The Buried Life

by Carrie Patel

  “We have maybe five minutes before the secretary realizes we’re gone,” Malone said.

  Sundar nodded, still catching his breath from the crawl. “Then does she come looking for us or assume we gave up?”

  “If she starts a search, that’s another five minutes, tops.” The room just beyond their hall was almost silent, but the draft puffing around the corner suggested a large cavern and, both inspectors knew, much to search.

  “How lucky do you feel today?” Sundar said.

  “In a place like this, not at all.” Turning at the end of the hall, they reached a cavern partitioned by bookshelves. Men and women bent over hardwood desks, skimming texts and scribbling notes while their lips mouthed silent words. In fact, the only noises were the scratch of quill on paper and the whisper of ancient pages. The austere white lighting, undecorated walls, and straight corners contrasted with the stacks of books: colorful and chaotic-looking rows framed by ladders.

  “Not a good place for firelight,” Sundar said. Malone snorted. “I still don’t get it, though,” he mumbled.

  “What?”

  “A place like this. You’d think they’d have a little more security up front, right?”

  “They don’t need to. How many people do you think wander into the bureau district, let alone this directorate, without a good reason?”

  “I see your point.”

  “Not all of it.” Malone picked up a slim hardback from the table nearest her. She thrust it out at Sundar, who instinctively stepped back and pulled his hands away.

  “Afraid of a paper cut, Inspector?”

  “The penalty for owning unauthorized books…” He trailed off, his eyes widening. Other than the murder of a whitenail, the possession of unedited, unapproved texts was the most severely punished, and certainly the rarest, crime in Recoletta.

  “Never mind that you’re an inspector on an investigation,” Malone said, “your response is automatic. Now imagine that for everyone who doesn’t have a silver seal.”

  No sooner had the inspectors taken stock than slapping footfalls and shrill wheezing broke the near-silence.

  “Just what are you doing down here? This is a confidential study, no visitors allowed!”

  “Roane and Rodriguez. We’ve come to see how the work is progressing,” Malone said, cutting him off with a cold stare.

  The man’s face underwent a staggering series of transformations as he flipped between apology, confusion, and suspicion. “I had no idea you were here, Doctors. Pardon me, but we were not expecting you until–”

  “Yet here we stand,” said Sundar, relishing his new role. “And as you are aware, we’re on a tight schedule. Now, if you please.” He gestured vaguely down the stacks.

  The man bobbed his head. “Many apologies, sir and madam. Allow me to take you to Dr Hask, who must be expecting you.”

  Falling in behind their escort, Sundar leaned close to Malone. “Not too shabby yourself, Roane. Or are you Rodriguez?”

  “Quiet.”

  As they passed between the desks and inhaled the room’s strange, musky perfume, Sundar craned his neck to see the scholars and their books. Even Malone was surprised. These were not the anemic, fusty bookworms one usually envisioned, cramped between parchment stacks and chamber pots. They looked lean and driven. She glimpsed a few titles in recognizable script: names likeBehemoth, Art of War, and Heart of Darkness. As they continued, Malone fixed her eyes down the hall, monitoring every bend and corner in their path. Sundar’s lingered just a little longer on the mysterious titles.

  The bookcases reached from the floor to the ceiling, where chain link gates hung. Expressionless supervisors with lists and medieval keyrings manned the shelves, and whenever a scholar requested or returned a book, the nearest supervisor jotted a note. Malone pitied the overseer whose job it was to account for every book at the end of the day. She turned to their guide.

  “I hope that Cahill’s death will not impede progress unduly.”

  “His loss will be felt, since he was heavily involved with the project. But I doubt that this inconvenience will cause too many setbacks.”

  “What are the chances of this sort of ‘inconvenience’ happening again?”

  “Well, ma’am, I guess that depends on who you ask. The higher-ups are assuring us that this is just a nasty coincidence, but, between you and me,” he said in a lowered voice, “a few people look worried.”

  Sundar glanced around the tables. “They look pretty calm to me.”

  “Hm? Oh, most of them don’t know the half of it – not yet. It’s some of the upper echelon that’s looking real twitchy.”

  “How is the directorate going to cooperate with the authorities?” Malone asked.

  “You mean the Municipals? I wouldn’t know about that. That’s a question for Dr Hask.”

  Footsteps approached again, rapid and determined. Pages rustled and flapped as the newcomer and his palpable rage drew near.

  “Badge, badge, badge, Gowlitz! Do you see a visitor’s badge? On either of them?” The interloper’s mustache was waxed to a thin pair of upward-pointing clock hands.

  “Sir, they’re part of the panel from Sou–”

  The smaller man rounded on him. “It’s a rhetorical question, you idiot. That means no talking from you. Or perhaps you’d like to explain this to Dr Hask?”

  Gowlitz’s guilty silence only enraged him further. “Back to your desk, and keep your mouth shut.”

  Ashen white, the researcher mumbled a vague formality and retreated. The furious man returned his attention to the inspectors, his eyes popping.

  “This is all quite unnecessary. I’m Dr Rodriguez and this is my colleague, Roane,” Sundar said. “We’re here from South Haven to meet with Dr Hask.”

  “Not a chance.” The words came before the angry man could open his mouth again. The speaker, a woman with a melodious but controlled voice, had materialized in the midst of the confusion, and she regarded the two detectives with a gaze every bit as unflinching as Malone’s. “But I shall be eager to learn how you managed to get down here in the first place, as poor liars as you both are,” she said. Sundar looked offended.

  Malone shrugged. “Then as inspectors of the city, we demand to speak with Dr Charley Hask.” She presented her seal.

  The woman gave it a cursory glance. “I’ll have someone see you out.”

  Malone took a step forward. “I’d hate to make the kind of exit that would upset your researchers. I’d really hate to tell them about my current theory regarding their colleague’s death. Perhaps Dr Hask could clear things up for me. We won’t take much of his time.”

  The woman looked as if she had bitten into a lemon. “I am Charley Hask. Follow me to my office and we can sit down.”

  Charley Hask looked young, particularly with her petite stature and short blond coif, but Malone estimated that she couldn’t be a day under fifty. From her perfectly linear stride to her serene expression, Dr Hask radiated confidence and calculation. She also looked like the type of woman who could deliver a withering insult with a pleasant word and a smile.

  When they reached her office against the back wall, Dr Hask opened the door and motioned them inside. “VERITAS” was inscribed above it, the recessed letters filled with gold paint. Malone looked at Hask.

  “What is ‘veritas’?”

  She smiled. “Our directorate’s motto. It means ‘truth’, Inspector.”

  Sundar peered at her. “With a big ‘T’ or a little one?”

  Hask gave him a languorous head-to-toe twice over. “You’re clever for eye candy.”

  The office was organized and well lit. A gaunt, older man was already standing inside, now gazing at the newcomers in puzzlement. In his arms he carried long, bundled rolls of paper, like baguettes. Seeing the inspectors, he clutched his papers a little more tightly against his chest. Hask turned to him.

  “I apologize, but we’ll have to continue our discussion at a later date. Dominguez, please escort Mr Fitzhug
h to the surface,” she said to the mustachioed man.

  Fitzhugh and Dominguez brushed past the two inspectors, the latter with a final contemptuous glance over his shoulder.

  “Now,” Hask said, sitting behind her desk, “I take it you have a few questions for me.”

  Malone took Fitzhugh’s empty chair. “We’re investigating the death of Dr Werner Cahill.”

  “Of course. Yes, Cahill worked under my direction until his untimely death. We were all much grieved to hear of it,” Hask said, her placid eyes unblinking.

  “Then he worked here, on this floor?” Sundar asked.

  “Typically, yes.”

  “And the rest of the time?”

  “Cahill was one of our senior researchers. His work occasionally called for light travel,” Hask said.

  “What did he do here?” Malone said.

  “Why, he did what we all do in this directorate,” said Hask, her palms open. “We reconstruct the past, using clues from what texts we have managed to recover.”

  “The state of Dr Cahill’s study suggests that he was working on something just before he died.” Malone said. “What was it?”

  She crossed her legs. “Only he could have told us that.”

  “Why would he have been working so late and away from the office?”

  Hask said, “I think I will have to give you the same answer.”

  “You’re not answering me at all.”

  Hask’s eyes narrowed. “Inspector, let me be frank. I don’t know what Cahill was working on, and I couldn’t tell you if I did. You saw the study where he died; what did you find there?”

  “Nothing. Whatever he was working on was gone when I arrived.” Hask blanched and folded her hands. Malone continued. “What kind of project could have incited a murder, Dr Hask?”

  “Separating the truth from fiction is a dangerous labor, Inspector,” she said.

  “Veritas,” Malone said.

  Hask smiled again. “Precisely. As I said, it’s our motto.”

  Next to Malone, Sundar sighed and rolled his eyes.

  “Could this be the work of someone within your directorate?” Malone said.

  “Absurd. What would give you an idea like that?” Hask dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand, but she inclined toward the inspectors.

  Malone decided not to mention the key, and she silenced Sundar with a quick look. “The rumor mill is already churning, Doctor. This incident has disturbed some of the other scholars. Why, if there’s no connection?”

  “They spend their days in a cave filled with books, trying to make sense of old stories about murder, deceit, and war. What else would you expect?”

  “I would expect you to be more cooperative, Dr Hask, seeing as we serve the same authority. Would you rather help me solve this or allow someone else to steal your secrets?”

  Hask leaned into her chair’s padded headrest. “As always, you Municipals assume that there is some hidden agenda, some paramount evil that demands your attentions. It’s a tired story, and I’m afraid I’ve read it before.”

  “All the same, I need to see what Cahill and his colleagues have been working on.”

  “That’s confidential information,” said Hask, “which you would need a warrant to see. In fact, you will need one to continue this conversation. My time and patience for a courtesy interview have quite expired. Dominguez.” The haughty man reappeared in the doorway. “Please escort our guests to the surface.” Dominguez nodded and began marching the inspectors out of the office. Sundar elbowed past him.

  “Someone’s got you on a short leash if that’s the best you can give us.”

  “I’m in the business of giving orders, not answers. This is a bureaucracy, boy. Get used to your place.”

  A silent Dominguez led Malone and Sundar to the surface, where he left them with a disdainful sniff. The sky had begun to darken, and clouds bruised the horizon.

  “Well, that was anticlimactic,” Sundar said, looking over the skyline.

  “I didn’t expect her to tell us anything.”

  “I’m a little fuzzy on that. Why bother to talk to us in the first place? Did she even have to pretend to cooperate?”

  “She wanted to know what we know about Cahill’s late-night project. Once she realized that the documents were taken, she was done.”

  Sundar scratched under his collar. “Don’t know about you, but I feel used. What exactly did we get?”

  “We know she’s scared. Did you see her face when she heard that Cahill’s work was gone?”

  “Paler than yours.”

  “She didn’t do it, and she isn’t helping whoever did.”

  “Odd to think of her scared. For such a small woman, she knows how to throw her weight around,” Sundar said. A long breath whistled through his teeth. “Looks like I’ve got a bargain to fulfill. Not another peep out of me for the rest of the investigation.”

  Malone watched their boots scrape across the cobblestones. “Top marks,” she said.

  Sundar looked up.

  “We were never going to get answers out of this one,” Malone said. “But you got us farther than I could have on my own. Partner.”

  Sundar coughed, a blush rising from his neck, and Malone continued walking.

  “Hask isn’t going to give us anything without the word of someone higher up, so we might as well start there tomorrow. Unfortunately, it’s too late for anything but dinner tonight. I’ll buy, if you can stomach something in Turnbull Square,” she said.

  Sundar grinned. “You may be at the top of your game out here, but don’t think you can outdo me at the dives. I’ve survived them all.”

  “Once again, you’re going to have to prove yourself.”

  “Challenge accepted, Inspector.”

  “Call me Malone.”

  The pair strolled through the deserted surface streets of the bureau district in the waning light, before darkness swallowed them.

  * * *

  Sundar’s beer mug left a shiny, dark ring on a bar already stained with dozens of them. He set it back down with a heavy thunk, and the foamy beer inside sloshed up to the lip but didn’t quite spill. Nevertheless, Malone noticed that his tongue was still as nimble and his voice as clear as it had been when he interviewed the sweepers that morning.

  “It’s not that different,” he said, rubbing the layer of moisture on his glass with a thumb. “Acting and inspecting, I mean. Is that what you call it? Inspecting?”

  Malone shrugged, tilting her head back for a gulp of crisp, spicy, pale ale.

  “Anyway, they’re not that different. You’re just tricking different people.”

  Malone sat her own glass on the bar with a barely audible clink. “Except we fail when we’re found out. Your audience knows they’re being tricked.”

  Sundar tapped a triumphant index finger on the bar. “But they still laugh. They still cry. We fail if they remember we’re actors.” He took another swallow from his amber-tinted pint. “No, there is a difference. The stakes. But don’t let my old company hear I said that.”

  Malone snorted. “Heaven forbid.”

  Sundar tilted his head. “I dunno, Malone. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t go back for all the mansions in the Vineyard, but consider their point of view. They have a successful night, and a hundred people may go home a little happier, a little kinder, a little more aware. But if we have a good night, what do we do? We send someone to the Barracks.”

  “A criminal,” Malone said.

  “And we make someone unhappy. We may give someone else satisfaction or justice, but we don’t make anyone happy.”

  “We do what’s necessary,” Malone said, tightening her grip on her glass.

  Sundar nodded. “But what’s more effective? Keeping people happy or keeping people satisfied? Won’t happy people be peaceful people?”

  Malone raised an eyebrow. “I guess we could all join the players and find out.”

  Sundar grinned wryly. He traced the Venn diagrams of mug
stains on the bar with long, tapered fingers. “What would you rather have?” His brown eyes met Malone’s for a moment. “Happiness or satisfaction?”

  Now Malone focused on her glass and on the thin layer of bubbles floating at the top of her ale. She turned the glass in her hand, staring into the golden liquid. The other patrons behind and beside them built a wall of sound, but Malone could only hear a piercing ring coming from her own inner ear.

  “I know what I’d pick,” Sundar said, taking another drink. “But for now, I’ll settle for another one of these.” He slid his empty mug to the bartender. “One for you, Malone?”

  She nodded, a faint sigh of relief escaping her lips.

  Sundar pushed another pale ale toward her. “So, you know what got me into the black coat. What about you?”

  Malone took a sip. The truth was, nothing else had ever occurred to her, but that answer made her uncomfortable for some reason she couldn’t place.

  “It’s my best color,” she said.

  Sundar snorted, a jet of liquid spurting from his nose. He swiped at it with the back of his sleeve. “Seriously, though. A righteous hunger for justice? Family in the Municipals?” He lowered his voice, grinning and looking at the tables around them. “Family in the Barracks?”

  “All of the above,” Malone said. “At one point or another.” Sundar nodded, staring into his beer, and she guessed that he was, once again, searching for a new topic.

  As it happened, one found them, crashing into the bar between them. A heavy man with a doughy face and a bald spot on the back of his head looked up at them, his eyes heavy with accusation. “You’d better watch where you’re going,” he said, each syllable colliding into the next, “or I’m gonna hafta show you whose bar it is.”

  Malone’s hands were already on the cuffs linked to her belt. She and Sundar both wore their black coats, but so did half of the citizens of Recoletta. The only thing that clearly marked them as inspectors were the silver seals pinned to their lapels, and Malone doubted that their interloper would have noticed if they’d been covered in them.