ARC: The Buried Life (18 page)

Chapter
12

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. “My contract says differently.”

“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 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.”

“Inspector, you haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re getting yourself into. The truth is, neither do I.” He continued before she could interrupt. “Besides, there’s only one person I trust, and I’m sure you can guess who that is.” He tapped his chest.

“I can’t protect you from your own paranoia, Arnault.”

“You saw Hollens just before he died, Inspector. Tell me, did he give you what you wanted?” Malone’s face darkened and creased. “Oh, I seem to have touched a soft spot.”

“For a man afraid for his life, you have a dark sense of humor.”

“You Municipals are so much like the criminals you pursue: deceptive, manipulative, and heedless of any authority outside your own.” Arnault watched as Malone stood in silence, biting her tongue. He smiled, and his bright eyes gleamed in his blanched face. “When was the last time you broke into a suspect’s home? Stole evidence? Forged an identity? Browbeat a witness?”

White teeth flashed from behind Malone’s drawn lips. “We’ve never been elegant, but we have limits. That’s what makes us different from the lawbreakers… and from you.”

Arnault barked with mirth, wincing as his sides heaved. “No, it’s your self-righteousness. You’re so certain that you know what’s wrong and how to fix it. You’re ignorant and headstrong, and one of these days, you’re going to get someone killed. I just hope that it’s you.”

“Easy for you to criticize when the only one you have to look out for is yourself.”

Roman settled back into the bed, allowing his eyelids to droop as he prepared to return to sleep. “How are you always so sure of everything, Malone?”

Malone stood back from the bed. “You’ve been as helpful as ever.” The nurses looked on wordlessly as Malone stalked out of the ward, her face set in an impassive mask.

At the station, she did not have to wait long for Sundar, which didn’t bode well for his end of the investigation.

“The place was already swarming with the City Guard and the Council’s ‘official’ investigators. They were checking papers at the door, and as you can guess, I didn’t have an invite. I certainly hope you had better luck,” he said.

“In a way.” Malone flicked her head in the direction of her office, and they walked through the station in silence, their eyes fixed to the ground and their minds on their respective defeats. After reaching sanctuary, Malone gave him the rundown on her exchange with Arnault. “He’s afraid, but he’s determined not to cooperate,” she said, resting her head on her hand. “If he were anyone else, and if this were any other contract, we could force more cooperation out of him.”

“Through the Council, you mean.”

“Right.” She signed. “I don’t know what to make of him anymore.”

“Target practice would be one thing.”

Malone looked up. “Be careful where you say that.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought the same thing.”

She smiled.

Sundar sighed and clasped his hands, resting on elbows. “What now?”

“Now, we see what Edmund Wickery can tell us, whether on paper or in person.”

#

As promised, Olivia prepared dinner that evening. Jane sat by the warm fireside, mending a pair of trousers. She could not forget Fredrick’s comment from the other night, and despite years of friendship, she still never knew when to take him seriously. Sharing a walk earlier in the day, she had tried to pry the candor out of him.

“You know, just because she’s gorgeous and uninterested in you doesn’t make her a… um…”

“A prostitute?”

“Yes.”

“Of course not. It’s the schedule she keeps and her way with people.” Furrowing her brow, Jane nearly tripped over a flagstone. “Do you know anyone else who makes ‘house calls’ after ten at night? It’s obviously a euphemism,” he said, his tone airy yet authoritative.

“I’ll admit that’s odd, but what do you mean about ‘her way with people’?”

“Did you notice that she rarely talks about herself?”

Wheeling her laundry cart around traffic, Jane considered the question. “Maybe she’s shy.”

“She dodged all the questions we asked about her, but she asked plenty about us – our work, our day, our opinions. And she found it all fascinating. What does that tell you?”

“That she’s a nice person.”

“Wrong. She knows how to make people feel good. Her trade isn’t just about providing clients with physical pleasure. It’s about holistic satisfaction.”

Jane frowned, watching the clothes shift and bounce on the cart in front of her. “You make it sound like an art form.”

“Ah, Jane, don’t be such a prude. She pays the rent early and keeps you company. What do you have to worry about? After all, she brought her own bedding.”

Now, sitting in front of the fire, Jane pushed the memory from her mind. It was still early, but she was looking forward to a quiet evening at home, her deliveries for the day already done. Savoring the smell of simmering herbs and the heat of dancing flames, Jane set the needle and pants beside her and flexed her fingers, rolling her wrists from side to side. The turn of a key at the door and subsequent rumbling of the bar interrupted her peace. “Hold on,” she called. Checking the window, she saw Fredrick and hastened to let him in.

“Hi,” she began. He pressed a newspaper into her hands with an impenetrable expression. As she unfolded it, he moved to sit on the couch.

“Be careful, there’s a–” she began.

Fredrick leapt up, muttering an expletive and feeling his backside. He produced the needle between thumb and forefinger, but his gaze faltered as he looked back at Jane. Returning to the paper, she opened it to the first page and a headline that stopped her breath: “PROMINENT SOCIALITE FOUND HALF-DEAD IN HOME OUTSIDE THE VINEYARD.” Beneath it was a picture of a scowling Roman Arnault.

“I don’t know if that’s a good description of the man, but I certainly can’t think of anything else that’s printable,” Fredrick said from the couch. Jane continued reading a lurid description of Roman’s bloodstained doorway on Carnegie and his dramatic entrance to the hospital. The author had seasoned the account with graphic statements from the nursing team about Roman’s injuries and treatment, each stitch like a gory exclamation point on the page.

“If it’s any comfort, I think the article exaggerates his condition,” Fredrick said more softly, seeing Jane’s pallor. “I’m fairly certain that he was only at the hospital a brief while this morning, and I happen to know that the reporter who wrote that article has a knack for embellishment.” Olivia had paused in her cooking for a moment, and the apartment was silent but for the crackle of the fire and the bubbling of pots.

“I do not understand. What has happened?” Olivia asked.

Fredrick saw Jane’s eyes still glued to the page and answered, keeping his recounting brief and free of detail. “It’s not serious,” he added, watching both women.

“Not serious?” Now it was Olivia’s turn for surprise, not only at the news, but also at Fredrick’s seeming nonchalance. “How can you say it is not serious if someone is in the hospital?”

“Was in the hospital,” he said. “And I say it by considering the totality of the circumstances. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that he’s terribly lucky. Three men have died, and he’s managed to get away with a bruise and a scrape.”

Olivia reddened, shaking an accusing spoon at Fredrick. “Yes, we’d see if you call it ‘a bruise and a scrape’ if you were the one–”

Fredrick held up two placating hands. “It could be much worse.”

“Much worse! How can you–”

“Because he survived,” Fredrick continued, gathering steam. “He’s younger and in better shape than the other victims. It seems our murderer was overconfident after preying on graying bureaucrats.”

Olivia threw up her hands and returned to the pots.

Fredrick sighed and ruffled his hair, looking down into the fire. “And it would appear that I was, er, mistaken in my earlier accusations. He’s still an odd trick, but I didn’t see this happening. So I’ll say it once and let it rest: I was wrong. How’s that, Jane?” He looked over his shoulder, expecting a response, but she was gone. The door hung ajar and the discarded newspaper marked the spot where she had stood only moments ago.