“It’s me. We need to meet. Do you remember the place we first met?”
He waited, listening, and then said, “Yeah, that’s the place.” Carl looked at Susan while he paused. “Ask for Susie at the desk.” He smiled at the response that came from the phone.
“We’re meeting him. It’s arranged, Susan. Now we walk. We need to avoid the areas that were closed off after the rioting. We can’t use our cell phones unless absolutely necessary, and we don’t use credit cards—nothing that can be traced. It’s a long walk. Are you up to it?” He knew she was, but he said it to challenge her, to jolt her with energy and to keep shock and fear from creeping into her mind. It worked.
Susan shot him a withering look of disdain that caused him to relax. He knew she was returning to her old self, for better or worse. Carl slammed the cassette against the railing in the stairway to break it apart. He picked out the media cards and thrust them into his pocket. He opened the exit door, and the two of them stepped into the night.
CHAPTER 8
Bad News Travels Fast
Angela Vaughn stood at the office door of the one person who truly terrified her. She hesitated, knowing her career was on the line. The office of Charles Claussen didn’t need a nameplate—everyone knew it was his. Instead of knocking, though, she turned around and walked into a nearby alcove. She knew it was pointless to try and avoid what needed to be said. Still, a visit to the restroom was always a good excuse for delaying. She glanced at the men’s room door, on her right, then went through the one on the left.
She knew she had to face Claussen with the truth. She looked in the mirror, inspecting her own eyes to see if they betrayed any sign of weakness. Cupping her hands under the tap, she splashed cold water on her face. She didn’t have to worry about spoiling her makeup—she never used any. Angela Vaughn was, however, particular about her hair. She drew a brush from her handbag to begin smoothing away errant strands.
“I might as well get it over with.”
She was satisfied with her reflection and the tailored, dark-blue suit she wore, chosen with care to compliment her physique. At forty-two, she maintained a rigorous workout schedule, a habit formed during her days at the police academy. Her hand still reached for her police shield at times. Angela would still have been a cop, too, if it weren’t for the career seduction orchestrated by Charles Claussen.
For Claussen, seduction had never been about sex. He seduced people with offers of financial compensation and power. “Leave the police force and head up my security team—a specialty security team. You will have power beyond imagination.” She had liked that prospect a lot.
With a final look at the woman in the mirror, she turned, pushed open the door, walked back to Claussen’s office, and rapped softly on the door.
“Enter.” The word came through the door in a rich baritone.
Angela stepped in and closed the door behind her. She felt as if she were standing over a trapdoor. One false move on her part, and it would spring open. She would fall through and out of favor, with her name and memory forever rubbed out of the company history.
Charles Claussen played his role with an actor’s precision, knowing how long to hold a pause for just the right dramatic effect. He kept his silence, his eyes giving nothing away.
Angela crossed her arms, as if the gesture could somehow offer protection from his gaze. She was unaware of this nervous habit, but Claussen recognized it for what it was and waited before speaking.
He picked up a paper and looked at it, then let it fall from his grip and drop back onto the desk, fluttering like a poorly made paper airplane. “I’m not going to like what you’re about to tell me, am I?”
Angela only knew one way through this situation, and that was the direct way. “We searched everywhere, went through everything,” she said. “We tore the Action 21 newsroom apart. Nothing! We took the guy’s camera and case apart and found zilch. We dismantled his backup camera and looked for any place he could have hidden any card or cards. We know they recorded their interviews on three media cards. We just—”
Claussen cut her words short. “I’m not interested in what you didn’t find,” he said evenly, letting the words hang in the air. “I want to hear what you are doing now, to find those cards. I want to know when you are going to find them. What are you planning to do now?”
Angela felt a bead of moisture forming on the left side of her upper lip but resisted the urge to wipe it away. “We have a team at Payne’s condo right now. They are tearing it apart. If the cards are there, they will be found. The cameraman’s apartment is too obvious. He wouldn’t hide them there, but I have another team taking it apart just in case he actually did. I have my best people on this.”
What could I be missing? she wondered, shifting her weight slightly from one foot to the other.
“We’ve also checked safe deposit boxes. Don’t ask me how we got into them,” she added.
“I am asking,” he snapped.
She started to shift her weight uneasily again, but caught herself. “I have a special agent trained in covert snooping. He went through the files of Susan Payne’s attorney. He found a key and recognized its purpose. It was a simple matter for him to duplicate the key.”
Angela scrolled through her thoughts, recalling what they had found in the safe deposit box. “We went through the box, computer files, e-mail accounts, wireless phone records. We’ve looked at all of it. Not a damn thing,” she said, careful not to shrug.
His eyes sparked when she cursed. She knew he hated swearing, or anything scatological. She looked at him and braced herself to report the bad news to him.
“All of this is my fault,” she admitted, telling him about how they had surprised and searched Susan and Carl as they were leaving the studio. “There was a brief moment when they weren’t under surveillance in the parking garage.” She watched Claussen, waiting for a reaction. When there was no rejoinder, she went on. “I take full responsibility. We were focused on inspecting the equipment when Susan and her cameraman just disappeared.”
Angela saw a flash of anger in the eyes of the man in front of her. “We don’t know where they went—yet. But there’s more,” she hesitated. “Matthew Tremain has also dropped out of sight. We had a team—”
“Stop.” Claussen pounded the top of his desk. It was uncharacteristic. “I’ve heard enough of your pathetic explanations!”
The room filled with quiet. Claussen had sound barriers built into the walls of his office, to protect his conversations from being overheard. The soundproofing also kept outside noise from intruding. Angela could only hear a slight ticking from the expensive watch her boss was wearing. She could feel the throbbing of her heartbeat and felt the veins of her neck pulsing as her heart raced. She began to lose track of time. When Claussen finally spoke, his voice was colder than ice.
“Ça va,” he said with a shrug.
Angela couldn’t believe what she’d heard—the sudden shift in tone, the almost nonchalant shrug, and the seemingly indifferent attitude.
“They have to be stopped,” he went on. “You know it better than anyone. That’s why I hired you—to protect CleanSweep, to keep it hidden from view.” She heard a hint of anxiety tiptoeing behind his words. “If they go public, everything I have worked for will be ruined. I will not let these amateurs win.”
Claussen got up and moved calmly over to his head of security. He leaned in so close she had to tilt her body backward to avoid contact. His minty breath brushed her cheeks like a feather.
“You have forty-eight hours.” He pointed to his watch. He didn’t need to add any overt threats or warnings. She knew what awaited her if she failed. She had the files on those who had disappointed Claussen. Reputations had been ruined—and worse. In fact, she had been party to the “worse,” at his command.
He walked across the room, opened the door, and motioned her to leave
with a nod. The grilling was over. As Angela walked out, the door closed softly behind her. Claussen, the master of self-control, would never show anger by slamming a door.
Angela felt the floor shifting under her as she walked down the corridor, intent on survival.
“At least I didn’t fall through that trapdoor…yet.”
CHAPTER 9
What Just Happened?
Susan was the first to speak. “What happened? Where are they? How did we just get away like that?”
“I think they were distracted. They must have been sure the cards were somewhere in one of the cases. They assumed they had what they were looking for, and we just didn’t matter to them—for a brief moment. I was hoping they didn’t have the back stairs covered. Nobody uses them, and that door doesn’t attract attention. But I admit, I was surprised when no one popped out and tried to stop us from leaving.”
“What do we do now?” Susan asked.
“We walk.”
“At least I have the shoes for it today.” To Susan, it was all about the shoes. Shoes were important to her. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew she was fanatical about them. For some men and women, they were the ultimate sign of success—Italian or expensive European leather creations. Perhaps outside of work they were for her, too. But when it came to shoes for work, it was a different story.
“I can’t look good on camera if my feet are cold or if they hurt,” she had once told Carl. “Besides, who ever sees my feet?”
Susan was meticulous about her on-camera image and took care in picking her wardrobe. She always checked her e-mail for the latest assignment or changes, to make sure she would have a look that matched the story. Also, Hurricane Sue kept a wardrobe bag in the news van, always ready for a change if needed. She had standing appointments with her hairdresser each Monday and Thursday morning, but was surprisingly never fussy about her hair during a shoot. “Letting the wind blow it around gives me field credibility, don’t you think?” she asked Carl.
When it was time for her to look into the camera and tell a breaking news story to her audience, she always looked the part of someone who took it all very seriously. She rarely accepted human-interest or fluff assignments. She was hard-core news all the way.
Susan and Carl spent a lot of time together, working hours in the field, chasing down news stories, constantly on the run as they jumped in and out of the van and raced after newsmakers. Susan was famous for uncovering stories first. She and Carl were usually at the front of any pack of reporters. It was uncanny. Susan seemed to have an inner radar for stories that would turn into scoops.
Wardrobe and coiffure aside, Susan was sensible about shoes. She wore a brand that was advertised to be the perfect blend between a walking shoe and a hiking boot.
“Those are the ugliest shoes I have ever seen,” Carl once told her, not bothering to disguise a laugh. She had ignored him.
These were electric blue—a vivid neon color. Sometimes bystanders would even point and snigger. Other reporters, especially the other women reporters stumbling about in heels, often envied her wisdom in choosing comfortable footwear. Women and men alike envied her choice when they found themselves standing in mud, slush, or snow for long periods. Susan was adamant that Carl never shoot her full profile on camera. She didn’t want to mar her reporting image—or reveal what gave her an edge.
“Those sensible shoes are an asset today,” he said as they started walking.
“Where are we going again?” she asked for the umpteenth time.
“It’s not much farther,” Carl said. His panting voice was clear evidence of his past life as a smoker.
“We’ve been walking for over an hour and a half,” she mumbled. “How does Tremain know where to meet us? You said the same place we met before, but we’re going in the opposite direction.”
Other than her redundant questions about their destination, they hadn’t spoken much. They walked with their heads down and planted one step in front of another. Carl led the way east on Cherry to Commissioners Street, toward the Martin Goodman Trail. They were careful to turn their heads away from headlights and to avoid curious looks from the few passing cars. When they got to the trail, they followed it until it twisted finally to Eastern Avenue. They were about to turn due east when they spotted a cyclist pedaling toward them. Carl and Susan each took a quick breath, evidence of the tension they both felt. Carl put a hand on her shoulder to urge her to the side as the rider sped past without slowing. Carl watched until the young man was out of view, then they stepped into a lighted street.
“What about those cameras?” Susan asked, pointing overhead as they walked past a streetlight. They could see a camera pointing almost directly at them, a bit to the side.
Carl took a small electronic instrument from a pocket of his work jacket. It was the type of jacket favored by photographers, with many pockets for holding small cameras, batteries, and the like.
“I was setting the camera up for a shot and needed to use this.” He held it out for her to see. “When I pushed this button”—he mimicked the action—“I found out it screwed up the cameras, causing them to go all wonky. I guess it has something to do with the frequency it uses to send streaming video back to a computers. Now I’ve been using it”—he pointed it up—“as we pass each of those damn surveillance cameras. If it doesn’t work, well…” He didn’t need to finish.
“Where are we going, Carl?” Susan insisted again. “How does he—you know, Matt—know where to meet us?”
Carl said, “Remember that ‘no-tell motel’ on Lakeshore, the one where we met him the first time?”
She nodded.
“I figure these guys know all about that place by now. My guess is they have a team of watchers there already. I can just see the poor agents counting bedbugs in that filthy hovel right now. The only way to ever sanitize that place would be to burn it down. I never could understand the desire to rent a room like that by the hour, let alone an entire night. I wonder if they get any ideas when they look up at the mirrors on the ceiling…” He started laughing. He knew it wasn’t that funny, but he couldn’t help the burst of nervous laughter.
“Anyway,” he continued, “Matt and I had our first meeting in another place, before you ever met him. That’s where we’re heading now, the Europa Motel,” he explained, watching her eyebrows lift in surprise.
“That place…” She searched for words. “That’s where that murder was a few years back. What a dump. And you thought the place on Lakeshore was shoddy!”
After leaving the walking trail, they looked over their shoulders whenever they heard a car coming. Sensing something different about one that was approaching, he pushed Susan into the alcove of a store doorway and clutched her in an embrace. The car slowed, almost paused, then accelerated and moved on. He held her in a hug as the lights swept past them.
Hugging her, he felt a stirring, a strong desire to kiss the woman he’d spent so much time watching through the camera lens. He had been struggling with his feelings for months. Now he was slowly admitting to himself that he was in love with Hurricane Sue.
The moment for the kiss passed, unfulfilled.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she said, putting distance between them. She was teasing, and he knew it. They stood silently apart for several moments, both taking stock of a new chemistry rising between them. They started walking again, and she slipped her hand into his as she said, “Just playing my part in this drama.”
But then again…Carl smiled at that thought.
“I heard you talking to him—Matt—earlier. You never mentioned the name of the place you would meet,” she said. “How can you be sure he’ll know?”
“Susie was our code word for it. I know how much you hate being called that.” He smiled as she flinched. “When he heard me use that name, he knew where to meet.”
Carl explained as they walked slowly on. “
This job we have has often taken us to the edge of safety and danger. You and I both feed on risk. But this story is different from the others, isn’t it? We both know it. Before, when we faced danger, we were always careful. We might walk up to the edge of danger, but we always knew when to step back. I’m not so sure that we can step back this time, Sue.”
“Carl, you’re really starting to scare me…more.”
“Welcome to reality,” he snapped, then immediately smoothed the tone in his voice. “He knew what I meant when I mentioned the name Susie. The first time he met with me was at the Europa. I never told you about that.”
Carl saw the hurt in her eyes.
“Matt contacted me one day and said he wanted my reassurance that you were a stand-up reporter. He seemed to trust me when I assured him you were.”
If Susan was annoyed by Matt’s uncertainty on that point, or that her cameraman had been the one to take the initiative with her informant, she didn’t show it. “I could use a sit-down,” she said, pointing to a small park bench in a small courtyard that was safely tucked away in the shadows.
“Damn, it feels good to sit,” Carl admitted as he looked at his watch and began massaging the back of his right leg. “We’ve been walking for almost two hours now. Matt won’t be there until later. We can rest here for a while.”
“I didn’t believe Tremain at first. I know now I was wrong.” Her voice echoed from the nearby walls, wistful and pensive. “The pieces of the story just didn’t add up for me at first. It seemed incomprehensible that in our country—” She stopped. “I mean, locking up the homeless and anyone else who makes us uncomfortable. It’s preposterous.”
Carl looked at her. “I did—I believed him. It fit with everything happening all around us. People began disappearing, the kind of people we would barely miss. Maybe we even subconsciously felt glad they weren’t around anymore. Look at this place,” he said, waving his arm around in a circle. “Six months ago this courtyard was home to derelicts, the detritus of our society, and there was a rusted shopping cart over there,” Carl said as he pointed to one side. “I know, I was here and saw it.”
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 7