The Vaults Page 9

  The enormous bed had a white canopy and thick, white blankets lying disheveled. He walked silently past and held his mirror in the door’s threshold to get a look into the next room. She was on the couch, facing away from him. He couldn’t see a book from his vantage point but assumed that she was still reading. The living room opened into a foyer to his right. He stepped into the living room. Nora was sitting with her back against one of the arms of the couch. Her blond hair was pulled up and he saw the graceful lines of her neck, pink with tiny blond hairs. She had a mole on the back of her neck, and this imperfection thrilled him.

  He walked slowly, taking a step, then stopping for a beat before taking the next. His heart rate was down to under forty beats a minute. His breaths were deep and infrequent. He was silent. His concern was not that she would hear him but that she would sense him. Feral controlled every aspect of his presence that he could, but his body was ninety-eight degrees and it did displace air, and his movements did alter the flow of air in a room. A person could sense these things and he knew he was vulnerable. Yet he did not allow this knowledge to escalate to apprehension. Such was his calm that he paused briefly to steal a glance at what he realized now was a copy of a Vermeer, executed by a mediocre painter. The painting was poor—lacking grace. For a horrible moment he wondered if maybe she had painted it herself. But he dismissed this. It was not possible.

  He came to the foyer now and she had not moved except twice to turn the page. On a mahogany table with legs carved to be lion’s paws sat a gray ceramic bowl with three sets of three keys. Each set was identical, held by identical rings. With his thumb and middle finger he pulled one of the sets slowly from the bowl. The keys converged at the lowest point of the ring with a slight sound, and Feral froze, waiting for Nora’s scream. But there was nothing. Once the keys were clear of the bowl, he carefully cupped them in his left hand and turned back to the living room.

  Nora put her book down, and Feral flattened himself against the far wall, out of her line of vision. She swung her legs off the couch, stood up, and stretched, her hands reaching for the ceiling. Feral watched, transfixed, at the intimacy of the moment. He became aware that he had prepared himself for the likelihood that up close she would not live up to the image of perfection that she projected onstage. This had turned out to be wholly wrong. The only thing imperfect about her was the mole on her neck; like the imperfection that the ancient Greeks would leave in their crafts so as not to offend the gods.

  She walked around the couch and to her left, out of sight. The kitchen, he assumed. This time he moved quickly, but no less silently. He crossed the room in six long strides and was at the window. He unlocked it with his thumb. From the kitchen he heard the sound of ice dropping into a glass. He slowly pushed the window up. It moved smoothly, as if it was often opened. He stepped through and pulled it back down again, then flattened out on his back with the mirror in the air. Within seconds she had reentered the room carrying a tall glass of what looked to be whiskey on the rocks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Red Henry did not need to know the language to sense that the Poles were coming around. There were smiles now, and an atmosphere of fraternity. Anticipating an agreement, he had arranged for a contract-signing celebration in three days’ time. He hated the events that always seemed to go along with these deals, but the foreigners loved them. It seemed to fulfill some idea they had about America, and if it helped at all, Henry was willing to grit his teeth and indulge them.

  They were touring one of Block’s factories. This one made stoves. They walked up and down aisles of assembly-line laborers, the Poles chatting with the interpreter and Henry smiling when it seemed appropriate but otherwise keeping to himself. His secretary, Peja, trailed behind, talking in hushed tones to some bureaucrat whose name Henry could not remember but whose breath was rancid with garlic. Every once in a while, for reasons that Henry could not glean, the Poles would want to stop and inspect some aspect of the stove assembly. They would murmur among themselves, and Henry would look to the translator without interest, and the translator would shrug as if to indicate that the conversation was not one Henry should worry about.

  What Henry did worry about was the strike at Bernal’s plant. He had debated in his mind the wisdom of bringing the Poles over to watch his police break it. He assumed that businessmen would appreciate a government that enforced their interests when necessary. But you could never tell with these goddamn Europeans. They could share your values but not your methods, or your methods but not your values, or both or neither. And who knew how things came across in translation? There was something indefinable about the translator Henry disliked, which was possibly a good sign, because Henry was generally sure about what, exactly, he didn’t like about a person. Still, there was just no way of knowing how good he was. How tactful.

  So they were at Block’s. About as far away from Bernal’s as he could get without looking as if he was trying to shield them from the strike. A thought came to him about how to pitch the strike to the press, and he turned to tell Peja, only to find, to his intense annoyance, that Peja was no longer there.

  It was remarkable, he thought, how clean the cavernous factory was, yet, how dirty the workers. How could that be? One of the Poles, a squat man with a mustache that hung below his jawline, was looking at Henry expectantly. Henry turned to the translator.

  “He wants to know if Block stoves are the best you can get in America.”

  Henry smiled through the idiocy of the question and, looking at the Pole, told the translator, “Tell him that the quality of American stoves is such that people debate which is the best. For myself, I prefer Block.”

  Henry listened to the translator spew a rush of Polish and, hearing the one word he expected to understand—“Block”—returned to his thoughts.

  “Mayor?” It was Peja.

  “What? Is the strike broken?”

  “The strike? It, uh, it may be. But this is something different. Polly called on the special line.”

  Henry felt his stomach clench.

  “She left a message. She said another gink came by today, asking about the Prosnickis. Specifically Casper Prosnicki, she said.”

  “Jesus Christ. Who the hell was it?”

  “She said his name was Poole.”

  “Christ, Christ, Christ. Did you get in touch with Feral?” Henry’s volume was rising.

  “We’re looking for him.”

  “Get me Smith.”

  “Smith’s with the Anti-Subversion Unit out at Bernal’s.”

  Enunciating each syllable carefully and distinctly, Henry said, “Get me goddamn Smith now.”

  Peja scurried away, leaving Henry to face the Poles, who were watching him with interest. He tried to smile benignly, but clearly the Poles weren’t buying it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The wind rarely came out of the northeast, but when it did, it sometimes bore the ash spewed from the plants across the river. On days when the atmospheric conditions were right, the ash would fall on the northeast corner of the City like gray and black snow. As they drove in the squad car to the headquarters of Bernal’s Capitol Industries, Frings noticed the soot, initially falling lightly, but increasing in intensity as they progressed farther into the Hollows. It looked like a photographic negative image of a snowstorm, the snow darker than the ground it fell on. Was this odd because he was high or was it actually as strange as it seemed? The policemen did not seem to take much notice.

  They parked at the end of the block, and Frings saw the chaos that the strike had become. The police seemed to be outnumbered nearly two to one by the picketers. In some parts of the block, in open fighting, picketers were swinging sticks that had held their ragged signs as the ASU retaliated with billy clubs. The gray-suited ASU were getting the better of it, and a couple of dozen of the strikers lay or knelt, stunned and bleeding. In other spots, picketers were lined up with their hands against the wall and their backs to the cops, who were systematicall
y cuffing them and making them sit. All the while, ash fell, covering the sidewalks, cars, and the people themselves. Blood revealed itself as darker patches of ash on people’s faces and the sidewalks beneath them. Frings, who lacked firsthand knowledge, imagined it looked like some wretched battlefield on the Western Front. Somme in the City.

  He glanced at Reynolds, who seemed hesitant to enter the mêlée. “This seems a little extreme,” Frings said.

  “The ASU is that way,” Reynolds said, motioning two uniforms toward the line of strikers waiting to be cuffed. Frings stood and watched for what seemed like several minutes, getting the description for the paper clear in his head. The ash was making breathing difficult.

  Capitol Industries’ headquarters was a nondescript six stories of concrete and brick. Frings could see the silhouettes of onlookers in the windows of the top floors. Bernal would be among them. That was where his scoop would be found. Not out here where the Gazette doubtless had another reporter, not to mention the News and the Herald.

  He moved toward the front door, holding his press pass in front of him like a white flag. Little pockets of order were carved into the chaos where the ASU had strikers in cuffs or lying facedown on the ground. It was, in his intoxication, slightly unreal to Frings, and even a stray elbow that caught him in the mouth was not enough to jar him from his sense of wonder—like a child’s in a fun house.

  The front door was manned by two men in ASU uniforms, standing stiffly, their hands resting on their holstered pistols.

  “Frings. With the Gazette.” He held his pass in the taller guard’s face. The guard looked across Frings to his partner, who shrugged.

  “All right,” he said, and stepped aside to let Frings in. Frings went through the doors, then down two steps to the lobby, which was appointed with chrome and mirrors and a green-tiled floor. Beyond the empty reception desk was a bank of elevators. Only one operator was at his post. Frings guessed that employees had been removed from the lobby so they were not a temptation for the picketers.

  “I have a meeting with Mr. Bernal.”

  The operator gave him a fatigued look and pulled back the gate and then the elevator door. Bernal’s office was on the top floor, and the operator did not make small talk during the brief ride.

  Off the elevator now, Frings faced a floor of empty oak desks that showed signs of recent use—stacks of papers, coffee mugs, telephones. Then he heard voices and followed the sound to find the office’s occupants at the windows watching the fracas below. He recognized Bernal from pictures—fat and dark, with a thin, meticulous mustache over a small, weak mouth. Bernal was talking to a graying woman in hushed, yet intense tones. Other people at the windows strained to listen while keeping their eyes focused on the activity outside.

  Frings ambled over to Bernal, getting close enough that Bernal looked up. “Yes?” Malice wasn’t in his voice as much as annoyance. Frings understood, given the circumstances.

  “Mr. Bernal, my name is Frings. I’m with the Gazette.”

  Bernal colored momentarily, his mouth gaping to reveal little, yellowed teeth. And as quickly, the expression was gone.

  “Mr. Bernal, I won’t take much of your time. I just wanted to get your comments about the strike and today’s police action.”

  Bernal was wary. “Yes. Of course. Why don’t you come to my office and we can talk.”

  The woman was now staring out the window with the others, and Bernal led Frings to a corner office, encased in glass. When they were safely inside and seated, Bernal said, still smiling, “What are you doing here?”

  This caught Frings a little off guard since it seemed the answer was obvious. This brief pause seemed to unnerve Bernal for some reason, and he kept talking. “You’re here about the strike today, correct? The strike?” His expression was relaxed, even pleasant, but Frings would see sweat beading on his brow and glistening in his mustache.

  “Yes, Mr. Bernal, the strike.” Frings wondered why Bernal needed to clarify Frings’s intent. Was there another story here, somewhere? “This is big news. Every paper will be covering it. I came up here to see if you wanted to give a statement. Pretty standard practice.”

  Frings saw the tension leave Bernal’s posture, and it sent up flares inside him. Bernal started in on a statement about his company’s policies regarding the resolution of strikes. Frings dutifully took notes, his mind working on the puzzle of Bernal’s strange behavior. It was almost as if Bernal had been expecting a different . . . And then it made sense.

  He interrupted Bernal midsentence. “You rang me the other day. We have a meeting—”

  “Good Christ,” said Bernal, coloring again.

  “This is balled up.”

  Bernal nodded, running the fingers of his right hand back through his hair. He was keeping his face calm, but his eyes were wild.

  “Listen,” Frings said, “we just go through with the interview. Then we forget the other part that just happened.”

  “We don’t meet tomorrow.”

  “Of course we do. Jesus. I interview people all the time. No way they trace anything back to this meeting.”

  “But . . . ,” Bernal sputtered. It was hard to keep a smile while panicking.

  “But nothing. Look, in a strange way this might actually work in our favor. Nobody’d ever think that I would be such a sap as to visit you in public if you were grassing. Might actually be the perfect cover.”

  Bernal considered this unhappily. “Okay. I see there is a point to what you say.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Poole and Carla stood in the shadows of an alley looking out on the chaos of the same street that Frings and Bernal watched from above. A layer of gray ash collected on Poole’s hat and the shoulders of his coat. Carla wore a scarf around her head and another covering her nose and mouth to filter the air. Poole had come here after his interview with Polly, expecting to have a quick lunch with Carla. Instead he had found her staying out of sight, watching as the strike she had organized was crushed by the police. They were both aware that the police here were mostly from the ASU and that the ASU took their orders from the mayor rather than the Chief. This, however, made matters worse if anything. The mayor was taking a personal interest.

  “I can’t leave,” Carla said.

  Poole could see only her eyes, but that was enough to tell him that she wouldn’t be convinced otherwise.

  “You have to. They’re going to round your people up and toss them in jail. Someone needs to be outside, to get them out.”

  She understood the logic, but Poole could tell that she was reluctant to abandon her people. They had talked about this before, about her willingness to put herself in harm’s way for the unions. “You have to have something you are willing to go over the top of a trench for.” She had that something. Poole wasn’t sure that he did.

  “Don’t be stubborn. They need you to be smart.”

  Two officers appeared at the mouth of the alley.

  Shit. “Go,” Poole whispered, and gave her a gentle push toward the opposite end of the alley. She ran, nimble, a good athlete. Poole stepped out to detain the officers, but they were not interested in Carla.

  “Ethan Poole?” The officers had their sticks out. Poole nodded slightly, his eyes on their hands.

  “Come with us, Mr. Poole. They want to talk to you at the precinct.”

  Poole felt his pulse quicken with panic. How dim could he be coming right to Bernal’s front door? He had no doubts about what would happen to him at the precinct. He raised his hands to shoulder height, showing his palms in acquiescence. The smaller of the two officers looked down at his belt, reaching for his handcuffs. With a boxer’s quickness, Poole snapped a punch, shattering the other cop’s nose. As the bleeding cop fell to his knees, his partner flicked his wrist, bringing the nightstick hard into Poole’s side, cracking a rib. Poole pulled his left arm close to his body to cover the point of pain and grabbed the front of the officer’s shirt with his right, pulling him forward and do
wn to the ground. He kicked hard at the cop’s stomach and heard him groan. Then Poole felt a sharp pain in his spine as the cop with the broken nose cracked him in the back with his stick. He felt consciousness ebb momentarily. Turning, he moved closer to Broken Nose to cut off his swinging radius and caught a forearm in the mouth. Tasting blood, he leaned back, then brought his forehead hard into the officer’s damaged nose. The cop crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Poole turned now to the other cop, who was on his hands and knees. Poole reached down and grabbed the back of his shirt, then felt a sharp pain at the back of his head.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Leather chairs and desks were scattered at five points in the Vaults. Puskis always sat at the desk facing the elevators, using it as a barrier between the files and anyone entering the Vaults. Not that anyone ever came down except for the courier from Headquarters, and he—or they, since there had been several of them during Puskis’s tenure—never proceeded beyond the desk, where the files were dropped off and picked up.

  The other four desks were placed in locations in the Vaults that, presumably, someone had thought would be convenient for some reason. One was more or less in the middle of the C section, where files on most homicides were kept. Another was in the Stable. The third was in the A section, where files on open investigations were kept. The final desk was in Q section, that eclectic mix of financial crimes, arson, and election fraud. Q section was the farthest from the elevators, probably the reason for the desk’s placement there.

  None of these chairs had, as far as Puskis knew (and nobody would have a better sense than he), ever been sat in. He had never used one, and his predecessor, Abramowitz, had claimed to have never used one. That accounted for four decades or so of the chairs sitting empty. Yet the cleaning crew was just as diligent about keeping the chairs and virgin desks spotless as they were the files, so they looked as if they could have been purchased yesterday.