The Buried Life

by Carrie Patel

  Jane shook her head. “Fredrick loves a good scandal. Me, I just can’t see it.”

  “That’s because you’ve put on blinders where this one’s concerned,” Fredrick said. “Your detective friend feels the same way I do.”

  “Fredrick!”

  “Wha-at? Oh, don’t be silly, Jane, we’re among friends.”

  It was Olivia’s turn to interject. “Then this Roman Arnault is the prime suspect?”

  Fredrick answered before Jane could protest. “It’s not as simple as that. See, the investigation is being handled by the Council’s own agents, and there’s no telling what they think. As of last week, they certainly weren’t giving him a curfew,” he said, scowling. Fredrick continued too fast for Jane to add that no one at the gala, themselves included, had faced curfew. “Investigations aside, I will say this: I’ve worked for the news for over ten years now, and it’s my job to know the climate in Recoletta. People are talking, and among those who would know, the name is Roman Arnault.” He concluded with a fierce stab at a chunk of potato.

  Jane found her opening. “Roman Arnault has a suspicious reputation, but he’s not the only possibility. Fredrick has his ‘sources’,” Jane said, pronouncing the word as if it were a polite term for something less reputable, “but it’s all speculation. The fact is, no one knows, so people are eager to assign the blame anywhere they can, and Roman Arnault is also a convenient scapegoat,” she added, watching Fredrick’s expression.

  Olivia smiled and patted Jane’s arm. “Jane, I thank you for your assurances, but don’t worry that I take rumors too seriously! I know that Mr Anders is only looking out for us. You should be grateful for such a friend, so interested in your wellbeing.” Fredrick did not attempt to conceal his satisfaction.

  Jane softened and could not help grinning herself. “I guess you’re right. But here we’ve been going on about our work without even asking you about yours.”

  Olivia smiled again. “Never mind that! Just another day of soap and polish.”

  “You work in the Vineyard too, am I right?” asked Fredrick.

  “Mostly.” She stirred her meal with a fork.

  “And what exactly do you do?”

  “I clean house, Mr Anders. I’m afraid it’s not that interesting.”

  “Nonsense! You must come across all kinds of mysterious stains and scandalous messes.”

  Olivia laughed. “But none of it’s nice to mention at dinner.”

  Fredrick held out his hands and dropped them onto his thighs. “And here, after you’ve gotten all of my secrets out of me.”

  Jane stared at the bottom of her glass as she drained it. “Wasn’t exactly hard,” she muttered.

  Fredrick smiled at Olivia. “Well, if you can’t tell us about your day-to-day now, how about something from your previous life abroad? Can’t be any harm in spilling the goods on some whitenails from Bremmly, Belmond–”

  “Bremmond,” Jane said.

  “–or wherever.”

  Again, Olivia laughed. “I’ve had some scandalous clients, but nothing that would shock a reporter. In fact, I’m eager to hear more about the scandals here.”

  Needing no more encouragement, Fredrick spun stories from the rumor mill as the three picked at the scraps on their plates. Dinner ended with the stretches and yawns that signify tired bodies and full stomachs. Olivia disappeared while Jane and Fredrick were clearing the table, and when she returned moments later, they were surprised to see her again decked out in her plain gray dress.

  “Leaving so soon?” Fredrick asked.

  “I’m afraid so. I have one more appointment tonight, and I didn’t realize how late it was.”

  “You really do keep odd hours.”

  “So do my clients,” she said. “Jane, I’m sorry to go now, but I can help tomorrow night with dinner.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Look, it’s nearly eleven, and you know there’s a curfew…”

  “It’s OK. My client gave me a note to get me past the guards.” Olivia patted a pocket. “I have my key, so I can let myself in later tonight.” She buttoned her jacket and tugged at her sleeves. “Don’t wait for me.” She nodded to Fredrick. “Wonderful to have met you, Mr Anders.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.” She was out the door before he finished. “Well, Jane, it’s official,” he said.

  “Is she your next future ex?”

  “Your new roommate is a lady of the night.”

  * * *

  Two days after Malone’s adventure in the wine cellar, she and Sundar were still deciphering the Prometheus report. Everything they read confirmed that she had grabbed the correct file from Hollens’s safe.

  The report itself contained an odd network of connections and gaps, raising at least as many questions as it answered, but it fit with the list that Jane had provided. With the exception of “R Arnault”, each name on Jane’s list was accompanied by a number, and each number had an assignment in a sister list of the Prometheus file. For instance, 1 (“A Ruthers”) was cross-listed as “Project Director”. If “A Ruthers” did indeed refer to Councilor Augustus Ruthers, Malone had no doubt that they were on the right track. Number 2 was “A Hollens” on Jane’s list and “Assistant Project Director” in Prometheus. After the first two numbers, the list got more interesting.

  “C Hask” held the position of “Chief Historian”. Studying the rest of the assignments, Malone saw a fair variety, from “3rd Historian” and “Records Specialist” to the last twenty names, all of which were classified as “Security”. The most intriguing was still the number 3 position: “Director of Excavation”.

  This slot matched “L Fitzhugh” on the first list but would now be “P Dominguez”, she recalled crossly. Scattered throughout the list were quite a few other slots labeled “Excavation Team”. Here lay one information gap: a team devoted to digging, but no evidence or record of the bounty.

  “Probably to prevent someone from doing what we’re doing now,” Sundar said, his boots resting on the edge of Malone’s desk.

  Malone snorted.

  “We wouldn’t even know who this involved if it weren’t for the laundress’s list,” he said. “I’d do it that way, and I bet you would too if you needed to keep records but wanted to preserve secrecy – split ’em up.” He gnawed on the end of a pen. “It’s smart.”

  “Only if you can trust the people holding the pieces, and I don’t think the Council can.” She did not have to remind Sundar of her theory that someone in the inner circle had given the murderer access to the victims’ homes. “Besides, there’s a hole.”

  “In my theory? Never.” He kicked his feet off of the desk and brought them down with a small thud. “What is it?”

  “If this is about segmentation, why did Hollens have this portion of the report and the list of names?”

  “The list was in his jacket. Maybe he was passing it along to someone else.”

  A log from the Prometheus folder displayed the times and dates that certain members of the team had worked, though the inspectors could only guess at what. The log also included information on changes in the team, but no names were given, only the numbers that corresponded.

  “They really do know how to keep a lid on things, don’t they?” Sundar said.

  “No telling how many other files there are.” Flipping to the first page of the log, Malone checked the date of the first entry. It was fourteen years old.

  “How could they take fourteen years on this?” Sundar asked.

  “They don’t exactly have a lot of people working on it, and I’ll bet that’s intentional.”

  “I love a private party.”

  Malone sighed. “Diggers, politicians, and historians.”

  “Don’t forget security.”

  “And this somehow ties in with the Sato case… also fourteen years ago.”

  “Well, we know the who and the when,” Sundar said.

  “But not the what, where, or why.”

  He shrugged. “Someone
’s got to be the optimist.”

  A ghost of a smile flickered across Malone’s lips. She paused. “We know they’re digging. So what are they recovering?”

  “Or storing,” Sundar said.

  “True.” She turned back to the page. “Well, how did we miss this before?”

  “What?”

  “The log. Take a look.” Malone passed the flimsy book to Sundar. Opened to the first entry, he could see that several pages had been ripped out of the front.

  “So much for the when,” Sundar said.

  “And we still don’t know how Roman Arnault fits into this.”

  “Ah, but that’s no surprise.”

  Malone paused again, thinking. “Did you ever look up ‘Prometheus’?”

  He brightened, tapping the air with an index finger. “As a matter of fact, I did. A mythological figure: the fire-bringer. Not sure what to think of that.”

  “And Edmund Wickery?”

  “A better success. His office still exists, but as to whether or not he does, I haven’t a clue.”

  Malone checked her watch. “It’s past curfew already, but at least we’ve got something.”

  “Yep, a handful of loose ends.”

  Malone gathered the papers from Prometheus and slid them into a desk drawer. “Meet me here tomorrow morning, and we’ll see about visiting Edmund Wickery.”

  “Or at least his files.”

  She nodded. “Since we don’t have a contract, we won’t be able to do an official interview, but, if he worked closely with the Council before, something tells me he’ll be cooperative.”

  “Yeah, but the Council wouldn’t want us looking into the old Sato murder.”

  Malone locked the desk drawer with a gentle snick. “He won’t know that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The House Call

  When Malone arrived at the station shortly after six the following morning, her plans for the day centered around the visit to Edmund Wickery’s office. However, Farrah’s unexpected visit brought a more interesting prospect, and Malone would later be thankful that she had arrived so early.

  Malone tilted the open Prometheus file away from the door when Farrah nudged it open, but Farrah wasn’t looking.

  “Chief needs to see you. Immediately.” She flashed a sheet of paper at Malone. “I’ll have the temporary contract waiting for you.”

  “On my way,” Malone said, waiting for Farrah to turn back into the hall. She locked the file in her desk and left her office, latching the door behind her. When she reached Chief Johanssen’s office, Farrah nodded her in without another word. The chief looked up as Malone entered. He had something purposeful in his manner, which was unusual as of late.

  He motioned for her to sit and spoke in a husky whisper. “We don’t have more than an hour. There’s been another disturbance outside the Vineyard. Entry and assault, but no deaths. Here’s the address,” he said, passing her a slip of paper. “This incident hasn’t been connected to the murders, which means you need to act before someone tells me otherwise. I’ll send Sundar to that address when he arrives, but I need you to get to the hospital and interview the victim first. He won’t be there long.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Roman Arnault.”

  Johanssen read the question in Malone’s face. “Yes, he’s conscious and coherent, not that it’s going to help you deal with him.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Get a copy of the temporary contract from Farrah on your way out. Arnault’ll have to talk to you until the Council rejects it. Dismissed.” Malone bowed and slipped out of the office, rolling the aforementioned contract into her jacket.

  At her brisk pace, the hospital was only a quick walk from the station. Urgency lengthened her stride. If this attack was indeed related to the three murders, it would not be long before the Council sent its own investigators to keep her away. And, knowing the victim, she expected robust opposition.

  She would not be disappointed.

  After showing her badge to the hospital staff, Malone allowed a young nurse to lead her to the quiet room where Arnault was recovering. “We’ve kept him in one of the more secluded wings,” she said. “We thought it best to, ah, keep him separate. For various reasons.” As they approached the room, the nurse’s muscles tensed and her back straightened. Malone surmised that she had enjoyed the dubious pleasure of treating Arnault personally.

  “Mr Arnault should be waking up any moment now,” the nurse said.

  “How long has he been here?”

  “A neighbor escorted him in at 4.30 this morning, and the doctors went straight to work.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was very badly beaten: one blow to the face and an eight-inch long knife wound in his side. The cut wasn’t too deep, otherwise you wouldn’t be talking to him now. We gave him stitches, but he wouldn’t take anything for the pain.” She hesitated and looked back toward the room. “Nothing except for the bottle.”

  “Thank you,” Malone said, and the nurse left her. She entered the chamber, prepared for whatever manner of incivility she was about to receive.

  The room was small and neat with little in it except for a bed and a side table supporting a bottle of amber liquid. Arnault was reclined in the hospital bed, his eyes closed. As Malone passed through the door, his eyes slowly opened, as if he had been waiting. By the displeasure on his face, he had evidently not been waiting for her.

  “Good morning,” Malone said. He grunted. “I have several questions for you.”

  Arnault stretched in his bed and folded his arms over his chest.

  Malone pulled the form out of her jacket, unrolling it. “And my contract says you’ll give me answers.”

  “Temporary contract,” Arnault said. “And you have no authority with the Vineyard murders, so I’m not under any obligation to humor you.”

  Malone cocked her head. “And here I thought this was an isolated assault. Do you know something I don’t?” Roman grimaced, sensing defeat. “Then you do have to humor me. Unless you think your handlers will enjoy bailing you out of trouble for failure to cooperate.”

  “Just get it over with.”

  “Give me as much detail as you can about this morning.”

  “Forty stitches, three nurses, two physicians, two glasses of bourbon, and one unpleasant inspector.” Arnault ticked each item off on an outstretched finger.

  “Related to the attack, Mr Arnault.”

  He sighed. “Last night, then. I returned home and went to bed early.”

  “What time?”

  “1.30, about.”

  Malone frowned. “That’s early? Where were you returning from?”

  “Yes, it is, and that’s none of your business.”

  Malone tapped the contract in her jacket.

  Arnault rolled his eyes. “The Gearbox. A bar near the factory districts. Anyway, I awoke in the middle of the night and thought I heard someone in the domicile.”

  “Could you be more specific about the time? And what did you hear?”

  Arnault clenched his jaw, raising knots behind his molars. “Shall I tell my story or not? I wasn’t taking notes, so you’ll have to be satisfied with what I remember.” He paused and slicked back his hair with one hand. “It must have been after three. I got out of bed, took my pistol, and went to the hall, where someone gave me this.” He gestured to the welt on his cheekbone. “I jumped back, dropped the gun, and grabbed my attacker’s arm and twisted. He sliced me with the knife in his other hand, and I let go. By the time I had my gun in hand, he was disappearing down the street. I made it almost to the door before losing consciousness. A neighbor heard the commotion, saw me lying in blood, and helped me to the hospital. And that’s all I know.”

  “You dropped the gun?” Malone asked.

  “That’s what I said.”

  She looked at him in disbelief.

  “Why so surprised? Isn’t that the kind of thing that normally happens, Inspector?”
/>
  “It is with home-defense amateurs, but not with men like you.”

  Roman snorted. “I don’t use it as much as you seem to think, Inspector. Certainly not as often as you use yours,” he said.

  “Did you see your attacker?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  “Not really. Seemed smaller than I.” Given Roman Arnault’s considerable frame, that was a reasonable assumption. “It could have been a woman, for all I know.”

  “You didn’t see him at all?” Malone asked.

  “It was dark. We didn’t spend much time face-to-face, in case you couldn’t tell.” The polished stone walls behind Arnault glowed in the bright hospital lights, but a scowl shadowed his face.

  “How did the attacker get into your domicile?”

  He sighed. “If I knew that, he wouldn’t have.”

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm you?”

  “Plenty,” he said with a grin, “but none who would dare try.”

  She glared and paced closer to his bedside. “Mr Arnault, you aren’t being very helpful.”

  His nostrils flared, and he gritted his teeth audibly. “Madame Inspector, I was awakened in the middle of the night, hit over the head, and drained of five pints of blood. You will pardon me if my memory is not as sharp as yours would be.”

  “That’s not the problem. I don’t think you want to help me.”

  “Such powers of deduction.”

  Malone squeezed her hands into fists. “I’m not asking favors. You’re the one in the hospital bed.”

  He sat up and brought his face close to hers. She could see the glassy sweat beads at his temples and the blood vessels snaking across his eyes. “Inspector Malone, do you think I don’t know that my life is in danger?” For the first time, Liesl Malone saw him look truly unsettled. “If I had anything useful to tell you, I would. Doubt no longer. I am terrified for my life.” Looking at his wide eyes and pale, perspiring cheeks, Malone believed him.

  “Then let me help you,” she said. “Tell me what you do know and let me protect you.”