The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Which one is Mr. Sachs's office?”

  “Around that corner, back there,” Maria said, pointing in the direction that she took whenever we would split off for the night. “It's the big one with two doors.”

  “Thanks!” I hurried in that direction, and Maria followed close behind. This was the one side of the Metropolax horseshoe I hadn't yet explored. The space was made up of Fritz's corner office, a large plate-glass window that looked out onto Mayflower Street, and of course the wall that separated the Metropolax Company's side of the eighth floor. At this point, I assumed that half of the floor was unrented space.

  I really had to hurry now, because Maria and I were trespassing and there was no loophole about it. It was Tuesday night, and the cleaning crew didn't work at the clock building on Tuesdays. And besides my legal transgressions at the moment, I was already going to be late to the R&D party, as it was, but I didn't want to miss it altogether. I couldn't let Amy down after she'd spent four months of torture on the planning committee with her mother.

  Just as Maria was saying, “Caitlyn, I don't think you should go in there,” I pulled on Fritz's door handle.

  “Shoot! Is this always locked?”

  Maria gave a noncommittal shrug. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. When the door's open, I clean in the office. When it's closed, I don't worry about it.”

  I paused to think. While I was here, I could return to the supply closet and retrieve the sticky pad with the reddish-brown stain. Now that I was convinced the stain was blood—likely Suzie Diamanti's blood—the pad was a piece of physical evidence.

  “You know what, Maria? It would probably be better for you if you didn't come along with me. Because, that way, you wouldn't get in any trouble if someone comes in and finds me here.”

  “Oh, no, in trouble?” she murmured, looking worried.

  I assured her, “No, don't worry. I'll be super fast. Here, give me your access badge. Wait for me in the lobby. Or even better, wait in your car. That way, you can claim complete ignorance for everything I'm doing. Believe me, I'm not going to throw you under the bus.”

  “Okay, I'll be downstairs,” Maria agreed, handing me her badge. “But hurry!” I did as she suggested and all but ran to the receptionist desk. Opened the top drawer to retrieve the supply key.

  Except now it wasn't there.

  Gone, too, was the legal pad that contained the key sign-out sheet.

  “No, but it has to be here!” I burst. This whole mission was sinking. Rubbing my forehead in frustration, I told myself to slow down, stay calm, focused. As I had learned with many aspects of my life, the more frantic I became, the more scattered and clumsy the antics that followed.

  Think, think. Why did Jennifer keep the key in the first place? Obviously it was so that when staffers needed to access the supplies, there would be a point person. A key master. And the sign-out sheet was like a very subtle monitoring system, so no one could slip into the room anonymously or loot it all day long. (In theory anyway, since I'd noticed that the door didn't always shut all the way, and therefore was not always locked.)

  If Jennifer had left the company, she could no longer be the point person for the supply key. But someone would have to be. It wouldn't just sit in an empty desk until they hired a new receptionist, would it? Surely it would make more sense simply to reassign the role of key master, at least for the time being.

  Of course! Who more logical to take on this responsibility than the office manager? I darted away from the receptionist station, and toward the private offices that lined the far wall. I passed door after door until I came to the fourth one in the row, which held the nameplate: Diana Dupont. I flipped the light switch. The office was surprisingly small, even cramped. I noticed that Diana Dupont was organized to an obsessive degree. Stacks of papers stood in perfect piles. Pens stood uniformly at attention in a cylindrical canister like a totalitarian's fist. There wasn't an errant paper clip or fallen staple to be found.

  When I went around to the front of the desk and opened the top drawer, I found the yellow legal pad and supply key ring on top of it. “Yes!” I snatched them up. Finally one of my ideas had panned out tonight. Looking at the sign-out sheet, I saw that the last person to borrow the supply key was John Black. He had taken it this morning and signed it back in before lunchtime.

  Only after I'd bumped the drawer shut with my hip, did I notice the framed photographs on Diana's desk. Each one featured a blond boy—or man-child, I guess, since he looked to be about eighteen. This must have been her son, Brian. His spiky-haired mom was in one of the photos, too, but I had to look twice to be sure, because she was actually smiling.

  I remembered Bill had told me that Diana Dupont was divorced. He had also said that Fritz was married. As far as I knew, Mr. Fredriksen was not. But that didn't prove that Fritz and Fredriksen were not the same man. As we had learned from the case of Joe Slock, with enough cunning, overlapping yet oppositional realities were technically possible, at least for a little while.

  Once I reached the supply room, I was met with a major disappointment. The sticky pad was gone. At first, I couldn't accept this, and I kept searching. Literally going over the same shelves again and again, until finally, I yelped, “Damnit, where is it!”

  “What are you looking for?”

  Startled, I spun around. “Oh, it's you!” I said on a breath. “I thought you were going to wait downstairs.”

  “I was, but...I got curious. Anyway, I doubt anyone's going to show up here now with that big party going on across town.”

  I started to nod, then realized something. “But wait, how did you get up here if I have your access badge?”

  “I have an extra one,” Maria said. Was it just me or did it seem a bit strange that she hadn't mentioned that before? “Now what were you looking for? You said 'where is it?'” she repeated back to me. This was the first time Maria had shown real interest in my case, which kind of surprised me. Normally, Maria was a don't ask, don't tell, don't make me talk to the police type of girl, which had worked out well for me. I wondered why she'd suddenly developed a keen interest in what I was doing. Just then she sniffed the air. “Someone just cleaned in here. I can smell it,” she said.

  “I don't smell anything,” I said, sniffing. “What is it?”

  “Bleach,” she replied. “Not pure bleach, but a cleaner that has bleach in it.”

  “Really? Wow, Maria, you're like a narcotics dog, but for cleaning products!” I said, impressed. “By the way, I mean that as a compliment. Oh and also you're not a dog.”

  Maria's responded by giving me the side-eye. Then she began walking the periphery of the room. The top of her head only came up to the third shelf.

  Meanwhile, I considered the facts. If the guilty party had cleaned, we could probably rule out Bill Christopher. Also, the bleach treatment made an infuriating kind of sense—because not only was the stained sticky pad missing, but I could have sworn there had been a tiny smudge on the wire shelf beside the pads, as well. Yet now, I couldn't find a trace of reddish-brown anywhere. My evidence had been scrubbed and stolen away.

  But who knew that I would come looking for it? Or that anyone was looking, period? If the killer had missed it the first time, what had prompted him to take another look? I'd never shared with Fredriksen any aspect of what I was doing and obviously I'd never officially met “Fritz Sachs” either. God, I just had the inescapable feeling that I was not only missing something, but possibly barking up the wrong tree altogether.

  “Okay, let me think,” I said, talking more to myself. “If Suzie ran in here to hide...if she'd had the presence of mind to leave a message in the ladies' room...”

  “Caitlyn, what are you talking about?” Maria interrupted.

  “...then wouldn't she have also tried to leave some kind of message in here, too?” I went on, deep in my own thought. “There's pens, paper...she must have left something... before she was struck down...”

  “What ar
e you saying?” Maria insisted, sounding almost agitated.

  Without answering, I began picking up notebooks on the shelves, flipping through them frantically. Reaching inside boxes, looking through packets of staples and Scotch tape, overturning plastic file bins that were strewn along the top shelf. When I lifted a stack of index cards, a folded wad of paper fell out from the middle and tumbled to the floor. “Wait! What's that?” I said, still talking to myself, and dove to pick it up. As I unfolded the paper, I could feel it was thick like stationery, and I anticipated one of two things: either everything or nothing.

  Even still, I was unprepared for the contents. “My God...” I whispered.

  Taking advantage of my momentary shock, Maria took the paper out of my hand. Soon, she became visibly concerned. “Caitlyn, dios mio, this is—”

  “I know,” I said and reached for it back.

  “But who's Xavier?” Maria asked me.

  “I think he's 'X'...” I said, recalling the engraving on the necklace—the necklace I'd found right here in this room, at nearly the beginning of all this. “Suzie knew someone at Metropolax before she came to work here,” I explained. “Someone she referred to as 'Sox.' I just wasn't sure who—and how. This,” I said, waving the page, “is the person who connects them. This is the link.”

  “Who then is Sox?” she pressed.

  “I don't know, but I almost know,” I told her truthfully.

  “I don't understand—”

  “Maria, I'm sorry, I have to go. I promise I'll explain soon. Thank you so much for everything!” I hurried to the door, vaguely aware of the clicking of my high heels on the hard supply room tile. I stopped to look back. “And, Maria, for your sake—I wouldn't tell a soul about this.”

  “Caitlyn, please tell me where you're going now! What are you going to do? Please, I'd like to know!” her voice called after me, but I didn't stop to answer. I couldn't begin to fathom Maria's sudden desperation to be included in this. But like so many other details that crossed my path, I didn't spare the time to give it proper attention. Nor did I realize that as the big clock gonged above me, the sound was a foreboding warn.

  Chapter 35

  An hour had passed since then—and here we were. You and I, I mean. This is where the story began. Except, I had finally managed to get off the tracks of ice my car was stuck on, and had made it to Lingonberry Drive, the main road that led to R&D Labs.

  Once I'd left Metropolax, I had hastened over to the Chronicle office. I had to do a bit of research, and the most expedient way to get it done would be to use NODAB—the National Obituary & Death Notice Database—to which the paper had a paid subscription. The database allowed us to search through and cross-reference by keywords or dates death notices published throughout the country. The program, while morbid, was pretty thorough, as it was able to access the desired (depressing) data in a matter of moments, even seconds.

  Searching simply by the name “Xavier” would be absurd, however. Before I began experimenting with the different surnames of everyone who worked at Metropolax, I had a brainstorm. The gold heart necklace I'd found in the supply closet had a dual engraving. One side had read: S, With Love, X. Assuming that meant: Suzie, With Love, Xavier, I considered the other side of the heart charm. Which read: Y2K.

  Originally, I had interpreted it to mean: Yours to Keep. A common abbreviation for a common endearment. But what if this engraving marked not a sentiment, but rather a date? Back in the day, “Y2K” had also been the standard abbreviation for the year 2000.

  With that in mind, I searched through all the obituaries published nationally in the year 2000 that contained the name 'Xavier.' I only found four, but knew when I landed on the correct one: a restaurateur in Chicago named Xavier Media. After printing it, I'd done a little more searching online. Soon, I was locking up the Chronicle, hopping back in my car, and taking what I'd assumed would be the shortest route to R&D.

  Now, as I drove, I became aggravated, first by my frozen fingers on the steering wheel and the puffs of my own breath I could see inside my car. And then by the drying heat that poured from the vents onto my face. I couldn't seem to find my balance, and neither could my car—my tires crunched laboriously over hardened snow, finding only a few smooth spots, which were dangerously slick and glazed with ice.

  Finally I turned onto Laboratory Way, which was the long driveway that led to the R&D complex. The silvery glass building stood tall, and was beautiful in a very simple and clean way. A wide cement staircase spanned its front entrance. From the parking lot, I could see crowds of people inside. Mingling, chatting, laughing, on the other side of the glass.

  I had to find Ian. I had to tell him what I had learned. He would probably be disappointed that I'd gone back into Metropolax after he'd told me not to—but I was hoping that solving the case would make up for that. As I walked quickly across the lot, I spotted a familiar car. With profound awareness—that felt long overdue—I stopped for a moment, looked at it and shook my head. I should have seen this sooner, but I didn't. Now that I knew the truth, though, I could see the significance of the license plate that read: WSX-FAN.

  I flung open the door and entered the party, giving a brief thought to how bedraggled I might look by now. Almost instantly, the coat check guy relieved me of my parka. The atmosphere in the room was joyous, musical. The main floor of the R&D building was a vast open space, usually sterile in appearance, but tonight, vibrant with evergreens dressed in gold and silver, a live orchestra, and graceful waiters in tuxedos passing flutes of Champagne. A lavish, multi-tiered table of hors d'oeuvres curved like an 'S' across the room. As beautiful and appetizing as it all looked, at the moment, I was looking only for my boss. Searching for his face in the crowd.

  In my rush, I nearly collided into Ed Sogard’s frumpy backside. I came to a jolting halt in time to avoid him—and just in time to hear him say: “…wild parties till dawn, from what I hear. Women at all hours, leaving in the morning, by all accounts, it’s a disgrace.”

  My mouth dropped. So he was still spreading that story about Ian? I thought, annoyed. The woman standing across from Ed remarked, “I’m kinda surprised to hear that one, Ed. Considering that Herb Haas is, well, gay.” Questioningly, she looked at her companion. “Isn’t he, Mike?”

  The tall man named Mike nodded in assent. Then he gave Ed a sympathetic clap on the shoulder. “Listen, Ed, I know you’ve had some trouble lately, what with Herb taking over the lease for your store, and then raising the rent on you, but…times are tough for all of us these days.”

  I started to smile, feeling a sense of vindication that was surely misplaced. Still, I couldn’t help feeling happy, relieved. This confirmed what Ian had told me: Ed was just a liar! Clearly, he was attempting to spread the same slanderous claims about Herb Haas—another one of his “enemies”—that he had spread about Ian. Didn’t he know that blatant lies like that in a small town could easily catch up with him, and even cost him money? It sounded like he was in the hole enough already without adding litigation to his stack of debts. I shook my head and kept going. Satisfied that Ed was not only fraudulent, but an idiot as well, I snapped back into focus. Returned to the purpose at hand.

  I pushed through throngs of people, murmuring “excuse me, sorry, excuse me,” as I went and finally, I saw Ian. He was talking to Gary Netland and a guy I didn't know; all three men looked sharp, dressed in jackets and ties, even Gary. As soon as I approached, Gary said, “Caitlyn! You made it. Hey, you look like a million bucks, kid.” Then, quite inappropriately, he said, “Doesn't she, Ian?”

  Graciously, Ian nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Oh, thanks—really?” I said to both of them. Sorry, but I found that hard to believe after the day and night I'd had. “Um, but listen, anyway—”

  “Actually I was gonna get some more munchies before I circulate,” Gary announced, turning in the direction of the buffet table. “Caitlyn, can I get you a glass of Champagne on my travels?”

  “Sur
e, thanks, Gary,” I said, smiling.

  “I think I'll join him,” the third man said. “Good to see you, Ian.”

  “You too, Jim,” Ian replied, as the two men shook hands.

  “And I'll let you know first if that gallery sale goes through.”

  “Sure, keep me posted.”

  “Enjoy your evening,” Jim said, then gave me a chivalrous nod as he passed. “Miss.” Normally I might be nosy and ask who he was and what gallery sale he was talking about, but at the moment I was too preoccupied. (I would later learn about Jim Torgersen, his real estate company, his interest in the Big Clock Art Gallery and how it might pertain to the Chronicle—but I assure you, it really wasn't all that interesting.)

  “Ian, I'm glad we have a minute alone,” I said now, “because I need to talk you.”

  “Is everything all right?” he asked, appearing a bit concerned.

  “Yes, but...here, let me show you this.” I reached inside my purse to pull out the page I'd found hidden in the supply closet and the obituary I had printed, and in doing so, I accidentally knocked my cell phone out. It hit the cold lacquered tile with a clink. “Oh shoot!” I knelt to get it and said, “Here, hold this,” handing Ian my phone.

  He appeared a bit discombobulated, holding my phone, simultaneously unfolding the pages I'd thrust in his hand, now knowing exactly what I was up to now—and regrettably, he didn't get a chance to find out before the whole sordid mess came toppling on our heads.

  “Caitlyn?”

  I turned. Bill Christopher was coming up right behind me. He was standing next to a tall, sultry-looking brunette. She seemed to be gripping his arm, appearing strangely insecure for such an attractive woman. “Hi, Bill,” I said. “Um, this Ian.” I didn't elaborate, because then I'd have to explain that I really worked for the local newspaper. “And, Ian, this is Bill—we went to college together and now he works at the Metropolax Company here in town.” It was intended as a hint to Ian: Bill was in the enemy camp, reveal nothing. (Perhaps it was because his parents were military, but Ian seemed to get the gist.)