ARC: The Buried Life (10 page)

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Once again traveling the subterranean streets, Malone and Sundar discussed their plan of attack for the Bureau of Architecture. Sailing over the underground passages in suspended railcars, they agreed that, warrant in hand, their approach today could thankfully be more direct. Even without the signed contract from the Council, Malone could not imagine any trouble from the Bureau of Architecture. That bureau was to the Directorate of Preservation what a locket was to a bank safe: fewer secrets and fewer fastenings. Besides, decapitated as the bureau now was, the remaining staff would be too hungry for answers to be tight-lipped.

They returned to the bureau district to find the underground streets bustling and approached the Bureau of Architecture via the surface avenues, where the view was even more impressive. Though the Directorate of Preservation was little more than a hole in the rock face, designed and placed to be inconspicuous, the Bureau of Architecture was a monument to its purpose, with needle-like spires and smooth planes soaring over the avenues, like the projections of a Gothic cathedral. Though it radiated the same forbidding austerity as the rest of the area, the two detectives strode undaunted through the wide, arched doors of the veranda.

A quick descent brought them to the lobby, where another beady-eyed receptionist waited. This man appeared younger and livelier than his female counterpart at the Directorate of Preservation, but he gave them the same appraising eye as they approached.

“We need to speak with your director,” said Malone, sliding the warrant across his desk.

He ignored it. “Mr Fitzhugh isn’t in.”

“Of course he isn’t.”

“Excuse me?” The words came out more like a suggestion than a question. The receptionist had already lost interest in the two inspectors and turned his attention to more compelling affairs behind his desk.

Malone eyed the man, uncertain. Beside her, Sundar’s face was a mask of impassivity, and only his eyes, darting to hers, expressed his bewilderment. “He’s dead,” Malone said.

This caught the receptionist’s attention. He looked them over, from the buckled boots rising to the knees, to their slim, belted pants, black shirts, and loose coats. His face suddenly pale, he took the warrant in one manicured hand and perused it before meeting their gaze again. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“One we got our chief to sign off on?” Sundar asked. “Trust me, he likes his job a lot more than you seem to like yours.”

The receptionist recoiled. “Pardon me. It’s just that I don’t know–”

“We know you don’t,” Sundar said. “But someone else in here does. Just take us to him.”

“Follow me, please,” the man said, leading them across the marble-tiled floor.

Malone was surprised that no one had informed the receptionist of such a drastic change in his department, but, given the Council’s penchant for damage control, it was plausible. The authorities might have chosen to keep the news of Fitzhugh’s murder under wraps until learning more about his death and designating a successor, but there was little time before the murder became common knowledge.

They descended a wide spiral staircase to the floor below, where the receptionist brought them to an oaken door. He knocked twice and was admitted after a few brief moments by an unpleasantly familiar figure. The receptionist glanced at his toes more than a few times.

“Inspectors, sir. They’ve come with a warrant.” His role concluded, the receptionist retreated to his post, leaving Dominguez to glare sourly at Malone and Sundar.

“Let me see that,” he said, making a grasping motion with his open hand. He scrutinized the document, his face reddening as he searched it. Dominguez handed it back, looking up ever more sullenly at the visitors.

Malone stepped forward, looking into the office behind Dominguez. “Satisfied?”

“Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible. What do you want?”

“Take us to your leader,” said Sundar, obviously savoring the moment.

“Master Architect Lanning Fitzhugh is the director, and he is indisposed.”

“That’s why we’re here,” said Malone, and the reproachful look on Dominguez’s face suggested that this was not news to him, either. “Who runs things now?”

“I do,” he said. The corners of his mouth began to curl upward.

“For how long?”

Dominguez shrugged in a manner that was anything but casual. “Indefinitely.”

“We need Fitzhugh’s records. We want to see every project, completed and in progress, that he worked on before he died.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said, feigning reluctance.

“Oh? And why is that?” asked Sundar.

“I’m only the Interim Director, so I don’t have access to confidential information. That being the case, I certainly can’t give access it.”

Sundar rolled his eyes. “How long until the Council makes a permanent appointment?” Malone asked.

“Oh, the necessary paperwork may take months. Formalities upon formalities.” He sighed with an unctuous grin.

“Direct us to the documents,” said Sundar, “or we’ll have to arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

“How?” Dominguez chirped. “That’s not within my power, no matter what’s written on your permission slip.” Viperous triumph gleamed in his dark eyes.

Malone tapped a finger to her lips. “This puts you in an unfortunate dilemma,” she said, her mirror-blue eyes studying him. “You’ve benefited overnight from Fitzhugh’s murder. You’ve succeeded him for, as you say, an indefinite period of time with the possibility of keeping the job. And now you have immunity in that you are in no position to provide us with the information we need – information that may incriminate you. This makes you the prime suspect. If we don’t get the information we require, we will have to arrest you and hold you at the station – indefinitely, of course.”

At first, Dominguez’s jaw flapped and his eyes again bulged from their sockets. His face colored crimson and his cheeks puffed with rage. Then, he deflated. The fury drained from his face and disbelief replaced it. One look at Malone’s still features convinced him, and he moistened his lips in a lizard-like fashion before continuing in a more diplomatic tone.

“Inspectors, I believe there’s been something of a misunderstanding. Despite my every wish otherwise, I truly cannot accommodate your needs myself. However, I trust that you will allow me to present you to the Honorable Councilor Ruthers, who oversees this bureau. He can give you what you need.” In the patchwork of authority that bound the Council and the Municipal Police, even a seasoned bureaucrat like Dominguez had to cede some ground now and then.

“Good enough,” Malone said. Dominguez bowed with uncommon graciousness and led them further down the hallway.

Malone knew of Ruthers, though she had never expected to meet him. He was the unofficial leader of the oligarchic Council, a man whose personality was composed of equal parts cunning and force. Like all councilors, he governed a number of Recoletta’s bureaus and directorates, holding ultimate responsibility for their smooth and successful operation and occasionally directing their activities for political advantage.

Councilors were typically uninvolved in the daily proceedings of most directorates, leaving the majority of the business in the capable hands of the directors, such as Hask and Fitzhugh, that they appointed. After all, one could not be expected to personally manage the work of as many as five or six directorates, particularly when all-encompassing issues of policy and municipal administration were at stake. Nevertheless, Malone was not surprised that Councilor Ruthers was present today.

They stopped at the end of the hall in a round room lined with bookshelves. The pattern on the floor mirrored the skylight above, creating circles of sunlight that rippled out from the center of the floor. A slender, older man with a wavy crest of snow-white hair stood at the far end of the room with his back to them, leafing through a volume. He paid no heed as footsteps echoed in the space around him. “Sir,” Dominguez called, “Inspector Liesl Malone and her assistant, Inspector Randolph Sundar, are here to speak with you.” The latter winced at the use of his proper name.

The white-haired man looked up and turned around. He replaced his book on the shelf and strode toward them, the fine material of his dark blue suit sending echoed whispers about the room. As he drew closer, Malone was startled by his piercing blue eyes and arched nose, which gave him the aspect of a bird of prey.

“Inspectors, the Honorable Councilor Augustus Ruthers,” said Dominguez.

Ruthers stretched his hand to the two detectives in turn. It was smooth yet firm. “A pleasure to meet you both. How may I assist you?”

“Sir, we’ve come to review Lanning Fitzhugh’s projects,” said Sundar. Even he seemed temperate in the presence of the most powerful man in the city.

The councilor seemed to consider for a moment before answering. “Very well,” he said. “But I’m sure you know what I need first.” He smiled and held out one hand in a gesture that seemed to suggest that he was as much a slave to the system as they were. Receiving the warrant from Sundar, Ruthers scanned it with a detached expression. “Well, this won’t do at all,” he said, returning it.

“Beg your pardon?” asked Sundar.

“The files you require are confidential. You’ll need the signatures of most of the Council to open them, Inspectors.”

“Your Honor,” Malone said, “you know better than we do just how important this contract is. We’ve seen two murders in two days. We don’t have time for bureaucracy.”

Ruthers waved a hand. “Do not trouble yourselves, Inspectors. This contract is already under investigation.”

Sundar blinked, all protocol forgotten. “What did you say?”

“The Council has delegated this contract to some of its own agents who are more familiar with the people and the facts involved,” Ruthers said. “Your services won’t be needed.” He spoke as if dismissing a butler.

“This needs oversight,” Malone said. “That’s what we do, sir. It’s part of our charter and yours.”

Ruthers’s voice lost much of its gentility as he responded. “Do not lecture me on my duties, Inspector Malone. All public interests are being duly considered. In fact, for this purpose, we’re ordering a lockdown in the city, starting tonight, until this problem is resolved. City guards will patrol the streets in the evening with the authority to detain any suspicious parties.”

“Sir, when has Recoletta ever handled a murder investigation this way?” Even Malone was beginning to lose her composure.

“It’s the Council’s duty to set the policy and yours to abide by it, Inspector.”

“This is one killer, Councilor. Not an army,” Malone said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ruthers’s quick flare of fury echoed in the rotunda. “It is unprecedented! The way this individual is attacking the very peace and stability of our city is intolerable.”

“You mean the peace and stability of your neighborhood,” she said, shooting him a final cool glare. The conversation was over.

“Inspector, you take too many liberties. Now you will have to leave before I have you and your partner detained for interfering,” he said. “Dominguez, if you will.”

A spring in his step, Dominguez once again escorted the detectives away, leaving them after he had marched them ten paces into the surface street. Smoothing the wrinkles in his coat, Sundar looked at Malone, his round eyes ringed with anxiety.

“Can he really do that?”

Malone was silent for several moments. “Yes, I think he can. I just never thought he would.”

As Malone and Sundar stood in the streets under a bank of gathering storm clouds, the Council’s machines were already in motion. The city guards spread throughout Recoletta like the reaching vines of a creeper. Citizens blinked at the shining bayonets, melting into tunnels as the guards took their posts throughout the city. They would exchange whispers and glances with their neighbors until, coming to a notice board, they could read a freshly-pasted announcement declaring the following in boldface letters:

“DELINQUENT ON THE LOOSE. CITY-WIDE CURFEW AT 9.00PM. REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY TO THE CITY GUARD. THESE MEASURES TO CONTINUE INDEFINITELY.”

Chapter
6

The Outsiders

The remainder of Jane’s week, like her headaches, passed without incident. With the Guard patrolling Recoletta’s passages and the rumors surrounding the murders floating atop the public consciousness like a film of scum, the city resonated with tension. Suspicious reports, mostly from the Vineyard, persisted, and agents of the Council hounded the poorer districts in search of the “delinquent”. Nonetheless, the Council’s investigations led nowhere.

The attacks, however, had stopped. In the current atmosphere, crime had almost stopped altogether. Would-be crooks had as much to worry about from their over-vigilant neighbors as they did from the guards who scoured the streets and tunnels. It was as if the collective paralysis of the sheltered and privileged Vineyard had dripped down and saturated the rougher districts, leaving their denizens stunned and benign. This moratorium would have been a comfort to most people were it not for the pervasive feeling of being watched. Even for the whitenails, a certain vulnerability had invaded daily life.

Jane was still marked by her experience. The throbbing and tingling had left her skull, but a disquiet had lodged in her heart. It followed at her heels on the most mundane errands and settled beside her when she lay in bed at night. Despite Fredrick’s suspicion that the Municipal Police no longer had jurisdiction over the murder contracts, Jane gratefully noticed a black-clad officer nearly every time she passed the entrance to her apartment warren, just as Inspector Malone had promised.

But today was the day of the gala, and her lingering fears were eclipsed by that delicious, fluttering sense of anticipation and, she was surprised to note, by a touch of a different dread. Working for the prestigious families of Recoletta gave her an idea as to the appropriate decorum in social settings, but witnessing these manners and practicing them were two separate matters. Fortunately, Fredrick was more accustomed to these situations and had coached her throughout the week:

“Just remember: curtsy, don’t bow. You’re not a man, and you’re not a servant. Not at the gala, anyway.”

Jane scowled. “I’m not a servant at all,” she said. “I’m a laundress-for-hire. It’s different.”

Fredrick brandished the first two fingers of his right hand in a theatrical “V.” “Mistake number two! Don’t correct anybody. If you can’t think of anything agreeable to say, just go with, ‘How interesting that you should say so’.”

Jane looked back at the starched folds of her skirts, attempting to mask her annoyance with another practice curtsy. “I think I’d take all of this a lot better if it weren’t coming from you, the most obstinate and least proper person I know.”

“I never follow advice, not even my own. But I know what I’m talking about.”

She smirked. “How interesting that you should say so.”

After a week of these lessons and dancing in Jane’s den, the day of the gala had arrived. Restless, she arose early and completed her work by mid-morning. She spent the later part of the morning blighted by that anxious idleness that prevents one from accomplishing much of anything on the cusp of something momentous. After a meager lunch, she began her preparations for the evening: bathing, grooming, and dressing. By the time she went next door to meet her escort, it was hard to imagine how such a slow day had passed so quickly.

Fredrick answered the knock with a shouted “Come in!” and she found him standing by his dressing table, straightening a tie. He wore a trim tuxedo with longish tails that would have looked gaudy on a less ostentatious man. Jane had selected a gown that one of her whitenail clients had discarded and left to her. With her keen eye for detail, she had tailored its fit for her smallish figure and replaced outmoded tucks and stitches with more contemporary alterations. Now, Jane cut an angelic figure, swathed in creamy, diaphanous fabrics that wrapped her frame and floated behind her. Her dark locks were tucked at the back of her head and secured with a complex arrangement of pins. Looking over from his fussing, Fredrick gave a low whistle.

“Well! You can stop worrying that your clients may recognize you tonight. I hardly can, myself.”

“I think you mean that as a compliment, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Please do. I generally need it.”

“But I can’t give you any more time to obsess over your hair. Are you really not finished yet?”

Licking his forefinger, Fredrick gave the edges of his mustache a playful tweak and affected a snobbish accent. “Dear girl, it is but the work of a moment.” With that, he tucked his billfold into an inside jacket pocket and, taking Jane’s arm in his own, whisked out of the apartment. They reached the surface, and he hailed a horse-drawn cab.

“Fredrick,” Jane said, climbing into the coach, “are you sure we can go by the surface streets?” She looked around, her brow lined with worry. “I mean, is it proper?”

He waved a hand, balancing in the open door of the cab with the other. “Don’t worry about it. Plenty of people will be doing the same thing. Besides, if you haven’t seen the Brummell Hall veranda by night, you really must.” He slid into the seat next to her. “And what with the curfew, you won’t have many other chances.” The festivities would last well beyond the usual 9.00pm deadline, but as in most things, the whitenails and their affairs enjoyed some leeway.

Fredrick’s skillful banter banished any foreboding Jane felt about the evening. He turned her mind from preoccupations with custom and class to visions of laden banquet tables and dashing young bachelors and, rolling through the streets, her anticipation mounted as the glamour of her surroundings increased. In the Vineyard, tiny lights had been set at every corner in celebration of the evening’s festivities, covering the district in a sparkling frosting. The gardens, too, were conspicuous with diamond-like twinkles. Beams of colored light in the distance announced their destination.

They finally came to a halt in front of Brummell Hall, a building that was to pomp and fashion what the Barracks was to might and power. Surrounded by columns of light in the early evening, its rich white marble glowed with an ethereal luster. Pathways lined in low flames led from the drive, where ladies and gentlemen exited their carriages, through a garden of pruned hedge lines and dewy rosebushes. At the entrance, glowing columns supported the open section of the veranda. Her skin prickling in the pleasant, late autumn chill, Jane realized that she was already halfway through the garden but still transfixed on the sights around her. It was just enough to mask the presence of glowering guards.

She and Fredrick followed the stream of people to a wide staircase, its velvet-lined steps curving down and into the main hall. Jane steadied herself with one hand on the thick marble balustrade as the hall came into view. The overwhelming whiteness above was replaced here with shimmering gold and crystal. A sparkling, golden hall, lined with mirrors, stretched before them, the plush red carpet crunching softly underneath their shoes. Jane gasped at the floor-length mirrors she passed, her radiantly draped figure looking like a vision from someone else’s dream. A thousand mirrored iterations of her doe-eyed expression gazed back at her with sympathy.

This strange and marvelous passage opened into the ballroom, where delicate, spiraling columns set off the wings. Between these, the dome of the ballroom rose toward the horizon. Chandeliers of glass and crystal dispelled the faintest hint of a shadow, with the grand device in the center of the ballroom burning as high and bright as a beacon. Each ghostly tongue of fire danced in reflections and refractions inside the crystal. Jane’s shoes clapped on the tiled floor, barely audible amidst the murmur of conversations.

She felt a not-too-subtle jolt at her arm as Fredrick tugged her in the direction of the banquet table. Crossing to the far end of the ballroom, she saw the orchestra situated on a stage against one wall. Their tranquil minuet served as a backdrop for the chattering groups of invitees. Fredrick loaded a plate for himself, and, seeing Jane’s absorption with their surroundings, fixed one for her as well.

Jane picked at a deviled egg as she scanned the clusters of dignitaries and socialites. Her gaze flitted now and then to the trickle of people still filing into the ballroom and swept the smaller halls in the wings where a few came and went. She even watched the curtained doorways through which the attendants passed.

Only vaguely did she hear Fredrick mumble at her.

“Are you going to finish any of this?” Staring at her plate, he waited the obligatory beat. “Mind if I do?” She shook her head as he seized the dish. “Oh, here comes the show,” he said between bites of salmon canapé.

A hush fell over the crowd, and the orchestra rushed to their coda. The rooster-like man from the market waited on the stage. He wore the stiff green robes of a councilor, the rigid collar rising behind his neck and opening at his throat. The outer garment fell straight down to his feet, streamlining his figure to a solid pillar of green broken only by the slit down the front where the two halves of the sheath met.

Looking off to the side, Jane saw eight men and women attired in the same manner. She picked out Hollens and recognized Phineas, the egg-like man, his air of studied poise refuted by his shining forehead. She returned her gaze to the man on stage, recalling with a jolt that this was Ruthers, the informal leader of the Council. A little trill of urgency rippled in her stomach as she debated what to do. Silence fell over the room, and her only option for the moment was to listen.

Ruthers folded his hands in front of his chest. The commanding chill in his voice shattered the fatherly image. “Ladies and gentlemen of the city, allow me to express my sincerest delight.” He used the word like a knife.

“You represent the finest and most distinguished of our great city. Tonight we welcome our neighbors from South Haven,” he said with a sweep of his arm. Jane followed his motion and saw a handful of men and women in burgundy robes standing in a secluded cluster a little ways off from Recoletta’s councilors. They flashed stiff, decorous smiles at their introduction.

Councilor Ruthers continued as the applause faded. “This has been an eventful week in our fair city, but you all have seen how the strong arm of justice descends in protection when trouble arises.” He gestured grandiosely at the guards stationed around the room. “And I know you share my joy at the safety and tranquility that has returned to Recoletta.” Scattered nods testified to the general agreement. Something was building.

The councilor’s voice darkened. “Indeed, it has always been our destiny to seize glory from misfortune. Through strength and determination we can overcome the failures of the past as well as those individuals who would hold us back. We must press forward as a city, and we must recognize those sacrifices that are necessary to ensure our continued survival and prosperity. This is as true today as it was when our city was first born from the ashes of decadence and destruction.” He glared around the room, challenging his audience. Mouths were clamped shut and eyes cast down. Even from Councilor Ruthers, such a direct reference to the antebellum past was unsettlingly rare. Satisfied, he continued.

“Thus, it is with a spirit of triumph that we receive our neighbors here today. Let us welcome them in a manner befitting our city’s magnificence.” Grateful for the change in pace, the audience clapped with gusto.

“Tonight, let us not concern ourselves with the trials that lie before us. This is a night of commemoration, and we celebrate our cooperation as brother territories.” Ruthers smiled at the vigorous cheers, and the South Haven representatives nodded quietly. With a magnanimous flourish toward the orchestra, he backed from the stage, and the music swelled.

Jane lowered her eyes from the stage and had turned to look again at the South Haven delegation when her breath caught in her throat. Leaning against one of the winding pillars, in almost the same posture in which she had first seen him, Roman Arnault stood with his long hair slicked back, sipping pale spirits from a vial and lazily gazing about the ballroom. Something in her chest fluttered as she watched him unnoticed.

Her reverie was broken by Fredrick’s gentle prompting. “How rude of me, Jane. I keep forgetting that you don’t know anyone here. Let me steer you into friendlier waters.” Popping a cheese-stuffed olive into his mouth and placing his hand on her back, Fredrick guided her toward a gaggle of older women congregated at the other end of the room.

“They’re a little dusty, but they’re good people,” he whispered. “Stick with them and they’ll take care of you. Just watch their claws.”

“Fredrick,” she said, stopping him. “The man who just spoke…”

His eyebrows lifted from behind his plate of food. “Ruthers?”

“I saw him last week. In the market.”

“Even councilors go shopping, Jane.”

“That’s not what I mean. He was with one of the other councilors – the short, bald one. Phineas. It was just the two of them, and they were whispering about something.”

“Be thankful they weren’t shouting about it. I’ve heard the Council sessions can be chaos once they get going.” Fredrick swallowed another olive.

“You’re missing the point! They’d come all the way to the market to avoid being noticed. Really, how often do you think two councilors actually go by themselves to pick up groceries? If they needed something, they’d send their staff. Anyway, the whole time they were there, they were whispering about something, and Phineas seemed terrified–”

“Hello-o, Jane, did you see the man on stage? And did you listen to a word he said? It’s all very innocuous-sounding; Councilor Ruthers practically runs Recoletta, and he just reminded us of that. There may be a you-know-what out there,” Fredrick said, “but in here, we’re surrounded by guys that look like that.” He nodded at one of the guards across the room, a man armed with a bayonet and no apparent personality. “And those guys all follow Ruthers. That’s his way of pointing out that while there’s only one ‘delinquent’, there are thousands of guards, so the rest of us had best stay in line.”

“But I think they were plotting–”

“Of course they were plotting, Jane! What do you think councilors do? And I know what you’re going to say next, so yes, it probably did have something to do with the murders. But so what? That’s what everybody’s talking about.” Fredrick skewered another three olives with a toothpick and slid them into his mouth. “So,” he said between bites, “unless you heard them say something about a new mistress or a new quartz vein, there’s no news.”