop seeing the hurt on his face and hearing the anger in his voice as he skewered me about the statute of limitations. “I’m fine, thank you, Manny. And you? Did you get some sleep?”

  “Not so good, actually.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Our little Norwegian angel has flown the coop.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gone. Vanished. Vamoose. I called her early this morning to set up a second interview. When Bucky went to her room to get her, the room was empty and her clothes were missing. I checked the airports, all the flights to Norway. Seems she took a late-night flight to Oslo. My bad. I should have arrested her and kept her passport.”

  “Did the Stewarts know she was planning to leave?”

  “I’m about to find out. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll be right back. I want to leave my briefcase in my office.”

  “You’re not invited to sit in on this one, Doc. The chief has changed his mind. He asked me to tell you that as far as you’re concerned, anything to do with this case is strictly off limits.”

  I find Pence in his office, sitting at his desk, swiveled around with his back to the door staring out the window at the rain that is coming down in large, sloppy drops. “What’s happened?” He doesn’t turn around.

  “Our prime suspect has fled the country.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Manny just told me that you told him I can’t have anything to do with this case. Is that true? And if so, why? Yesterday, you thanked me for my help.”

  “That was yesterday. I didn’t have the whole picture until Manny and I spoke this morning.” He turns his chair to face me. He doesn’t get up. I don’t sit down. “Did you ask him about a ransom note in front of the suspect?”

  “Yes.”

  “Putting an interrogating officer on the spot is very poor judgement as is revealing information in front of a suspect with whom, I understand, you were holding hands.”

  “She grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let go. She’s a kid, she was scared.”

  “She is an adult, over twenty-one. Traveled to a strange country where she knew no one, didn’t speak the language, and got herself a job. Children don’t do that.” I want to grab him by his lapels and shake him.

  “You thought my personal relationship with JJ could be helpful in the investigation. You asked me to keep my eyes and ears open. So did Manny.”

  “It may have been a mistake to put you in the middle of this. My apologies if it was. From now on, if you accidentally discover something that may be related to Chrissy’s case, do not pursue it or get directly involved. Bring it to me or Manny.”

  I don’t know who to be mad at first. My choices are legion: Anjelika, the flying angel; her mentor, Frank; her employers, Bucky and Kathryn; her nemesis, Manny, or my nemesis, Chief Pence, whose moods are as changeable as the weather, which is now sunny. Of course, I could be mad at myself for misjudging the situation and everyone involved. I have four clients and two pre-employment screening interviews this afternoon with just enough time to go to the drugstore for Tylenol and grab lunch at Fran’s. I drive out of the parking lot and pull up to the corner stop sign. A sleek gunmetal-gray Tesla sedan crosses in front of me and pulls into the visitor’s parking space facing the front door of headquarters. Bucky and Kathryn are early for their interview. A parking space across the street opens up. I pull in and tilt my rearview mirror for a good look. To hell with lunch, this is way more important.

  As soon as he stops the car, Bucky turns toward Kathryn and starts waving his hands in the air. I don’t need to hear what he’s saying to know he’s upset about something. Kathryn never looks at him, just stares out the front window and dabs at her eyes with a white handkerchief. Bucky pounds the steering wheel with both hands. I can see her jump every time he does. He slumps forward resting his head on his hands. He could be crying, I can’t tell. Kathryn touches his shoulder and says something. He shakes her off. She looks out the side window toward the front of the police building. Bucky slumps against the seat, his head on the back rest. A moment later, he looks at his watch and opens his door. Kathryn pulls down the mirror-backed visor, opens her purse, and takes out a small compact. Bucky steps out of the car and straightens his jacket. Even from this distance, I can see his eyes are red and puffy. Kathryn powders her face, applies lipstick, and waits for Bucky to open her door. He does, but makes no effort to help her out. She stands, smoothing the front of her dress, one of those knit numbers with a matching jacket favored by women in politics. They stand for a moment as though gathering their wits and then walk, arm in arm, toward the front door.

  Lunch at Fran’s is hurried. Eddie serves me a bowl of soup without spilling a drop, which leads me to think he might actually make a life for himself working here. He is, as usual, full of complaints about his current work status, looking to me for any shred of hope that Pence will give him his job back. I tell him that, at the moment, Pence and I are not on the best of terms.

  I call Frank on the way to my main office to ask if he knew Anjelika was planning to return to Nor
way to escape potential prosecution. My imagination, he says, is working overtime. He tells me he won’t be available for dinner before his photography class. And since he can’t be any more irritated with me than he already is, I inquire if he wouldn’t mind asking Anjelika’s two Norwegian photo-shooting nanny friends if they know where she went, why she went, and how to get in touch with her.

  Professor Charles M. Randall still lives in Berkeley, about an hour’s ride north of Kenilworth and then across the Bay Bridge. It’s a glorious morning, sunny and bright. Not a shred of fog or smog. Everything rain-washed and saturated with color. The newly built east end of the bridge is blazing white in the sun. A graceful rebuke to the old steel bridge that wasn’t worth rebuilding after the Loma Prieta earthquake shook loose a sagging section of the roadway.

  It’s the day after New Year’s. Out with the old, in with the new. Anjelika is new. JJ is new. I’m old and, to be honest, starting to sag a bit myself.

  Dr. Randall’s house is high in the hills, one of those iconic Berkeley brown shingle craftsman-style cottages, all angles and ivy. The steps to his front door meander down a sharp slope crowded with plants and stones. A worn teak bench sits in front of a miniature waterfall that drops into a pool studded with floating hyacinth where a metal egret stands on one leg peering into the water. Before I can knock, the door is opened by a dark-skinned woman wearing slacks and a loose sweater the color of plums. I’m a bit startled. Dr. Randall existed in an academic bubble. I never gave a thought to whether or not he was married, single, straight, or gay. His life outside the classroom was of no interest to me. He never brought it up and neither did I.