Cyberia had said they still didn’t know where he lived, but he needed to be careful anyway.
When he got to the lobby, he looked at the bank of mailboxes. Some of the doors were bent from tenants forcing them open when they didn’t have a key. Since nobody worried about getting critical mail via the post office anymore, the management hadn’t spent the money to repair them. Matt’s box didn’t even have a name on it. He had scrawled the number of his apartment with a marker on masking tape, mostly to help the letter carrier.
There it was. An edge of white poked out the side of his box. It was too early for mail delivery. Matt did everything online and rarely had any snail mail other than junk advertisements. When he saw the paper, he used his key to open the mailbox. Inside was another envelope, with what he now recognized as Carling’s handwriting on the front.
He turned and walked to the door. He gave a quick look up and down the street, but didn’t see anyone suspicious. He decided to be careful, to take another way out. Instead of leaving by the front door or going back to his apartment, he walked toward the rear entrance. Before he got to it, however, he unlocked the one on his right, the door to the basement. He walked down the steep stairs and back past the large furnace. He took out another key and unlocked the door to his hidey-hole. He stepped back to look up the stairs and make sure nobody was following him. He stepped into the room and locked the door behind him.
His computers and electronics hummed with a catlike purr in climate-controlled comfort. Turning on the desk light, he opened this latest envelope and began reading.
Carling’s instructions filled two pages—mostly code words and ways of communicating. Carling had inserted a ticket inside the fold of one page—a ticket to today’s baseball game at the Dome, now called the Sports Complex. The new team, the Toronto Eagles, was playing an afternoon game against the Yankees. Matt checked the seating chart on his smartphone app. “It’s going to be a long way up to the cheap seats,” he said to himself. The seats were at the top level, Section 510. They were in the next-to-last row. “Carling’s a big spender,” he said sarcastically.
Matt put watching baseball in the same category as watching paint dry—except that watching paint dry was more fun—but he knew he had to go to this game. This note, like the other, was signed “KBO, Carling.” Matt made a mental note to ask Carling what KBO stood for.
Carling sure as hell didn’t need to add a postscript about being careful to avoid being seen.
To make it appear that he was busy posting a blog online—and not away from his computer at something like a baseball game—Matt altered the computer settings. Several blog posts would be published automatically, at random times during the afternoon while he was away. It would work as a diversion—or it wouldn’t. He shrugged, locking the door.
When he got back to the main floor, he saw a baseball cap someone had left on a shelf in the vestibule. He picked it up and walked out the door.
He hoped the cap might provide some concealment as he passed CCTV cameras; he knew they were programmed to send facial images back to a central computer. He knew CleanSweep was continuously monitoring people, using facial-recognition technology to match people from a huge database.
He knew the hat was probably ineffective at hiding his face completely, but it was all he could think to do. As he approached the stadium, he noticed a lot of people were wearing similar hats, and he hoped his would help him blend in. He began to hear the crowd sounds.
“Hey, man—ya want a hot dog?”
“Yeah, grab one for me, and let’s meet up at the beer stand.”
The speakers were part of a small-but-festive pregame crowd that had gathered at the entrance to the stadium. They seemed ready to enjoy the afternoon. “This sure beats a day at the office,” he overheard another man say.
“A lot of bosses will be getting sick calls this afternoon—the ‘Fighting Eagle flu’ is really contagious.”
Matt couldn’t help grinning at the comment.
When the Blue Jays were ahead in the World Series a few years ago, over fifty thousand fans had lined up to watch a single game. Attendance was standing room only. This new team, the Eagles, would be lucky if ten thousand ticket holders showed up. There was no gridlock at the entrance and there were no lines at the concession stands. Even a free ticket giveaway he’d seen advertised had done little to boost the crowd numbers.
Matt was thinking about the particular seat he was trying to find and the fan he was going to meet. He handed his ticket to a young woman at the turnstile. She barely glanced at it as she scanned it and handed it back with a tired look.
All she needs is a mouthful of chewing gum to complete the picture, he thought. At least she didn’t pay any attention to me.
He followed the signage arrows. As he expected, it was going to be a long walk up the ramps to Section 510. Stopping at a concession stand, he ordered a beer, believing sports fans all sucked back copious amounts of beer during games. He didn’t want to stand out.
By the time he reached the lower part of the top level, he was wheezing. He realized he still had to climb to the upper part of the level.
Ten avid fans sat at the railing in the front row of his level, squinting at the field far below. “Shoulda brought binos, man,” one said.
“Who’s up for a beer run?” another yelled.
Matt looked up and saw a man sitting alone at the very top. He knew it must be Carling. He took a deep breath as he started the final climb.
Carling was aware of his approach, but he didn’t look up, stand, or offer his hand. He kept his attention on some activity in the field below. If anything, the detective seemed intent on ignoring his invited guest.
Matt used the time to check Carling out. He didn’t look particularly tall. He’s better dressed than I expected, Matt thought. The detective was wearing expensive-looking slacks and a stylish sports coat. Matt had assumed the detective’s wardrobe would match the disheveled look cops always had on television. Carling didn’t fit that image, except for the fedora. It was sloped on his head in a casual way. It was hard for Matt to tell from a distance, but Carling looked like he was in shape, and Matt guessed the detective watched his diet and liked to keep fit.
Detective Carling would have been amused if he could have heard Matt’s thoughts.
Matt jumped to the sound of a loud crack as bat met ball. Loud “oohs” could be heard as a batter hit a practice pitch into the upper deck.
“If he just could do that during a game, we wouldn’t be in last place,” Carling said as he looked up. “I always come early to watch the teams warm up.” He didn’t stand to greet Matt.
His face was unreadable, but Matt didn’t sense hostility. Neither did he recognize anything approaching warmth. He couldn’t turn his eyes away from this man, and he felt a sudden urge to confess something. He must be excellent at detective work and interrogation, Matt thought.
“Detective Carling?” Matt was standing next to him and suddenly felt foolish holding a cup of beer in his left hand while he held out the other to shake.
“Detective Sergeant,” came the reply. It carried a hint of droll humor. “Do you plan to stand for the whole game?” Carling still made no effort to shake Matt’s hand.
Not having a quick retort to the nudge about Carling’s title, Matt sat down next to him and sipped beer as he watched the team warming up. He didn’t even know if it was the home team or not.
“What was it someone told me about the color of the uniforms?”
Carling didn’t reply; he just kept muttering about the poor hitting stats of this year’s squad of players. “Bunch of deadbeats,” he added.
Matt looked up at the dome roof. It was half open, and the sky looked like rain.
Carling saw him looking up. “That damn roof hasn’t worked for over three years now. They don’t make that fact public. It’s like a lot of oth
er infrastructure things that aren’t in working order these days—but we still seem to be able to fritter away all that money on surveillance and detention facilities. See that?” He pointed up at the roof. “It just sits there like a partially open mouth with an oversize case of lockjaw. You can bet it’ll be raining on us before the game is over.”
The announcer boomed out an admonishment for everyone to stand, remove hats, and join in singing the national anthem. Carling removed his fedora, holding it to the side. It was hard to tell from where they were sitting, but few voices made any attempt to sing along with the canned version of the anthem coming over the speaker system. When the music faded, the fans cheered a desultory cheer, sat down, and waited for the first pitch. Matt wondered if they were cheering the end of the anthem or the beginning of the game.
“You like baseball?” Carling asked.
“Not really, but I couldn’t pass up a free ticket,” Matt couldn’t resist his turn at sarcasm.
“I used to love the game. Now it’s just a bunch of whiners biding their time until their next contract negotiation,” Carling said. “Still, there’s something about the sport…” He let the words trail off.
The two men sat watching the game in a silence that was more comfortable than either might have expected. The home team finally took to the field at the bottom of the first inning, chasing a three-run lead.
“If you think our pitching stinks, wait until you see how awful our hitting is,” Carling said with a grunt.
Matt didn’t say anything. He knew they weren’t there to talk about the baseball team or the game.
“Don’t make it obvious, but look around. You will see surveillance cameras everywhere. CleanSweep’s obsessed with them.” After a pause, Carling saw Matt starting to turn in spite of the warning. “Don’t look right at them, dammit. When you talk to me, lean forward and look down at your feet.”
“Surely they can’t—”
“Lean forward and look down, dammit.”
“Sorry,” Matt mumbled. He did as ordered. It felt awkward. “They can’t watch our lips moving, can they?”
“Probably not, but why take the chance?” He held his program up to shield his face while he talked.
The second half of the first inning didn’t take long. The Eagles went three up and three out, and a collective moan went up from the crowd.
“What do you know about CleanSweep? What have you learned?” Carling finally got to the point.
Matt thought about his answer. Should I trust this guy?
He made his choice. “I know Charles Claussen’s the driving force behind it. Street people are disappearing, and nobody seems to know why. Something about it is terribly wrong. It all feels quite sinister.” It felt good to say that out loud to someone.
“If you only knew the half of it.” Carling snorted. “Do you trust anybody?”
That was a question that needed to be answered with care. The two other people who knew what he knew, Susan and Carl, he had taken time to vet. The three had vowed to trust no one else. Now I’m sitting next to a cop who is asking me to talk about them, he thought.
“Why should I trust you? Why all the secrecy? You make this sound like we’re in the middle of a freakin’ spy novel. Besides, you’re a cop,” Matt said, stating the obvious.
“I understand it’s hard for you to trust me. That’s logical.” Carling kept the program in front of his face while he talked. “I didn’t expect to like or trust you, based on what I read on your blog. But here we are. Maybe we both have to step over the line that divides us.”
It seemed to Matt to be a remarkable thing to hear.
Carling went on, “When I started to dig into your background and read between the lines of your writing, I began to see our common ground. What’s happening with CleanSweep is new and dangerous. While some cops support that kind of radical, hard-line thinking, a lot of us see the danger in things like CleanSweep. We’re giving away far too much power at the expense of our liberties—”
“It’s two people from the Action 21 News team. Susan Payne and her cameraman, Carl,” Matt suddenly blurted out. “You asked me if I had any help.”
Something made Matt trust the man he was sitting next to.
“I hope the three of you have been very careful?”
“I thought we were. But now you’ve scared the hell out of me,” Matt said. He paused before adding, “I hope we have been. I hope so.”
“What are you going to tell them about meeting me?” Carling seemed to be thinking about something. “Do you trust them? How can you be sure?”
Matt leaned forward, looking down at his shoes. He noticed popcorn and peanut shells from a previous occupant and brushed the remnants away with his foot as he began telling Carling how he’d met them. “I didn’t believe or trust them. Not at first,” Matt whispered as a female security guard walked up the stairs. She stopped halfway up.
Apparently, she really didn’t care why two fans were sitting alone at the top of the third level in a mostly empty stadium.
Matt continued whispering after he saw her turn and start back down the stairs. He held his program up to shield his face, mimicking the detective.
“Watching Susan Payne on the news, I figured she was just another empty talking head doing nothing more than reading from a script. I learned she’s smart and has a steely resolve. Her cameraman’s a straight shooter.” Matt immediately wondered how he had come up with a cliché like that, something from an old Western movie.
“Go ahead and check me out,” Carling said. “Ask around, and when you are convinced we’re all on the same side of this story, you should tell them about me. But I don’t think it would be wise for the four of us to meet. Payne has interviewed me in the past. She seems OK, as far as I know.”
“Why would a cop help me? Why would you?”
“I took an oath to uphold the law—to protect and serve. I still take that oath very seriously, and that promise seems to be running contrary to the things CleanSweep is up to. They are doing an end run around due process, and it stinks.”
Matt gave that some thought. Looking over, he saw something on Carling’s face. Fear, sadness, and disillusionment were just three words that came to mind.
“In your blogs, you mentioned people disappearing. Do you have any idea what has happened to them?” When Matt shook his head, Carling went on, “It’s far worse than you think.”
Then Carling said abruptly, “I’m outta here. Before we make contact again, tell Susan Payne about me. Convince her we need to work together.” Matt was shaken by the anxious tone that had suddenly crept into the man’s voice. Then the detective began coughing and dropped something on the floor by Matt’s left foot.
Carling stood up unexpectedly, squeezed past Matt, and started down the steps. Matt expected him to turn around and wave. Instead, he was surprised to see Carling pause by the ramp wall and take a flask from his jacket pocket. He took a long swallow, put on his fedora, and disappeared from sight around a corner.
What spooked him? Matt wondered.
Before he got up, he looked down and saw another white envelope. He waited for three full innings to pass before he reached down to pick it up. The Eagles were trailing by eleven runs, and Matt decided had watched enough paint dry. He stood and walked down the steps with the envelope folded and secured in his pocket.
Oh hell, I forgot to ask what KBO meant, he thought. I really do need to Google it.
CHAPTER 24
Do You Trust Him?
“What were you thinking—talking to a cop? I don’t care if I do know him, or if he said we’ve met before,” Hurricane Susan was living up to her name. She was livid, furious with Matt. “What made you think you could trust him?”
“I didn’t at first—”
Holding up her hand, Susan cut him off with a withering look.
“Let
him talk,” Carl said, but his words had little impact on her anger.
“We’re sticking our necks out,” she insisted to Carl. She turned to Matt. “What were you thinking?”
“If you take a breath, I’ll tell you!”
They had met in a luxury suite of rooms at the Loon Lake Resort. They agreed on making this their rendezvous point because it was the opposite setting to the seedy motels they had used before. That, and it was several miles north of the city. Matt was glad to be out of there for a little while, and the location was far enough away that there was no lingering smell of smoke—an added bonus.
Matt looked out over the golf course outside the window. In spite of the rain, a foursome was getting ready to tee off. When he saw a vivid flash of lightning nearby, he questioned the golfers’ collective wisdom. He pulled the curtain shut. Susan’s angry words were still echoing around the room. When she stopped venting, he told them about Carling’s phone call. He explained the streetcar ride and first note. Then he added the story about meeting Carling at the baseball game.
“He’s afraid of the same things we are, but he didn’t come right out and say it at first. Why would he insist on such complex ways to avoid surveillance? He wants me to tell you guys that he’s on our side.”
“I remember him now,” Susan said, her tone calmer. “He’s the one who wears the hat, the fedora. I asked him about it once.”
“What choice do we have now, anyway?” Carl asked. “If he knows about us, he could have already turned you in.” He pointed at Matt. “But he hasn’t…yet. Why don’t we have some coffee before it gets cold?” He got up and went to a nearby serving table. Taking cups from a tray, he reached for a carafe and filled them, the vapor rising like smoke. He handed them around.
Sipping, they each sat quietly with their own thoughts and concerns.
I enjoy good coffee, but this stuff tastes bitter. It’s crap, Matt thought, but he kept it to himself, not wanting to offend Carl, who seemed to think it was gourmet quality.
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 19