ARC: The Buried Life (20 page)

“Does the Council know?”

“They let me get away with a lot, but they don’t know about this. Are you going to tell them?”

She tried to laugh. “Of course not.”

His eyes softened as he squared his shoulders and regarded her. “And again the poor host. You walked all the way here, and I haven’t offered you any refreshment. May I make you some tea?”

What Jane really craved was a minute alone with the sheaf of papers. “I’d love some.”

He turned toward the kitchen and looked back at her, smiling with something that looked like regret. “We can’t hide from what we are, each of us. I’d like to tell you that we’re instruments of a destiny written in the stars, but I don’t believe in plans. We only follow what’s in our blood, and I hope you don’t judge me too harshly for what’s in mine,” he said with strange tenderness. “I have to heat the water, so you’ll have to excuse me for a few minutes.” He crossed the room and she heard him opening cupboards in the kitchen. Jane glided to the shelf and swept the loose pages from between the books, glancing back at the hall where Roman had disappeared.

Flipping through the pages, she saw a long list of names and phrases, none of which she recognized. As she thumbed through several sheets of the same, she realized she was looking at a long list of titles. An inventory – too extensive to relate to Roman’s personal bookshelves, but perhaps a catalog of the Department of Preservation? It seemed to fit, especially since Roman maintained his own collection of clandestine literature. Still, she found herself vaguely disappointed until she reached the last sheet.

It was a map, worn and covered in mottled colors that could have been geographic features or stains. Recoletta sat at the center, but the map’s last owner had been more interested in a place called “Fairview,” a commune several inches south of Recoletta. That, and a large, circled dot in an otherwise empty portion of the map. Someone had written in the margin:

“IBRA Y RES – 80 miles south of Fairview Commune, due E of river from giant veranda.”

“Is this how you usually repay hospitality?”

Jane whirled to see Roman standing inches away, his eyes boring into her. There was no tea.

“I was–”

“What you were doing is obvious, and you’re a fool to think you could sneak it past me.”

“I know how this looks, but–”

“Yes, Jane, please enlighten me. Exactly how does this look?” His fury was withering, his voice rising over the pounding of her heart.

“Roman, I’m not a spy, I swear.”

“You forget that I am, and I’ll always be two steps ahead of you. In fact, I’m insulted that you could think otherwise.” He snatched the papers from her grasp and thumped them on a side table with menacing deliberation. Clamping a hand on her shoulder, he led her back toward the fireplace. Jane began to feel terror rising like bile in her throat.

“No, please don’t.” She tugged feebly against his grip.

“Don’t what?” Roman spun her to face him. “What exactly are you afraid of?” His voice was dangerously low, but she could still hear its obsidian edge. “Not so brave anymore. What am I going to do with you?” He pulled her closer until she could count the blue rays in his irises. “Answer.”

“You’re hurting me,” she said, not daring to speak above a whisper. Her shoulder was losing feeling under his iron grip. Looking down, he released his hold, and she took two tentative steps back. The man facing her was not the same one who had admitted her into the domicile thirty minutes ago. The warmth was drained from his expression, and glaring at her in the firelight, something deadlier than his old venom simmered under the surface. She expected to read fury in his eyes and a snarl on his lips, but everything about him radiated calculated coldness and perfect calm.

“What did you come here looking for?”

She opened her mouth with an answer but stopped. “I didn’t know,” she finally said.

He almost smiled. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that’s true.” His voice oozed condescension.

“I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to help.”

“Of course you did. The problem is, I don’t think you really know who you’re helping or why.”

“Listen, can’t we–”

In one quick movement, he drew a pistol and brought it to bear on her. “Stop. You forget that you’re not made of the right stuff. You may be an angel, my dear, but you can’t fly.”

The sight of the gun aimed at her chest silenced her. Then he spoke again. “If you aren’t careful, you’re going to end up just like your parents.”

Jane’s blood froze. “How do you know about my parents?”

“How do you think, Miss Lin?”

“Are you telling me that you…?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I was thirteen years old when your parents died. But someone else did.”

Jane was struggling to speak. “My parents were…”

“Murdered.” The word sounded like something cold and metal in Roman’s mouth. “They were writers, but, more importantly, they were snoops.”

Her voice quavered. “And you’ve known…”

“Yes, since I met you. I recognized your name immediately.”

She paused, absorbing the new information. “I’ve never heard of any writers named Lin.”

“They wrote under a
nom de plume
. The Brownings.” He saw recognition dawn in her eyes. “Yes, like the ancient poets. Unfortunately for your parents, some of their writings were too political.”

Something inside Jane was changing. Anger began to replace her fear. “How–?”

“I’ve nothing more to say on the subject. Your parents were reckless meddlers, and you would do best not to follow their example.”

“Tell me.” The heat returned to her face.

“Enough.” He thumbed the hammer on his gun. “Your parents got what was coming to them, and if you don’t learn when to abandon a line of inquiry, so will you.”

Her entire body shook as she glared at him. “You’re a monster.”

“And you’re a fool.” A sadistic grin twisted his mouth. “Did it ever strike you as odd that the maid found you so quickly? And the hours she keeps!” He stared at her, relishing her bewilderment. “She does much more than clean houses. I sent Olivia Saavedra. And if you don’t exercise discretion, you’ll find out why.”

Jane blanched, shocked into silence again.

“You’ll find a carriage waiting at the surface,” he said. “I don’t need to tell you not to mention this night to anyone.”

“Are you going to shoot me if I do?”

“I won’t have to. Stay out of this, Jane. You don’t know what you’re interfering with. Now get out.” He nodded at the stairs.

She began to take a step toward the landing, but she stopped. “You still don’t frighten me.”

“It’s just the adrenaline talking. Go.” Jane turned toward the stairs and he lowered his gun.

“Jane.” She stopped on the threshold at the sound of her name. “If you ever try anything like this again, I will not be so lenient. With you or the reporter.” Without another word, she ascended and found the hansom waiting. It rolled forward as soon as she stepped in, the horse’s hooves pounding a heavy tattoo. The ominous rhythm thundered in her head all the way home.

When the carriage stopped above her apartment she got out, and it started away with a jolt. She waited until it was out of sight before patting her bodice, where she had tucked the map. She turned toward the city center with a final errand in mind. It was risky, but Jane decided it was also necessary if she was going to make this fresh peril worth anything. She had one thing left to do before Roman Arnault and his spies tightened their hold on her.

Chapter
13

Turnabout

Malone arrived at the station the next morning to the sounds of the early shift traffic: shuffling footsteps, mumbled greetings, and stifled yawns. Given yesterday’s events, she was surprised not to find Sundar already at his desk or, more likely, waiting by her office with stacks of notes in hand. They had enjoyed a tantalizing measure of success at the Wickery office the day before, a much-deserved victory after their individual defeats investigating Arnault, but she was still stunned by the implications of what they had found.

Arriving at the law office by mid-afternoon the previous day, they had been astonished to find it still operating and under the management of Edmund Wickery’s son, Edmund Jr. He’d greeted them with the matter-of-fact dourness of a man who both loathes his occupation and believes that his feelings on the matter are universal. When the inspectors had introduced themselves and their purpose, he’d seemed only moderately surprised.

“My father retired from the practice eight years ago, and he passed away two years later,” he told them as he stacked and shuffled papers.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Malone said.

“You clearly didn’t know him. Now, what is it that you’re here for?”

Furnishing a contract, Malone had explained that she and Sundar were fixing some gaps in the station’s files and would need to see the records. Edmund Jr had led them to a moth-infested room full of shelves and files and gave the inspectors a quick rundown of their quasi-alphabetical order. As he’d retreated to the comfort of his office, he’d informed them over his shoulder that if they should need anything, he was at their disposal. The door had closed behind him almost before he’d finished his leave-taking.

“With the tracks he just made, you’d think we were going to ask him to count these,” Sundar had said, nodding at the shelves of files.

“I don’t think he wants anything to do with them, counting or otherwise. Judging by the dust, I doubt anyone’s been in here for a few years,” Malone had replied, showing him a furry coating on her fingertip.

Sundar had raised an eyebrow. “Well, watch where you stick your hands. I think some of those things are ready to feed.” He’d nodded at the ceiling where several moths of fearsome proportions nested.

Wiping the dust layers off of the protruding file tabs, they’d gone down the row. After combing through the Ss, a few Rs, and even a scattered B and L, they’d found the Stanislau file, more or less where it should have been. Its perfect envelope of dust had confirmed that no one else had examined it in a long time.

“Really?” Sundar had said. “That easy? No half-drunk guards, no short-tempered bureaucrats?” He’d looked around as if expecting to see them surrounded on all sides.

“Just moths.”

Heaving the file out of its spot in the shelves, they’d been pleased at its thickness.

“After all the trouble we’ve had finding everything else, I’d say we’ve had this coming to us,” Sundar had said.

“Let’s see what’s in it first.”

“And what’s missing.”

They’d cracked the folder open, its ancient adhesive popping and snapping. The biographical information provided on Stanislau corroborated what they had seen in the police files and also filled in a few blanks. Stanislau had been fifty-two years old at the time of the trial, had been a suspect in various smuggling and robbery operations, possessed a reputation for a violent temper, and had been mute and illiterate. They’d each taken a sheaf of papers, following their fingertips down the yellowed pages as they searched for useful nuggets. Sundar had found the next link.

“Look,” he’d said, tracing a page with his index finger. “According to these records, Wickery met with Stanislau once before the trial… in an interrogation cell, accompanied by guards.” He’d squeezed his eyebrows together. “On the other hand, Wickery met with representatives of the Council… twelve times.”

“And they selected him to represent Stanislau.”

Sundar had gnawed his tongue. “According to procedure, yes. The Council has the jurisdiction to select lawyers in a trial for any party who cannot afford to pay for his own. And Stanislau fell under that category.”

“Clearly. Does the file say how much Wickery was paid?”

“Yes, it was… wow. Fifty thousand marks for all of three days’ work. That’s the real crime.” He’d pulled the file closer, blinking into it. “His contract states that the additional conditions of his assignment were total confidentiality on his part before, during, and after the trial and his agreement to the presence of an armed guard during his contact with the accused… at all times.”

“What for?”

Sundar’d thumbed through several more pages. “For restraining Stanislau. He appears to have developed a habit of going ballistic from time to time over the course of the proceedings.”

“Where do you see that?”

“An early letter from Stanislau’s handlers at the Barracks to Wickery. They wanted to inform him that Stanislau was a danger himself and others and that he required an ‘armed and capable presence’ at all times. We also have several outbursts throughout the trial transcript,” he’d added, thumbing through red, circled portions of the next ream of papers. He’d looked up at Malone with an eager, dazed expression.

“Tell me if I understand this correctly,” Malone had said, clasping her hands behind her back and pacing the narrow row of shelves. “A dock worker with a dubious past is charged with murdering two of Recoletta’s most famous citizens for a few valuables and pocket change.” She’d looked at him from under knitted brows, and his own had shot back a question.

“One hundred and fifty marks,” she said. “Not pocket change for him, but not enough to warrant becoming an enemy of the city-state. Anyway, he meets with his appointed lawyer once before the trial, even then accompanied by a contingent of city guards. He is under strict restraint at all times and makes no statements. He does not speak or explain himself because he is mute… and he cannot communicate to anyone in writing because he is illiterate. From the time of his arrest, all statements on his behalf are made by his lawyer, who is selected by the Council and paid, we can both agree, handsomely. The five judges unanimously found him guilty and approved the death sentence.” She’d paused and stopped pacing, turning to face Sundar. “Does this sound procedural to you?”

“About as procedural as Domignuez’s indefinite appointment.” Sundar had scratched his chin. “The Council really, really wanted to make sure that he was convicted.”

“More than that, they wanted to ensure that he couldn’t talk. So to speak,” Malone had said. “But what were they worried he would say?”

“That’s the question. Do you think a guy like that was really a threat after he was already locked up?” He’d rested his back against the shelf behind him, leaning into it.

“If so, it would certainly explain the lawyer’s payment. And the other terms of his contract.” Malone had scowled, the sharp lines of her face standing in hard relief against the galaxy of dust swirling around the room. “A year’s income on one case in exchange for his silence and complicity with extreme terms. It would appear that fifty thousand marks were enough to buy Edmund Wickery.”

“That, or a concern for his family’s safety. If the Council wanted Stanislau’s conviction so badly, do you think they wouldn’t have applied a little pressure?” Sundar’d asked. When Malone had looked back at the door to the office, Sundar had continued. “Fine, Junior didn’t think much of him as a father, but does that mean Wickery didn’t love his family?” Sundar’s eyes softened.

Malone had been a breath away from asking Sundar more, but something about the territory felt too personal. Instead, she’d said, “They may have threatened him, and that’s a troubling possibility.” Malone cleared her throat, briefly turning her attention to the dust motes. “So why eliminate Stanislau? What did he know, what had he done, that they wanted him silent and dead? If the Council wanted to avenge the Satos, they shouldn’t have worried. There was no shortage of evidence and prejudice against him, so why silence him?”

Sundar had looked back at her, his eyes softer still. “Maybe he was innocent.”

She’d shaken her head. “No. The Council wouldn’t knowingly condemn an innocent man.” Whatever else she might have believed or felt about the Council, that was one step too far.

Sundar had tapped his temple and frowned. “Unless they needed a scapegoat.”

Malone had frowned. “Why this man?”

“Because they could silence him and no one would doubt his guilt. The five judges who delivered the ruling apparently didn’t.” He’d set the file aside, resting dusty hands on his thighs. “You don’t kill a councilor and his wife over a pocketful of valuables, and you don’t worry over the fate of a man who’s presumed guilty before his trial begins.” His voice had sounded rusty and tired, and two ghost handprints had stood out on his dark slacks as he shifted again.

Malone had tasted a sharp bitterness as Sundar had laid out his suspicions. “Are you suggesting that Stanislau was framed?”

“That, or hired. I used to think the councilors were locking down because they feared for their safety. Now, I think they’re trying to hide their guilt.”

If he was correct, the problem was much worse than they had feared.

“If that’s the case,” she’d said, “how is it that we’re reading these files now?” She’d looked back in the direction of Edmund Jr’s office.

He’d followed her gaze, a somber curve haunting the corners of his mouth. “They don’t seem like a pair that talked much.”

Today, she and Sundar had planned on visiting the judges who’d ruled on the murder case. The city kept a pool of scholars educated in law, ethics, forensics, and logic, and for any given trial or arbitration, five were selected at random to hear the testimonies and provide a ruling. Plenty of safeguards, including handsome salaries and a meticulous selection process, were in place to prevent the bribing of a judge or any other variety of dishonesty, but Malone’s faith in the system was dissolving as her investigations progressed.

The inspectors had copied the names of the judges from the case file in Wickery’s office the previous day with the reasoning that the judges might be able to point out any anomalies in the proceedings. And if they didn’t, their reticence would be more telling. Unfortunately, only one of the five was still practicing. Malone hoped that their luck from yesterday would hold and that the other four would be living and locatable.

Sifting through her notes, Malone was vaguely aware of morning’s advance by the increased foot traffic. She had been sitting at her desk for roughly an hour when she heard a rapid tapping at the door.

“Police courier, madam.”

“Come in.”

A man in a bright sash popped in, dropped a sealed message on her desk and, bobbing his head in a truncated bow, retreated as suddenly as he had arrived. Listening to the quick cadence of his footsteps, Malone broke the wax and unfolded the paper.

It was a map showing terrain and features between Recoletta and South Haven. It looked old, although a few scribbles were smudged and fresh. Someone had circled a spot east of a blue thread of river and written, in hurried hand, “He is watching me.”

Jane had not signed the note, but Malone recognized her handwriting from her last message. She left the note in a drawer and rushed to the chief’s office. The judges would have to wait.

Rounding the corridor and turning into the main hall, she approached Johanssen’s office at a brisk pace. Farrah was visible at her desk from the doorway, and looking up at Malone as she caught her eye, she slowly shook her head. Malone stopped twenty paces from the office and watched the secretary. With a discreet glance in the direction of Chief Johanssen’s office, Farrah tapped her extended forefinger on the desk and stared absently at a pile of papers.

Malone took the cue and withdrew to the corridor, waiting in shadows. She brewed a cup of tea in the service room and swirled it in one hand as she waited. After a few minutes, Farrah came out and found Malone around the corner. Her voice was edged with cool urgency.

“You’ve got to get away. There’s a pair of guards with Captain Fouchet in the chief’s office.”

The cup stopped swirling. “Fouchet, here? Why?”

Farrah hid neither her surprise nor her ire. “For you, of course. They’re going to arrest you for treason. For your interference.”

Malone nearly dropped the teacup. Captain Fouchet was the head of the Guard and a man with no love for the Municipal Police. A longtime critic of Chief Johanssen, he regarded the Municipal Police as the Guard’s rival for martial authority in Recoletta. His reputation as the Council’s ruthless enforcer was well-known, and if he was here in person, Malone knew he did not intend to end the day without her arrest.

She and Sundar had kept their investigations discreet. Not even Chief Johanssen knew the details, which was a very good thing, she reflected, as now he could truthfully deny any knowledge of their involvement. They had been careful to keep a low profile and operate under plausible cover, but Malone had suspected that it would be only a matter of time before the Council rapped their knuckles again. The question was how hard.

Malone didn’t need to ask how Johanssen had managed to delay them, nor did she need to ask why Farrah now regarded her with such undisguised resentment. Their beloved chief’s neck now hovered near the noose, and it was her fault. But she couldn’t keep one heated question from her own lips.

“And you were going to warn me when?”

“I couldn’t disappear in the middle of the interview, could I? I had to wait until one of those apes asked for a drink. Just thank your lucky stars that they were too lazy to start with a sweep. Now, do you really want to be standing around squabbling about this when they come to arrest you?”

Malone snorted. “They can’t have anything substantial.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Farrah said. “The chief’s been arguing with them for the past twenty minutes, but they’re not going anywhere. Now, go while you still can.”

“Go where?” Malone asked, gripping the saucer. “And for how long? I can’t do much good hiding in a smuggler’s den and waiting for the Council to forget about me, can I?”