by S A Shaffer
“Exactly …” David said, a thought dawning on him. “You don’t happen to have any business records here, do you? Or nonprofit?”
“No. Civil records are kept in the building across the street. We do have a direct line there, though, and they answer all our questions.”
“Would it be too much trouble to do a record search on a name?”
“Not at all. What’s the name?”
“Lloyd Bentsen. I know he has some affiliation with the AIR Fund and Braxton Industrial Investments.”
“A-I-R?” Winston asked as he jotted the name down on a notepad.
“That’s right.”
“Shouldn’t be any trouble. I’ll just be a moment while you look through those other boxes.”
As the door rattled shut, David slid another box onto the table. It contained every book and scrap of paper with any sort of writing on it from Paula’s apartment. David spent some extra time on this box. He read everything—every grocery list, every budget ledger, everything. One thing that struck him as odd was the amount and regularity of her grocery lists. What it must be like to live with plenty. Toward the end of the box he found a little notebook, no larger than a wallet. Most pages contained addresses, but one held some interesting figures:
Site Property: 40,000 Sterling—2,000,000 Sterling
Industrial Dance Club: 18,000 Sterling—90,000 Sterling
Lousy Lodgings: 700,000 Sterling—1,400,000 Sterling
Industrial Power Station: 45,000 Sterling—250,000 Sterling
6 x Vacant Buildings: 35,000 Sterling Each—200,000 Sterling Each
David stared at the list. Why was Linden Lodgings on some booklet in Paula’s apartment? And the numbers? Those could only mean property values. Had they really increased that much? How had Paula known that? More importantly, why would she want to know that? David set the booklet aside, intending to come back to it. He rifled through the rest of the papers, only finding one other scrap of any curiosity, a small note bearing no address or greeting:
A divorce would ruin me, and you cannot offer me enough to justify the loss. Are you not happy with what we have?
Perhaps that was the reason for the extra food: Paula had a lover. David put the note back in the box and slid it aside, moving on to the last two boxes. They bore a collection of all of Paula’s personal effects. She didn’t have much: a few articles of jewelry, some perfume, and a few purses with their contents. He rifled through the items without much confidence, but then he noticed a silver broach Paula had worn. Actually she’d always worn it; he’d never seen her wear anything else. It was a simple spiral of silver, identical on both sides. David leaned back in his chair and twirled the broach in his fingers. If she always wore the broach, it evidently had some meaning. Yet she possessed other articles of jewelry that were prettier and more expensive. Why the broach? A gift, perhaps?
But as he thought about it, Inspector Winston pushed the door open and walked in with a large notepad containing a lot of scribbles. David realized he’d been in there for hours and not even noticed.
“Any luck?” the inspector asked as he handed David a cup of tea.
“There are some interesting figures in the back of that address book. If I’m right, they represent the increased value of the Third’s industrial district before and after the announced move of Public Pharmaceuticals.”
“Now how did you figure they are all buildings from the Third? Those names could be anywhere.”
“Not Lousy Lodgings. That’s where I live. Its real name is Linden Lodgings, but everyone calls it Lousy. This was pretty interesting too,” David said as he took a sip of his tea and held up the note about the divorce. “It seems Paula had a lover.”
“Ah, that’s what I thought too. The problem is, there is absolutely no record of him anywhere. Not the faintest idea who he is.”
“I think this broach will tell us that.” David held up the silver spiral.
Winston blanched. “What’s so special about that?”
“Nothing, and that’s just the point. She always wore it. Clearly it meant something to her. Could be a gift from a lover, don’t you think?”
“Possibly. Still, not a lot to go on.”
David nodded. “I’ll have to think on it. What about our Mr. Bentsen?”
“Ah yes,” Winston said as he held up his notepad. “Sorry it took so long. The records were privatized, and it took some doing. Made a few calls on him, though, and this is what I got. He isn’t an investor at all, or a businessman—not even that wealthy. He’s Blythe’s manager.”
David furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Manager?”
“That’s right. Blythe is actually a well-to-do businessman as well as a successful representative—quite a man. All those donations were actually donations from Blythe to his own campaign.”
“What? No … not all of them. What about the hundred thousand sterling from AIR Fund?”
Winston looked down at his notes. “Let’s see. Blythe is the sole board member of AIR, which is also managed by Bentsen.”
David paused, trying to process this strange twist. “That’s odd. I read the bio of that nonprofit, and it said it was for victims of airship crashes.”
“I think I have that here too. … Yes. Established on the twenty-sixth day of Swollock Season for the support of victims of airship crashes.”
David choked on some of his tea and looked at Winston. “What? Did you say the twenty-sixth day of Swollock Season?”
“That’s right.”
David’s mouth fell open. That was the very same day he had received a letter from Linden Lodgings, increasing rent. That was the same day Blythe had established a nonprofit for his mother’s benefit, a nonprofit for others similarly situated.
He blinked and tried to think of what this meant, then asked, “How much money has AIR received since its inception?”
“Um … just over a hundred thousand sterling.”
“And all of that was donated to the campaign?”
“All but five hundred sterling, yes.”
David looked at the inspector before putting his head in his hands. “No. No, no, no, no.”
“That’s not uncommon,” Winston said as David moaned. “Nonprofits donate funds to other nonprofits all the time. The campaign office is a nonprofit itself.”
David shook his head. “You don’t understand. My mother and I were injured in an airship accident,” he said, head still in his hands. “My mother more so than me. She’s fully paralyzed. Blythe established that nonprofit for the benefit of my mother and others like her. To date we’ve only seen enough sterling to pay a nurse part-time, but not enough for any treatment. Now I find out he’s been using the nonprofit to fund his own campaign. He’s using my mother.” David rested his hands on the table and looked at Winston. “He’s using me.”
“Oh dear. That would chill the working relationship.”
“I want to see the rest of his properties. What else does Blythe own?”
“I have the addresses here.” Winston turned a few pages on his notepad and handed it to David.
After looking at the pad for a moment, David pointed to one of the addresses and said, “That’s Linden Lodgings! He owns that? You’re sure?”
Winston shrugged. “That’s what the records office told me. Copied it down myself.”
David clenched his teeth, then grunted. “That greedy bastard! He doubled rent, knowing I lived there, and then swooped in to save the day. He probably had the entire thing planned. Called up his own manager and chewed him out about rent he himself RAISED!” He slammed a fist down on the table.
“Beg pardon?” Winston said, looking a little uncomfortable as a silence drew out. “I’m not sure I follow.”
David gazed down at the desk and took a long breath. His eyes focused on Paula’s booklet. “Wait! Wait a minute.” He fumbled for the booklet and turned to the rest of properties she’d listed. He lifted Inspector Winston’s list of addresses and compared the two
. “I need a map, Inspector—a map of the Third’s industrial district.”
A few minutes later and both of them were hunched over a map of the Third District.
“There—110 Industrial Road. That’s Linden Lodgings,” David said. He marked the map with a pen and checked the address off on both the inspector’s list and Paula’s list. “… and 111 Industrial Road is the power plant. It’s right next door. Let’s see now—55 Braxton Boulevard.” David marked another place on the map. “That’s the local dance club.” David checked the buildings off the two lists and looked at the others. “These six addresses here must be the Vacant Buildings on Paula’s list. I know where this one is. It’s right next to the train station.” David put a mark at the corner of 23rd Street and Grand Road as well as the other five addresses.
“But what about the Site Property?” David said as he tapped the pen to his lips while scanning the map. “Oh blessed Maker.” He stabbed the pen down onto a point in the map. “That’s the new transportation facility! That must be the site property. Blythe owns that? … If so, then he owns most of the industrial district. Paula didn’t know the half of it.”
David threw down his pen and looked at the rest of the addresses on Inspector Winston’s list. There were three times as many as Paula had in her booklet. “He condemned Linden Airsail so he wouldn’t have to sacrifice any of his own property, and now he’s increased his own net worth tenfold.”
David stood up, shoving his chair back, and then paced in the cramped room. A sick feeling welled up inside him—the feeling that a selfish monster had used him to do his dirty work … and now he was going to be speaker! David felt his face heat with anger as he clenched his fists, but he grunted with pain when something bit into his palm. He was still holding the silver broach in his hand and he’d squeezed so hard that it left a spiral print in his skin. David held it up by the chain to his eye, examining it closer. He saw a uniform seam around the outside of the spiral—a locket, then. David pulled on either side, but the small knot of metal wouldn’t budge. He looked at the locket again, eyeing the spiral pattern and wondering if it was really that easy. He grasped either side of the seam and turned counterclockwise. The spiral broach swiveled and clicked. He pulled the two sides of the locket open and held them up to the light. Both sides bore engravings. On the left was WJB, and on the right, IV.
David stared at the engraving, knowing what it meant but disbelieving what it entailed. He’d been fooled. He’d been completely fooled by a mastermind: William Jefferson Blythe IV.
THE MATTER OF THE SPEAKERSHIP
“I’m an idiot!” David said as he whirled around and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. He was so furious that his arm missed the sleeve three times.
“What? What did you find?” Inspector Winston asked.
David held up the open locket and said, “WJB IV—William Jefferson Blythe IV.”
He stomped across the small room, threw open the door, and ran as best he could for the stairs.
“Wait!” the inspector called from behind David. “Where are you going?”
“What time is it?”
Winston checked his pocket watch as he hurried after David. “A few ticks before five. Why?”
“I lost track of time. Hopefully I can still make it,” David said as he climbed the stairs as fast as he dared.
“Make it where?” Winston said, following him up.
David stopped on the landing outside the department foyer and turned to face Inspector Winston. “To Capital Orbital. Someone needs to warn the Assembly that they are about to nominate a murderer to the speakership.”
David pulled the door open and ran out of the department, leaving Inspector Winston gaping after him.
As he sat in an air-taxi, bobbing along in the fierce wind, David cursed himself. There was unusual air traffic clogging the skies in anticipation of the census. More than a few airships collided in the congestion, and everyone now flew with an abundance of caution. David tapped his foot in agitation. How could he have been so stupid? It was so obvious now; he’d just been looking the wrong way. He’d been looking for a man in the shadows when the true enemy—the common factor among the murders and the beneficiary of mass financial fraud—was right in front of him.
He’d helped this man! No, he’d made this man! He’d swallowed the caring politician routine like a sky fish with a lure.
Lowering my rent when he himself had raised it! Setting up a nonprofit on behalf of my mother and only distributing half a percent of the funds, absorbing the rest into his campaign. Condemning land from an honest businessman in the name of a public purpose. David shook his head. The bastard only wanted to raise the value of his own property! What’s worse, he owned vacant property. What was wrong with using those buildings for Public Pharmaceuticals?
But all this paled in comparison to murder …
Blythe and Paula had been lovers, probably for cycles prior to David’s aideship. The locket proved that. She knew more about Blythe than anyone else, perhaps even his own wife. She knew her position was tenuous, so she recorded all of Blythe’s dirty secrets in her little book. Then Blythe had an unexpected rise to power after his grand speech, and she wanted marriage. She knew grandeur was coming, and she was tired of being the mistress. She wanted a position of prominence, not one of shame. He refused her, and then she died. Now that David thought about it, it was obvious why: she’d tried to blackmailed him. Told him what she knew and her willingness to take it to his rivals. That’s when he had her killed … but why the torture? David pursed his lips. Perhaps Blythe wanted to know if she’d already sold the information? Or maybe he wanted to know who her buyers were. Either way, he’d killed her, and to all the Fertile Plains their secret relationship never even existed, save for the locket.
But a man with a thirst for lust couldn’t long avoid the vice. He turned to Samantha, trading Paula for the newer, younger model. Samantha proved unfaithful from the beginning. She had ulterior motives, even more so than Paula. She was a spy. David pounded a fist against his forehead, realizing that when he’d exposed her motives, he’d all but sentenced her to death. After the news agencies cooled off, Blythe had tracked her down and beaten her for information about her backers—beaten her to death just as he’d done with Paula. David wondered if Blythe had paid someone to do the dirty deeds or if he’d done them himself.
David sighed. That left Mercy.
He gripped the taxi’s leather bench so hard that his metal fingers ripped through the leather. Heat flushed his cheeks as he ground his teeth. Mercy must have uncovered the truth about Blythe’s financial dealings, and he tried to drown the truth in a river of her blood. Blythe didn’t need information from her; he’d killed her and then disguised the stabbing by mutilating her body, hoping to cast all three murders as torture by a political rival. It was Blythe who had paid for the census fraud through Mercy’s accounts … all to make it look like a violent political rivalry!
David felt sick with fury. He’d elevated Blythe with careful political strategy to the highest position in the Houselands. He should have let the Voxil Tribunal destroy him. He should have let the Prowlers capture him. He should …
David paused in his own personal tirade. He was still missing something. Blythe was certainly the monster in the closet, but he wasn’t the man in the shadows. Someone had still ordered the other events, the Prowler attack, the newspaper stories, Samille. Perhaps Speaker Walker, but that was too obvious a choice. There was someone in the background fighting against Blythe. Someone, it seemed, that Blythe knew about … and was willing to kill to discover the identity of. If the man in the shadows did indeed exist, and he stood opposed to Blythe, then David still needed to find him, but for completely different reasons. He might not wholly agree with the man in the shadows, but he couldn’t be any worse than Blythe.
David roused from his reflections as the air-taxi bumped into the orbital dock. He paid the pilot with his last few sterlings and ran for the orbital
entrance. The halls were even more packed than when he’d left, as this census marked the first credible threat to Speaker Walker in many cycles. Clearly the Assembly gallery had overflowed into the halls. Even as David pushed his way through the people, he heard the final tally echo through the megaphones along the hallway:
“The census ranks House Braxton’s Third District as the most populous district in the Houselands. This census calls for a new speaker.”
The people in the hallway cheered so loudly that David had to cover his ears.
“Will Representative Blythe please approach the speaker’s dais and accept the speaker’s oath.”
David broke into a run, disregarding decorum and shoving people out of his way. He heard several curses as he knocked men and women to the floor, but he didn’t care. He had to stop that oath. As he ran, he heard the Assembly’s cheering crackle through the megaphones. That was good. The longer they cheered, the longer he had. He pushed his way up to the second level of the orbital and toward the Assembly foyer. The closer he got, the thicker the crowd—and the more obstinate. David yelled for people to move, but they hardly noticed him. He squeezed between them, but these were people who still thought they had a chance at entering the gallery. As he pushed, they pushed back, eager to hold their places in line. He was in danger of starting a riot. David switched tactics.
He held up his aide ID and called for people to move. “I’m Mr. Blythe’s aide and this is an emergency.”
It helped, but only a little. As he reached the foyer, he noticed an additional security checkpoint. He pushed ahead the last few feet and held his ID up to a guard, panting as he did so. Then he heard it, the beginning of the oath: “I, William Jefferson Blythe IV …”
The security guard squinted at the ID and scowled. “David Ike, huh? I’ve let thousands of you in. How do I know this ain’t a fake? If you were really an aide for Representative Blythe, you would have been here hours ago.”
David paused and heard, “… swear to faithfully fulfill the role of house speaker.”