by Carrie Patel
The guard took a detour into the connecting bathroom, buying Malone precious seconds. Crawling into the chute, she braced herself with her feet against the smooth stone and eased the panel shut as the guard’s boots came into view. With a final glance at the pile of linens below her, she bent her knees and dropped feet-first down the chute.
Malone landed in the sheets, and shock waves reverberated through her bones. Submerged in laundry for the moment, she took the opportunity to gather her thoughts.
By any sensible estimate, she had just dropped into the laundry room. It did not connect directly with the cellar, but both sections occupied the same level in Hollens’s domicile. In order to walk to the cellar, however, she would have to leave the laundry room, follow a basement level hall, ascend one floor, and follow another hallway (which, if she knew anything, contained a guard or two). Fortunately, she knew of another way.
Climbing out of the linen bin, Malone paced to the far wall. Instead of marble and wood paneling, these walls were of plain stone block, free of embellishment. Positioned in the wall just above her head was a grill covering the laundry room’s air vent. Malone wedged it open and vaulted inside. One consequence of life underground was that vents and shafts riddled most buildings like termite trails, making clandestine travel possible for someone who did not mind a squeeze. All the same, she was beginning to feel like a sewer rat.
Malone continued straight down the shaft, counting the side tunnels as she passed them. Finally, she took a right and, as she expected, found herself face to face with another grating. Peering beyond it, she saw nothing (and no one) but a few rows of barrels lit by torches. She crawled out, her descent eased by a stack of crates just under the grill.
“In the cellar, behind the wine.” Malone knew she was searching for something, but she did not know exactly what. Luckily, the cellar was only three rows deep and six yards wide. She took a torch from its sconce and began examining the bottles and barrels, row by row.
The first row was filled with barrels of spiced rum and ale. In the second row, she found only bottles of spirits and imports labeled in strange scripts. When she reached the third row, she had a feeling she was much closer to her goal.
Wines, from sherries to chardonnays, lined the third and final row, which rested against the wall. Malone began the painstaking task of examining them all, bottle by bottle. The corks protruded from their recesses like dozens of buttons, all aligned in neat rows and columns. Once she saw the cork marked with an A, she knew she was moving in the right direction.
It was easy to miss in the middle of a grid of bottles forty wide and twenty tall, but the emblazoned A stared back at her, a dark mark in the flickering torchlight. She examined the corks surrounding her new discovery, and each one bore another letter following standard alphabetical progression. At random, she selected the N bottle and pulled it out of the shelf. The label was plain and white, and a dark fluid sloshed beneath the green glass. She removed bottle F and saw much of the same thing. As she slid the two bottles back into their slots, however, she heard a click as something fell into place. Gingerly testing the C bottle, she felt it recess deeper under pressure. She needed a password.
Malone thought back to her final conversation with Hollens in the washroom. “The writing’s on the wall, Malone.” It was on the bottles, too, but something he had said must have been a clue about the password. She needed something true and concrete.
She considered what she knew about Hollens, facts and rumors alike. He had never been the subject of much scandal or speculation, unlike others in his circle. For a politician, he was remarkably clean. Never married, a family history of public service, citizenship in Recoletta dating back more than a dozen generations, and of course, head of the Directorate of Preservation.
Malone thought back to her covert visit to the directorate with Sundar, recalling the hundreds of texts and manuscripts that would never see the light of day and the carefully selected scholars who analyzed them. She remembered meeting Dr Hask, studious and smug in the comfort of her office. And Hollens had asked about her office. As she played back the scene in her mind, the answer became clear. Deciphered truth, writing on the wall. Veritas.
Hoping the connection was as good as it sounded, she spelled “VERITAS”, pushing the marked bottles in order deeper into their recesses. A barely audible thump followed each bottle in the sequence, elevating Malone’s hopes. After the seventh, silence.
Malone waited with bated breath, listening for the telltale click or alarm. Recalling the trap in the sewers, her insides gave a little wrench at the thought of what might happen if she had failed.
Intending to at least cover her tracks, Malone tugged at the S bottle to pull it back into place. When she did, the wall moved with it. The rack containing the lettered bottles and the section of wall behind it swung open, and Malone found herself staring at a squat cabinet ensconced in an alcove about five feet tall, five feet wide, and three feet deep. Judging by the layer of dust covering it, she was the first person to find it since Hollens’s death. Malone began her search in the top compartment.
It was full of financial documents that were private but not immediately relevant. She passed over deeds, correspondence, and certificates that she felt foolish leaving but did not have the time to examine. As much as she would have liked to take everything, she did not want to make it overly obvious to the Council, if they found the safe, that someone had already searched it. Malone could only carry so much, and she was counting on the notion that she would know what she needed when she found it.
At last, her hands fell on a leather-bound folder marked with a single title: “Prometheus”. Malone recalled Jane’s mention of the name during their first meeting. She removed the leather straps and rifled through its contents to check her hunch.
Before she could inspect her prize, she heard footsteps and voices approaching from the stairs above the cellar. Quickly assessing her options, she considered for a split second hiding in the secret compartment itself. In even less time, she dismissed the idea of shutting herself in a confined space, which was probably not built to open from the inside, as beyond stupid.
In two rapid motions, she shut the compartment and pushed the folder into her overcoat. With a quiet snap, the bottles popped back into position behind her, and, replacing the torch, she dashed to the vent by which she had entered the cellar. As the footsteps outside the door grew louder, she got a better idea.
Huddled inside one of the crates below the vent, Malone blessed her luck when the door opened seconds later. She heard two pairs of feet and two new voices drawing near.
“What in the blazes are we doing down here?”
“After the alarm outside, we’re checkin’ every corner. You know the drill.” The second guard spoke with a slightly higher voice.
“Well I’m gonna have a drink while we’re in the neighborhood.”
“I’ve seen you nursing that hip flask of yours all night. You don’t need any more sauce in your system.”
“I’ve got three more hours doing basement shift, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna do them without a drop.”
“Just watch yerself.”
The first man shuffled down the same racks that Malone had examined minutes earlier, clearly taking his time. She could hear the other guard, whom she guessed was female, pacing the rows.
“So, what was the fuss all about, anyway?” asked the first, uncorking a bottle.
“Nothing, man. Some kid throwing rocks.”
“They catch ’im?”
“Naw, he got away. They lost him after a mile or so and gave up the chase.”
Inside her crate, Malone breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“Bloody hell!” exclaimed the woman. “What’s that smell?”
“I don’t smell nothin’.”
“Take that bottle away from your nose and go over to the crates!” Malone had not noticed any unusual smells, but, with so much attention now focused in her direction, she be
came aware of an unpleasant odor emanating from her clothes. Wincing, she recalled her frantic run through the sewage tunnel earlier. She could hear the boozing guard breathing loudly over the crate.
“What are you doing?” asked the second guard.
“I’m gonna open it.”
“Don’t do that!”
“Why not? I wanna see what’s inside.”
“Well I don’t wanna smell it! Keep it closed and let’s haul these boxes up to the trash.”
Malone had found her means of escape.
Chapter Eleven
Rumors And Half-Truths
Jane was surprised at how quickly she and Olivia were settling into a routine together. Olivia kept strange hours, but when she was around Jane found her unfailingly pleasant and helpful around the apartment. Only a couple of days had passed since the commencement of their new living arrangement, but Jane was grateful for the good start.
This evening, Jane was preparing dinner for Olivia, Fredrick, and herself. Olivia was still out working, but Fredrick had insisted ever since passing her on the landing that he be invited to dinner to formally meet the new arrival. Jane could hardly object when the whole arrangement had been his idea in the first place.
It was five until seven and Jane had just set potatoes to boil when she heard Fredrick at the door. He let himself in with his spare key and strolled into the kitchen, a look of anticipation in his eye.
“Don’t get too excited; she won’t be back for another hour or so,” said Jane. His expression fell. “But let’s pretend,” she said, “that we’re friends, and you just stopped by to visit.”
He smiled. “Need a hand?”
“I’m about done, but thanks. Everything just has to cook now.” Drying her hands on the dishtowel, she took a seat on the sofa next to the fireplace. “What’s the news today?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t any, my dear. You know the expression.”
“‘No news is good news’?”
“Try, ‘My head was pounding like a steam engine and I didn’t go to the office today.’”
She laughed. “Don’t wear yourself out. Olivia may not know what to do with all of that charm.”
“Well, if you’re not feeling up to the banter, you could always take the night off and leave me to entertain,” he said, sitting down and regarding her with a half-hopeful expression.
“Not a chance.”
He shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying.”
“Nor me for having Olivia’s best interests at heart.”
“Ouch.”
Almost two hours had passed before the pair heard another key turning in the lock. Both perked up to see Olivia sweep through the door, as cheerful as ever but a little disheveled.
“So sorry! My appointment took longer than I expected.”
“Don’t think of it, Miss Saavedra,” said Fredrick, rising to his feet.
“Allow me to make introductions,” Jane said. “Fredrick, this is my new roommate, Olivia Saavedra. Olivia, this is my friend, Fredrick Anders.”
“Charmed.”
“Igualmente.”
Fredrick was still standing, halfway between electrified and dumbstruck, when Olivia smiled politely and rushed off to her quarters. “If you will give me a minute to change clothes, I am ready.”
Against Jane’s whispered admonitions, Fredrick dragged the table closer to the fireplace, which he regarded as the most romantic corner of the apartment, while Jane arranged the plates on the moving table. Though unaccustomed to accommodating three, the solid cedar table fit the plates of chicken, potatoes, and greens with plenty of space still for the diners and their dishware. By the time Jane and Fredrick had everything ready, Olivia had changed out of her gray dress and waited by the kitchen, an eager smile on her face. “It smells wonderful.”
Jane handed her a plate. “Roasted chicken with vegetables. Please, help yourself.”
Seated around the fireplace and enjoying a hearty dinner, Jane was pleased to find her old friend and her new roommate getting along well. Fredrick was describing his work at the paper with characteristic exaggeration, and Olivia listened, leaning her chin on a fist.
“What a fascinating job. But how are things now that there is so much trouble in the city?” As Olivia blinked her large, round eyes, Fredrick puffed his chest and straightened his back.
“I shouldn’t say too much,” he said, lifting his eyebrows, “but it’s been quite a rush. Intrigue and investigative journalism at its best, all packed into long days and late nights.”
Jane froze mid-chew and frowned, reflecting that Fredrick’s recent late nights had been spent chasing a whiskey buzz. Olivia remained rapt.
“How thrilling to investigate these mysteries! And how bold to do it behind the Council’s back.” She smiled, one finger skating the rim of her glass, and Fredrick reddened. “How do you keep it a secret?”
“Keep what a secret?”
“That you’re looking into the murders.”
Fredrick glanced at Jane, who shot him a warning look. “Ah, well, I’m not so much investigating them myself…”
“So modest! But without your help, I’m sure your colleagues would not be able to.”
Thinking about the hidden list that Fredrick had almost burned, Jane continued to stare holes into his forehead. As much as he tried, he couldn’t ignore it.
“We’re not really investigating the murders at all. The Council’s had these scandals in lockdown since the first week and, as we all know, you don’t cross the Council.” Here he looked up at Jane, shooting her his own meaningful glare.
“Nonsense,” Olivia said. She patted his arm, seemingly oblivious to the staring contest between her companions. “The paper has run stories about the murders. I’ve read them.”
Deflated, Fredrick stirred the greens on his plate. “What you’ve read are the puffs authored by the Council. Since they can’t exactly hide the murder of a councilor, or any other whitenail, they write their sanitized version of events and send it to us to print.”
“So you do the best you can,” Jane said, trying to sound heartening.
“Selling out.”
Olivia cut back in. “But she’s right, Freddie. What can you do?” She paused, her perfect lips taking a ginger sip from her glass. “It can’t be all bad. Even if you can’t write about it, you must hear some interesting information.”
“We’ll always have our sources, if you understand me,” he said between bites, warming to the encouragement. “In fact, I’d venture to say that we have some of the better information outside of the Council. Better, even, than the Municipal Police.” Still stung, he glared at Jane.
“Bit of an exaggeration,” Jane mumbled.
“Hardly. They’re either incompetent or corrupt, and I don’t know which is worse.”
Between Jane and Fredrick, Olivia slapped the table. “Corrupt is worse, of course!” She looked pleased to contribute to the debate.
“Aha.” Fredrick dabbed at his mouth. “You might think so. But someone who is corrupt can at least be bought. You can’t do anything with a fool. Incompetence is useless.” Olivia nodded slowly, focusing on this wisdom with a furrowed brow. Reaching some mental conclusion, she turned to Fredrick with renewed interest.
“Do you have any idea who is behind the murders?”
“Nothing certain. However, there are a few newsroom theories, and I have my own suspicions,” he said, with another glance at Jane, who sawed furiously into her chicken.
Olivia prompted him with an indulgent smile. “And?”
“Well, one of the more popular theories attributes the murders to a gang of the dissatisfied and unemployed. As you know, a few of our neighbor territories are going through something of a recession, which is thought to have caused the recent immigration boom. The usual scapegoats and, not surprisingly, the Vineyard’s pet theory.” He paused to savor the attention. “Others among us, however, feel that the crimes are too methodical for a band of angry laborers. The
re are rumors of intrigue within the upper circles and backstabbing in their ranks.”
“What kind of intrigue?”
“Dunno. That’s what makes it intriguing.”
“They may be ‘backstabbers’, but none of the whitenails would actually want a blood feud,” Jane said. Fredrick leveled a skeptical stare at her. “Come on, it’s common sense. They have too much to lose to squabble violently. No one at the top is going to threaten the whole structure by knocking out a few loose bricks.”
Fredrick twirled his fork over the vegetables. “Not everyone enjoys quite the same benefits. Besides, as they say, power corrupts.”
“And who in the Council would want to do this?”
“Not necessarily within the Council itself.” Fredrick turned from Jane to Olivia. “As you may know, there are quite a few cronies and underlings that exist barely outside the absolute power of the Council and that enjoy more freedom for it.”
“Don’t be such a conspiracy theorist,” said Jane.
“Conspiracy theorist? Jane, we’re in the middle of a crisis. I’ve got my suspicions about who caused it, and I know I’m not the only one.”
Olivia watched them both intently now. “Who?”
Fredrick ignored Jane’s steely glare. “Roman Arnault.”
Jane let her fork clatter to her plate. “Oh really, Fredrick.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” said Olivia.
Fredrick appeared surprised. “You have?”
“You forget that Olivia and I cater to much of the same clientele,” Jane said.
“Besides, it’s impossible to spend three weeks in the factory district without hearing something,” Olivia added.