The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  “Dunno. She got Brenda all in a fit saying Chrissy was being abused by her mother. Brenda’d believe anything.” He turns on his side, wincing. “Chrissy’s mother is a good-looking bitch. You ever seen her?” He stretches. Winces again. “If my old man was boning a chick like that, I’d be green, too.”

  “They didn’t have a current relationship,” I say.

  Buzz looks at me as if he’d forgotten I was in the room. “You a psychologist? You don’t know fucking A about people.” He sits up higher. “I ain’t as stupid as I look, Doc. I’m a doper, not a dope.”

  “You’re doing great,” Manny says.

  “I don’t worry about Brenda cheating. The only man she wants is me. And nobody wants her old bag of broken bones. Not after what I done to her.” He flicks his head away but not before I see some emotion splash across his face. He waits a minute and turns back to Manny.

  “Brenda goes where I take her. She don’t have a mind of her own. She’s in trouble because she follows me. She needs treatment. She’s got mental problems. Depression. Nervosity. Drugs and alcohol. The whole shebang. I talk to you, you got to help her.”

  Manny looks down at him. “I can try. But it’s not always in my control. The DA decides what charges to press.”

  “All she did was follow me. I did it for the money. She did it because she’s a sucker for anything that’s abused—kids, cats, dogs, it don’t matter.”

  “I’ll do what I can, I just can’t promise.”

  Buzz shrugs. “After we took the baby, we got loaded like I said. The baby was crying like she was sick or hungry or something. She mighta ate some of our stash. We put her in a room to keep her quiet. By the time we found her, she was dead.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “Called Kathryn. She went bonkers. Said we were going to go to jail for murder. I told her to calm down. It was an accident. Not the same as murder. Anyone can have an accident. Shit happens.”

  “Who decided how to dispose of the body?”

  “Kathryn came over. Looked at the baby.”

  “Was she upset, crying, did she try to hold her?” I ask. I can’t imagine how it feels to see a beloved child dead. I don’t even want to try.

  “She’s one coldhearted bitch. I cried harder over a dead dog I once had.”

  I lean in so close that I can smell his rotting teeth through the mouthwash he’s been drinking. “Were you sober? Are you sure you are remembering things accurately?”

  “I got to tell you, lady, there’s nothing like finding a dead baby in my house to sober me the fuck up.”

  Manny gives me a look. He wants me to back off. “So then what happened?” he asks.

  “Kathryn pulls out a bag of makeup and starts putting it on the baby . . .” He can’t say Chrissy’s name. “Makes her up like a hooker so everybody will think some porno dude took her. Says there’s a whole task force looking for kiddie fiddlers, why not give ’em what they’re looking for?”

  “Where’s Brenda during this?”

  “Hysterical. Hiding in the bedroom. She couldn’t watch.”

  “Who put Chrissy in the dumpster?”

  “That bitch asked me to put the body in a dumpster behind where the mother lives.”

  “And did you?”

  “Absolutely not. Brenda and me. We were finished with this caper. We cooked up some more crank and went to bed.”

  Pence and Kathryn are still at it in the hall by the time we finish with Buzz. The minute she sees me and Manny, she charges toward us.

  “What did he tell you? He’s a born liar, you know. You can’t believe anything he says.”

  “Then why are you interested?”

  “I need to know what lies he’s telling you about me.”

  “So you can what, tell lies about him?” Manny’s starting to lose his equilibrium, like a runner growing more impatient the closer he comes to the finish line.

  “Did he tell you I gave him money?”

  Manny nods his head.

  “What did he say I gave him money for?”

  “To kidnap Chrissy.”

  “Oh, God.” She crushes her face into a handkerchief, then wipes her eyes before I can see if she has any tears to be wiped. She sucks in air, bracing herself. “I need to tell you something. Please forgive me, but I haven’t been entirely honest with you. And I certainly couldn’t say what I’m about to say in front of Bucky. I did give them money. For rehabilitation. And when I began to be suspicious that they were planning this horrible thing . . .” She takes another deep breath. “I gave them money not to kidnap Chrissy.” She checks our faces for reactions. “I’m being totally honest with you. I am so ashamed of myself. I told them I’d give them whatever money they needed so they didn’t have to resort to such an unthinkable act.”

  “So you knew all along what they were planning.” Manny starts to pull out his Miranda card.

  “I thought I’d bought them off. I never thought they’d go through with it. I may be a fool, but I’m not guilty of hurting my beloved Chrissy.”

  “Buzz says you were instrumental in moving her body.”

  Kathryn stiffens. Her eyes narrow and her lips compress, pulling at the spidery lines around her mouth.

  “And you believe them? There is no evidence, none, to tie me to any part of this despicable act. I loved my stepdaughter, I would never hurt her. I am a respected citizen with no criminal background, not even a parking ticket. There’s something very wrong if you’re taking the word of two mentally disturbed drug addicts over mine.” Once again, she dabs at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Are we finished here? I need to call my lawyer. And my husband, if Buzz and Brenda haven’t destroyed my marriage with their insinuations. Where’s the elevator?” She looks around. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  Before we respond, she marches down the hall following the signs toward the public restrooms. Her shoes slap against the floor in righteous indignation. As soon as she rounds the corner, Manny says, “She’s right, we don’t have a shred of physical evidence.”

  “You have the blanket she bought,” I say.

  “JJ has the same blanket, so could half of East Kenilworth.”

  “Buzz knew about the makeup. The one detail that never got into the press.”

  “That doesn’t connect Kathryn to the scene, only Buzz.”

  I find Kathryn in the public bathroom washing her face over the sink. She gives a theatrical sigh when she sees me. “Are you following me? What did you think I was doing in here, planning my next murder?”

  “Sorry, I have to pee.”

  She snorts and closes her eyes. “Whatever. No need to be graphic.”

  By the time I leave the stall, she’s carefully applying concealer over her skin. I wash my hands.

  “I’m going to try to get Bucky to meet me.” She takes a long breath. “I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me. Or how I’m going to forgive myself for being so naive. I run boards, I have a business background, you’d think I would know when people were lying to my face.” She looks at herself, examining her so-easily-lied-to face in great detail.

  I watch as she smooths foundation over spidery clusters of broken capillaries and the shadowy circles under her eyes.

  “Good makeup hides a multitude of sins. I could use something like that myself,” I say.

  She looks at me, not sure if I’ve complimented or insulted her. This is how narcissists act. Filled with inflated importance, they accept praise as their just due at the same moment they are fearfully sussing out hidden criticisms.

  “This is hardly the time to be discussing cosmetics. I’ve been probed and prodded all day by people who think I’m guilty of the most heinous crime imaginable.”

  “I’m sorry. That was very insensitive of me. It’s just that . . .” And now I’m riding the crest of my own narcissistic injury. I should get back in therapy, but I can’t face telling a thirty-year-old shrink whose parents paid her way through college about how my ex dumped me for a young
er woman.

  “Are you worried about getting old, Kathryn?” She turns around so that I’m no longer talking to her reflection. “I know what it’s like trying to hang on to someone you love who seems to love you less every day.” She looks pleased. Nothing more satisfying than discovering that the acclaimed shrink and author of several books who has been persecuting you has emotional hot spots no different than yours.

  “If you know how I feel, why are you tormenting me?”

  I grab the memory by its tail. Shove it back where it belongs.

  “I loved Chrissy with all my heart. How can you think I killed her?”

  “Because you love Bucky more.”

  There’s a twitch on her upper eyelid, and the muscles around her jaw go slack. I can hear just the tiniest puff of air leave her lungs. It’s the look all therapists are after. Visceral evidence that they’ve struck pay dirt.

  She turns back to the mirror.

  “I get this at a spa. They make it exclusively for their clients. You can’t buy it in a department store.” She hands me the bottle of concealer. “I’m sorry I can’t let you try it. It’s mixed especially for my skin tones and reacts to my unique chemistry.”

  “Thank you,” I say with sincerity. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I GO BACK to the coroner’s office where JJ and Bucky identified Chrissy’s body. I sit in the same room and talk to the same medical examiner’s investigator with the same cotton-candy hair wearing the same dark business suit. She kindly, but vaguely, remembers me.

  “You are a friend of the family’s and you also work for the police department? Do I have that straight? How can I help you?”

  “When you showed the parents Chrissy’s photo, her face was washed clean. I know that when her body was found, she was made up like a grown woman. What I want to know is whether or not the coroner kept any samples of the makeup before Chrissy’s face was washed.” She refuses to answer my question. I call Manny on his cell, promise to explain myself as soon as I get back to the department and ask him to authorize the investigator to talk to me. She takes the phone, nods a few times, and hands it back to me.

  “The coroner did preserve some samples in case the police wanted to test them chemically. It’s possible to separate the oils and waxes in lipstick from the remaining residue and analyze the molecular structure using gas chromatography. This gives you the unique formula of that particular brand of lipstick. Same for makeup. Liquid makeup especially.” She opens her notebook and flips through several pages. “When you apply makeup on a deceased individual, it is like applying it to a waxed surface. It takes a lot to cover the surface properly. We have several samples on hand. It is possible to compare and contrast makeup formulas, although it would be very labor intensive considering the number of cosmetic companies and the number of products they offer. It would cut down considerably on the investigation if this were a rare cosmetic not widely available for sale.”

  Exactly what I was hoping she’d say. I thank her profusely and head out with the good news. She stops me at the door.

  “I rarely get involved emotionally with the bodies we examine. I’m sure as a psychologist you can understand the need for me to keep my distance in order to do my job properly. But I do remember this case. I remember looking at Chrissy and thinking that whoever applied that horrid makeup did so carefully. With love.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Pence says to me. “Ask a judge to issue a warrant to search Kathryn’s house for mascara?”

  “Call the spa.”

  “And say what? They’re not going to turn in a client. And I don’t have any jurisdiction in Southern California. I could ask my wife to go down there. Undercover. Maybe they could do something for her.” He looks at Manny, hoping for a laugh at his beleaguered man joke. Manny manages only the barest grimace.

  Pence’s phone rings. He picks it up.

  “When was the last time you went home, Manny?” I ask.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “And when’s Lupe’s deadline?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “Go home,” I say. “I’ll write you a doctor’s note prescribing a five-day extension.”

  “You can’t go home,” Pence says hanging up the phone. “We’ve found Bucky. He’s at JJ’s commune. So is Kathryn.”

  I head for Frank’s. I’ve seen him about as frequently as Manny has seen Lupe. Sneaking into bed next to a sleeping body who barely manages to acknowledge my presence with a snort before rolling over back to sleep is not my idea of quality time. But tonight I’m early enough to find him at the dining table cleaning his camera lenses.

  “Do I know you?” he says.

  “In the biblical sense. On rare occasions.”

  He makes a grab for me. I duck and run into the kitchen, babbling over my shoulder about having to make an important phone call that can’t wait.

  Whoever answers the telephone at the Belle Aqua de la Vida spa is exceptionally happy I called. When I tell her I’m a friend of Kathryn Blazek’s this makes her even happier. Close to giddy. I ask if I can take her into my confidence. Her name is Miki, with an I. She assures me that when it comes to keeping secrets, she is a perfectionist. I tell her that Kathryn’s birthday is coming up and a few of her friends want to surprise her with a basket of her favorite Belle Aqua de la Vida cosmetics. I wonder if Miki could text me a list of Kathryn’s custom-formulated items so that we could choose what to order.

  “Absolutely, right away,” she says, dismissing whatever plans she had for the evening in lieu of creating a gift list with some additional suggestions from their newest line of argan oil, urea, and Dead Sea minerals. Argan oil, she croons, comes from the nut of a tree grown only in Morocco and used as a dipping sauce for bread. I know where urea comes from and don’t want to embarrass her by asking about the benefits of massaging pee into my face. Ditto for the youth-promoting properties of an ancient sea so salty nothing can live in it but bacteria and microbial fungi. “It really works,” Miki, the guardian of secrets, says. “Miss Kathryn has been using our product line for years, That’s why you’d never guess she’s in her sixties.”

  Frank is leaning in the doorway to the kitchen looking at me when I hang up. “Why are you ordering cosmetics for Kathryn Blazek?”

  “We have to go to JJ’s. She’s going to need you. I’ll explain in the car.”

  Frank slams both hands on the steering wheel. “Kathryn? And the guy who bought Maldonado’s truck? So JJ’s off the hook and so is Anjelika?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “I knew it.” He’s grinning from ear to ear. “Contractors are good judges of people. We have to be. I remodel someone’s house, we’re practically living together for months. I have to be able to tell which clients are going to be easy to work with and which are the complainers who’ll nickel-and-dime me to death.” He slams his hands on the steering wheel a second time. “I know JJ is a little eccentric, but she’s not capable of hurting Chrissy. And Anjelika is a naive kid. Innocent as the day she was born. The cops were barking up the wrong tree with her.”

  Ten minutes from JJ’s commune, he looks at me.

  “This might be a good time to tell you something.”

  My heart slips a little in my chest.

  “I got a letter from Anjelika a couple of weeks ago. A thank-you note. I didn’t tell you about it because . . . just because. She’s happy to be home and wanted to know if the police have caught the person who took Chrissy. Now I know what to say.”

  “What was she thanking you for?”

  “I’m the one who encouraged her to go back to Norway while she still had her passport and wasn’t under arrest.”

  “You? She was a murder suspect.”

  Almost. I remember Manny telling me after she fled that he was never really interested in her. She was a decoy. A way for him to make the real suspects think he was after someone else.

  “As far as I know, I didn’t do a
nything illegal. I didn’t give her money or drive her to the airport. I just couldn’t stand the way the cops were treating her. They were overzealous. Scared the poor kid to death. I may be your all-around good guy, but I do have a little larceny in my heart when it comes to the mistreatment of innocent women. Are you going to turn me in?”

  “I’ll have to think about it, although I do find larceny a bit sexy.”

  The doors to the gallery at JJ’s commune are open. Light is spilling out into the night. There’s a worried clutch of seven or eight people standing in the parking lot talking to Manny and Pence.

  “One person,” Pence shouts. “I can’t listen to all of you at once.”

  A tall, skinny man with a ponytail and Van Dyke goatee takes the lead. “We all live here. I was in my studio and I heard loud voices. Angry voices. I went to the gallery to investigate. I saw three people. JJ, JoAnn Juliette—she lives here—and two people I didn’t recognize. A man and a woman.”

  “Any weapons?”

  “I didn’t see any guns, if that’s what you mean, but there’s a lot of glass and metal and heavy objects on display. They could be weapons—”

  Pence and Manny head for the open door. Pence is shouting over his shoulder, telling everyone to stay outside. Manny is calling for backup.

  “Does he mean us, too?” Frank asks.

  “Better not.” I grab his hand and we run toward the building.

  JJ, Kathryn, and Bucky are standing in the gallery, their forms barely distinguishable from the life-sized sculptures surrounding them. The fresh bruise on Kathryn’s cheek blooms through her custom-blended Belle Aqua de la Vida foundation.

  “Come home with me, Bucky,” she says. “I can explain.”

  “Why did you kill Chrissy?” JJ’s voice is quavering, watery. Bucky puts his arm around her shoulder. She shrugs it off.

  “It was an accident. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I don’t understand,” JJ says. “You knew they were going to take her. Why didn’t you tell someone?”