The Buried Life

by Carrie Patel

  “Not entirely, sir. Lanning Fitzhugh was in Charley Hask’s office at the same time as us,” Sundar said. “At the Directorate of Preservation, where Cahill worked.” Malone inclined her head toward him, recalling their visit.

  The chief sighed. “Sundar, you’re new at this, so let me explain something. We maintain a delicate working balance with the Council and its directorates.” He held out two flat palms in demonstration. “Contracts, like everything else in the city, go through the Council because the Council’s in charge. The Council assigns them to us because we’re independent. And they dislike working with us because we’re independent. But they really dislike getting dragged into scandals and rumors, even if only by suggestion. I’m not ready to make our relationship any more difficult based on a hunch.”

  “Sir, are you saying that we shouldn’t investigate this contract?” Sundar asked, his brow wrinkled.

  “I’m saying that the Council, and, more broadly, the whitenails, don’t like any attention that they don’t direct. So before you get too bold with these theories, I want to make sure you know what you’re talking about.”

  “We’re sure it was Fitzhugh, if that’s what you’re worried about. We saw him clearly,” Sundar said. “Dr Hask dismissed him by name when we arrived.”

  Johanssen massaged his temples and the skin around his thick, ridged sockets. Malone pursued the advantage. “This murder was cleaner than the last, sir. From Miss Lin’s story, it seems that he possesses a detailed knowledge of the victims’ domiciles… one might even call it ‘familiarity’.”

  Johanssen clamped his eyelids shut. “That’s what worries me.”

  Only the crackle of the fire and the sound of Johanssen sighing broke the silence of the office, and Malone continued. “When we saw Fitzhugh at the Directorate of Preservation, he had rolls of papers with him – blueprints, maybe.”

  “You think the killer took them?”

  Malone rested an elbow on Johanssen’s desk. “Impossible to say – we didn’t get a good look at them. But, whatever they were, it tells us that Fitzhugh was visiting Hask for business. And he took papers with him. I don’t think that too many things leave that directorate under Hask’s eye.” Malone paused, watching the chief’s expression as he considered her words. She continued in the same tone.

  “After observing the latest scene, I’m convinced that the murderer has copies of the victims’ house keys – we saw no broken locks and no evidence of tampering.”

  “Despite the open door,” Sundar added.

  Malone’s eyes rolled back to the chief. “This means the murderer has an accomplice among the whitenails – assuming he isn’t one himself.”

  This last remark pushed the chief over the edge, as Malone had anticipated. His forearms came down on the desk with a weary thud, but his eyes betrayed the energy of purpose. “Make no mention of this conversation, Inspectors. Continue with this contract. I’ll give you every authorization and reinforcement at my disposal, just keep your heads down.” His eyes rested on each of them briefly. “You may be on to something, but watch where you sling these accusations – those people are almost as sensitive as they are suspicious. I don’t want the city thrown into an uproar over this. We haven’t had a flurry in the upper ranks since the Sato incident,” he said. “And you know what happens when panic breeds from high up.”

  Malone nodded. “It floods down, sir. We were hoping to follow up at the Bureau of Architecture, where Fitzhugh worked,” she said. Wordlessly, Johanssen pulled a sheet of paper from a desk drawer and signed a warrant for the detectives.

  “Just don’t ruffle any feathers. I expect regular updates on this contract, Inspectors. Consider it trouble if I hear about your exploits from anyone other than yourselves.” This time, his eyes darted to Malone.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Sundar started out of the office, but Malone paused again. “Sir, do you know anything about Roman Arnault?” she asked.

  Johanssen rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “Moves in the upper circles, foreign born, comes from money. Eccentric. A loner. Why?”

  “Lin overheard a bit of conversation between Arnault and Councilor Hollens. Not enough to tell us anything, sir, but she made it sound interesting.”

  Johanssen pondered a moment. “I’ll keep an ear out for any unusual talk in the higher circles, and I’ll let you both know if I find anything. Until then, Malone, close this contract.”

  “Sir,” she said, departing with a bow.

  * * *

  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 D
ominguez 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 to 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 stormclouds, 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. CITYWIDE CURFEW AT 9.00PM. REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY TO THE CITY GUARD. THESE MEASURES TO CONTINUE INDEFINITELY.”

  Chapter Six

  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.