by Carrie Patel
He’d had no choice. “Of course not,” he said. But in the pause, in the falling inflection, she heard something else. Perhaps it was merely exhaustion.
The water had turned her hands lobster red. She had forgotten how hot it was.
Fredrick set the cups on the counter. “She’s a businesswoman, Jane. If she’s made a bargain with you, she’ll keep it.”
Jane wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself.
* * *
After the latest Cabinet meeting, Malone had decided to wait a day before getting started on her new investigation with Arnault. As much as she hated delaying the inevitable, she doubted that this ordeal would resolve itself quickly. Besides, she needed some time to think.
She arrived at Callum Station the next morning after a mostly sleepless night. She wasn’t sure the supposed rest had actually left her any more clear-headed, so when she came to her office and looked at her waiting chair, big enough to swallow her and trapped behind a paper-cluttered desk, she decided she needed some tea first.
Besides, she knew already she’d have worse places to face today.
Thankfully, the kitchen, crowded between the halls and meeting rooms like a haphazard afterthought, was close enough to Johanssen’s office. To her office.
Malone lit the stove and dug a bag of loose leaf out of a drawer powdered with the dusty sediment of tea leaves. She heard a rumbling in the cabinets next to her and looked over to see Farrah, her bright red hair blazing over her back as she dug for a teacup.
As Farrah turned, cup in hand, to wait for the kettle, Malone realized that this was the first time they’d been in this room together since the transition. The last time, Farrah had warned her that the City Guard was about to comb Callum Station for her.
“I never got a chance to thank you,” Malone said.
Farrah looked up from the kettle. “What for?”
“For getting me out of the station,” Malone said. “The day before the revolution.” Six months late, the apology sounded paltry and contrived, even to Malone.
Farrah rolled her sleepy eyes back to the stove. It seemed premature, but she filled her cup nevertheless.
Malone looked at her own cup, empty but for a satchel of musky brown leaves. She should have been happy to let Farrah slip away, ending this uncomfortable moment, but her own guilt had built up like floodwaters behind a dam, and she could already feel it trickling through her resolve. “You were counting on me to fix things. So was Johanssen. And Sundar. I didn’t make the connections fast enough.”
“Forget it,” Farrah said, concentrating on the hot water rising in her cup. “You’ve got enough to worry about right now. Reorganizing the Municipal Police, integrating some of the former City Guard, pulling in Sato’s men, getting the city back in order.” She set the kettle back on the burner. “Don’t waste your time agonizing over what ended six months ago.”
Malone lifted the kettle gingerly. There was just enough water left for half a cup. She set it aside. The room felt warm and her mouth dry. A dull kind of panic was entering her bloodstream, the same kind she felt whenever she thought back to Johanssen, Sundar, and the empty offices around the station. “None of this would have happened if I–”
Farrah looked back at Malone, her eyes bright. “You didn’t kill Chief Johanssen. And neither did Sato. Captain Fouchet of the City Guard did, and he’s dead, too.”
Farrah’s words brought back a similar memory of watching Sundar strolling into the Library, jaunty and unaware of the danger. A tightness settled over Malone’s face.
“You can’t save everyone, Malone,” Farrah said, full of brisk sympathy. “Sundar wouldn’t have blamed you, and you’re certainly not doing the rest of us any favors by dwelling on this. You’ve got to focus on fixing the mess we’re all in now.”
She realized, too, that they wouldn’t be stuck here, patching things up while Recoletta fell apart around them, were it not for her failure. “Johanssen could have handled this,” she said. “I haven’t been able to do the job he would have.”
“So quit trying,” Farrah said, blowing over the top of her cup and frowning at the exit. “You’re not going to replace him, and neither is anyone else. You want to beat yourself up some more, then look at this as your penance. You’ve got to put things back together one way or another.” She took a sip from the top of her cup and turned away. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do. And so do you.”
Farrah disappeared around the corner, leaving Malone with her thoughts and a teacup empty but for dried leaves. Malone left it on the counter and shut off the burner.
She headed to Arnault’s office. There was no putting it off any longer.
The corridor she followed wound away from the main hall and into the deeper recesses of Callum Station. Much to her dismay – and to Arnault’s apparent displeasure – Sato had insisted on finding Arnault an office in the station. Even though they technically worked for the same side now, Malone didn’t trust him, and she didn’t like having him so close to her base of operations. She’d caught herself checking up on the kinds of details that she would normally have left to Farrah: the locations of files, the assignments of her investigators. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but that only increased Malone’s fear that when it finally did, it would be subtle enough to escape her notice.
She continued, her boots loud in the quiet halls. Argument with Sato on the matter of Arnault’s office had been pointless. There was plenty of space, and it wasn’t as if she could point to a specific cause for suspicion or even a likely motive. And perhaps that was what bothered her most – she had no idea what Arnault wanted and thus no way to anticipate his moves.
As she neared his office, the sound of muted voices reached her ears. She stole closer, her footsteps soft and silent as she recognized Arnault’s low voice and the singsong lilt of Olivia Saavedra.
If Arnault was Sato’s eyes and ears, then it appeared that Olivia Saavedra served as Arnault’s. That was the most Malone could figure out, any way. All she could definitively conclude was that Olivia had a way of appearing everywhere at once, and whatever she observed seemed to make its way back to Arnault.
With hardly a second thought, Malone slid next to the cracked-open door, standing close enough to hear the conversation inside. The lack of activity in this wing of the station made it unlikely that anyone would chance by, but the risk energized her in a way that months of paperwork and bureaucratic reorganization had not.
“...No word from my contacts,” Olivia was saying. “I think the most recent incident has made them more cautious.”
“Do what you can in the meantime,” Arnault said.
“Of course. I’ve been working on another pair of sources. I am expecting they will bear fruit for us in another couple of weeks.” She emphasized the word “us.”
“Then report to me when they do.” Something about the volume of Arnault’s voice suggested that he was looking down – at something on his desk, perhaps.
“I have it on good authority that the criminal networks will be ceding territory around Tanney Passage and establishing a presence closer to the Spine. Now would be the time to move a couple of these contacts.”
“Then I trust you to handle it,” Arnault said in his bored monotone.
As the silence stretched into awkwardness, Malone found her curiosity aroused not only by the covert operations the two were discussing, but also by their divergent tones: Arnault’s chilly formality and Olivia’s uncomfortable persistence. She hazarded a peek through the door. Through the narrow slit, she saw Arnault, bent over his desk and focused intently on it, and Olivia standing in front of it, her legs crossed at the ankles.
“I... thought you might have some suggestions. On how these contacts should be placed. I know you’re a man who appreciates the importance of detail.” Olivia took a few slow strides toward the desk, the roll in her step accentuating the roundness of her hips.
Malone ducked back around the co
rner as Arnault’s head angled up.
“You have your recommendations outlined in your report?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll take a look at them when I go through it.”
Malone heard another two steps followed by the fleshy slap of papers flopping onto wood. “I’d like to speak candidly,” Olivia said.
“What’s on your mind, Miss Saavedra.” His words were flat, empty of the round inflection of a question.
“It’s Olivia.”
He said nothing, waiting.
Rustling fabric. Two slow, careful footsteps. A fingernail sliding across a hard surface. Malone couldn’t resist the temptation any longer. She peered again through the crack in the door.
Olivia’s back was to Malone, and she blocked all view of Arnault but for his protruding elbows.
“You’re still thinking about her,” Olivia finally said.
He turned away from her, back to the papers on his desk.
“It’s touching, really,” Olivia said. “The way you wait for her. Very affecting.”
He sighed a short, staccato note of exasperation.
“But it’s been six months. Do you even remember her face? Does she remember yours?”
After several seconds’ pause, Arnault said, “You should go.” He slapped a folder shut as she circled to the other side of his chair.
“What happened between you was important. I’m not saying it wasn’t. But what else have you really got in common? You’re different people. If you were to see each other now, would you really have anything between you?”
Roman said nothing.
“You belong to two different worlds,” Olivia said. “All I’m saying is, you don’t have to be lonely in this one.”
Malone heard the shifting fabric and the squeak of soles on wood as Olivia turned back to the door. Malone ducked into an empty office just as the other woman’s quick, soft footsteps approached the hallway. As Olivia passed the office where Malone waited, Malone felt rather than heard her sigh, something fragrant and sensual.
She waited just long enough to keep her timing from seeming deliberate before turning into Arnault’s office.
He sat in a thick, high-backed leather chair much like her own. And, like her, he seemed thoroughly uncomfortable in it.
It was hard to tell if the scowl on his face was for her, for Olivia, or part of the normal landscape.
“So glad you knocked,” he said.
“I thought we’d get straight to business,” she said. “And you appreciate the direct approach.”
He grunted.
“Sato implied that you’d know where to begin,” she said. Not that she felt any better about investigating a bunch of ideologues, particularly when there were real criminals on the loose.
“He implied a lot of things,” Arnault said. “Did you believe all of them?”
Was he drawing her out, baiting her into saying something that would get her into trouble? Or was he merely letting her know that he recognized her reluctance and the possibly treasonous tendencies at the heart of it?
“I’m sure he has his reasons,” she said.
Arnault sneered. “And already you’re going along with them, I see. Ever the faithful underling.”
Coming from the man who had supported Sato’s coup behind the scenes, the accusation surprised Malone. “Do you have a better idea?”
“You did,” Arnault said. “When you suggested searching for the Bricklayer.”
Malone didn’t know what to say, but she was increasingly certain that Arnault was luring her into insubordination. “You saw how the idea was received,” she said. “Are we supposed to ignore Sato’s orders?”
He rolled his eyes as if she were being impossibly dense. “Has it occurred to you that the two could be related?”
Not for the first time, Malone wondered what exactly he and Olivia had been talking about.
She also realized that he had a good point.
Arnault continued. “If the dissenters needed a way to move something heavy, the Bricklayer’s tunnels would be the safest way to avoid Sato’s notice. Have you kept track of the printing presses in the city? There aren’t many.”
“Two have been reported missing,” Malone said. “Although those are hardly the highest-value items to have disappeared.”
“They’re the only ones that could have generated the pamphlets we saw. And I’d bet you anything that at least one of them is somewhere in the Bricklayer’s territory.”
“Why so eager to find him?” Malone asked.
He gave her a scowl of disgust. “Is it so strange that someone would want to clean this place up?”
“You don’t strike me as the crusading type.”
“Merely practical,” he said.
“Then I’ll ask again. Where do we start?”
“Unfortunately, none of my networks have reported the sudden appearance of printing presses. So we’ll have to work backwards, and you’ll have to find out when those two went missing.”
Malone had had enough foresight to review those files earlier that morning. “Four months ago,” she said.
“That’s quite a memory,” he said, eyes narrowed.
“Like you said, it’s not every day someone steals a printing press.”
“Then we’ll want to start looking in areas that have been Bricklayer territory for at least that long. I doubt anyone’s been eager to move several hundred pounds of iron more than once.”
“You have contacts that can give us some leads?”
“Correction,” Arnault said. “I have contacts that can give me some leads.”
The hairs on the back of Malone’s neck bristled. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but we’re working together on this.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to reveal all of my sources. As I recall, your lack of discretion became problematic for some of your previous associates.”
A hot wave of anger washed over her. “Coming from a man who overthrew his last government.”
His eyes twinkled above a nasty grin. “Careful, Malone. You aren’t questioning Sato’s legitimacy, are you?”
“Of course not,” she said between gritted teeth. “But plenty of people around the city are.”
“A fact of which we are reminded at every Cabinet meeting. What’s your point?”
“Only that we don’t have time for your obstructionism.” She swallowed her anger and redirected her mind to matters at hand. “Where are you hearing the most chatter?”
Arnault’s shoulders straightened. “The city’s quiet except for the factory districts.”
“It’s the hub of the black market,” Malone said.
“That, and the nouveau riche. The Vineyard would be a better starting point for our purposes. It’s been Bricklayer territory almost from the beginning.”
Malone frowned. The Vineyard had been Recoletta’s wealthiest district for generations. It should house the most fervent resistance to Sato, but it had been surprisingly quiet in her reports.
Arnault saw her bewilderment and laughed. “Perhaps if you spent more time behind your desk and less time chasing shadows, you’d know what I’m talking about, Chief.”
“I’ve read the reports. There are hardly any coming out of the Vineyard.”
“Is that really surprising?” He leaned forward on his desk. “Who exactly are they going to complain to? Sato’s the one who brought the rabble in. Furthermore, it’s not as... lively as it used to be.”
“The whitenails are leaving,” she said. Many of them had fled the city in the weeks just after Sato came to power. In the last couple of months, Sato had made it harder for people to leave, but Malone’s information suggested that there was still a steady trickle out of the city. And if anyone had reason – and resources – to strike out, it was the whitenails.
And for all his invective, Sato had need of them, their capital, and their labor.
Arnault shrugged, seemingly remembering the same di
scussion. “We lose the lawyers, but we lose the doctors, too. So much for a lucky break.”
“This doesn’t make sense. Half of the whitenails have left, and you’re telling me the rest have taken up organized dissent? I can’t picture a bunch of whitenails moving a cast iron printing press.”
“Desperation brings out the best in us all.”
She didn’t have a good argument, much less a stronger suggestion as to where to begin. Still, his focus on the Vineyard left a sour taste in her mouth. “And how do you suggest we begin?”
“Armed with pistols and lanterns, I’d expect. I didn’t think you’d have any qualms about diving right in.”
There was something he wasn’t telling her. She was sure of it. “I prefer a little direction,” she said.
“A three thousand-pound printing press shouldn’t be too easy to miss.”
* * *
Despite Arnault’s seeming willingness – eagerness, even – to rush into the Vineyard, they agreed to take the rest of the day to gather leads. Malone was unable to find anything in her backlog of reports to suggest a definitive direction. Her subordinates, mumbling and averting their eyes, all but admitted that the network of tunnels in the Vineyard had gone unpatrolled for months. It felt like a losing battle against the Bricklayer’s cronies, they said.
As irritated as she was, she was careful to keep her tone steady with them. She couldn’t afford to lose the few reliable officers she had. Besides, they were right.
Arnault had cautioned against starting too early in the morning, saying that they’d draw less attention if they made their move later, when more people were out and about.
She left from Callum Station after lunch, dressed inconspicuously but with her weapon visible, at Arnault’s insistence.
As strongly as she disagreed with him in most matters, she didn’t object to this.
Not surprisingly, Arnault had other business, and so she met him just outside the Vineyard rather than at the station.
