“The investigation is ongoing.”
I slid the photo back across the table. “You know us humans, we tend to have faulty memories.”
Caledvwlch shook his head. “I know humans, Mr. Maxwell. I know you. What did Mr. Parthalán discuss with you?”
I sipped my coffee. I have two personality traits that, in most professions, would be self-destructive. The first was a cultivated paranoia that, in my more self-aware moments, I told myself was a natural journalist’s instinct not to take people’s motivations at face value.
The second was, whenever anyone attempted to pressure me to do anything, I tended to behave in the exact contrary manner.
“You know me,” I said. “And I’m under no obligation to continue this conversation with you.”
“I cannot detail our investigation—”
“No, but you can give me enough facts about the case to satisfy my curiosity.”
Caledvwlch retrieved his photograph and replaced it in his pocket. “There are very few facts. Mr. Parthalán died two hours ago. He was killed in rooms above a tourist bar, the
Nazgûl
, on the West Side of the Flats. Authorities there for an unrelated matter became aware of a disturbance and broke into the room Mr. Parthalán had locked himself inside. He was dead when they found him. In the room was the phone he had used to call you.”
“Locked from inside?”
“Yes.”
“Was any sort of ritual involved?”
“Dwarves do not use magic,” Caledvwlch said. “They cannot manipulate mana, and are largely immune to its effects.”
“That’s not quite an answer to my question.”
Caledvwlch stared at me. “You have not answered mine. Do you wish to, or shall I leave you now?”
Despite my contrary streak, I saw no good reason to obstruct a police investigation. “He said that his life was in danger, and he wanted to talk to me about Mazurich.”
Very, very slightly, an eyebrow arched on the elf’s face. Given their almost pathological reserve, I counted that as the equivalent to a human expression of stunned disbelief. Nothing altered in the timbre of his voice, so I might have imagined it. “Council President Mazurich?”
I nodded. “One of the hundreds of conspiracy theorists out there. He said he knew something about his death but couldn’t talk about it on the phone. That’s pretty much it.”
Caledvwlch nodded and stood. “Thank you, Mr. Maxwell. I will contact you if we need to discuss this further.”
He turned to go, and I asked again, “
Was
there a ritual involved?”
“Perhaps we will talk later,” Caledvwlch walked away without looking back at me.
I sipped my coffee.
One of the hundreds of conspiracy theorists . . .
True.
But the only one I knew of who had been murdered.
I drove home thinking of the late Councilman Mazurich, and about dwarves.
Mazurich was union to the core, the kind of traditional working-class Democrat that didn’t even have to ask the locals for support. It just sort of happened. So it made sense that dwarves had an interest in him.
Dwarves were labor personified. One of the dwarf clans in Cleveland was responsible for most of the construction that Gregory Washington had been complaining about. The dwarves at the local Ford plant were, to my understanding, the most productive workers on the North American continent. During the exodus of skilled labor in the chaotic years following the Portal’s opening, dwarves had slid into dozens of niches in the economy, from plumbing to civil engineering.
And, while a lot of dwarven individuals were part of the Teamsters, or the UAW, and so on, the dwarven clan system was more powerful than any union. You cross a dwarf, you’ll not only lose your dwarven employees, but your clients will lose theirs. And their dwarven customers. Down to dwarven contractors abandoning construction sites if the owner was too cozy with someone on their shit list.
I was certain that dwarves would have a political affinity with Mazurich. A lot more so than with the opposite pole of Cleveland politics, Mayor Rayburn.
Rayburn was, according to his critics, autocratic, authoritarian, elitist. . . . A top-down type of politician whose view of the world was more in sync with elves and dragons.
Mazurich, to the same people, was populist, egalitarian, a small ”d” democrat . . . a man whose grass-roots politics would certainly be more in tune with the dwarven clans.
I sighed to myself. I was a political reporter, but the politics I reported on were almost universally human. It was inevitable, I suppose, a white journalist in the Deep South during the days of Jim Crow wasn’t going to be very good at discerning the internal politics of the civil rights movement. I was in the same position, trying to understand a culture—a series of cultures—I wasn’t a part of.
However, when I parked behind my condo, I had enough professional sense to realize that all my speculation up to that point was just that. Speculation. Nonhuman politics happened behind closed doors, out of view of the media.
I stepped out of my Volkswagen, raised my collar against the snow, and walked around my building to the front entrance.
Willie Czestzyk—the doorman for my building who looked at least as old as it was—let me in to my condo.
“Long day, Mr. Maxwell?”
“Longer than some, shorter than others.”
“What’s the news?” he asked, like always.
“Old politicians never die, they just become the focus of conspiracy theories.” I shook my head and walked into the lobby. I didn’t like that I was still thinking about the dead dwarf. Ever since my divorce I had made an effort to leave my job at the office—as if I was still trying to fix my marriage.
The sad thing was that I did a pretty good job at it once my marriage wasn’t on the line.
So, trying to think happy thoughts about my daughter’s coming visit this weekend, I gathered my mail and took the elevator up to my condo. I noticed a new set of charms riveted to the doors as they slid open. Building management must be upgrading security again.
My condo lived on the third floor of a line of buildings built in the nineteen-thirties. Originally intended as apartments for professionals commuting via the brand new light-rail line downtown, it sat just on the suburban side of Shaker Square. My place was one of the lesser residences, some of the suites here ran larger than some good-sized houses, with an inflated mortgage to match.
I had one of the more reasonable condos, four rooms if you counted the bathroom, five if you designated the living/dining room space as two separate areas.
I let myself in and collapsed on the couch that dominated half of the living room area, and scattered my mail on the coffee table. Bills mostly.
I checked my watch and saw that it was still before five on the West Coast. My daughter usually didn’t call until after she ate dinner, so I picked up the remote, intent on watching something brainless on my new fifty-inch Panasonic LCD flat-screen. I powered it on and waited while the electronics between it and the satellite dish established a reliable digital connection and filtered enough of an incoming signal through the Portal interference.
While I waited, I saw that one of the envelopes I had brought up wasn’t a bill.
I set down the remote and picked up the envelope. It was an odd size, and a little lumpy. My address was written across the front in an elaborate cursive hand. The postmark was local, a post office downtown, dated yesterday. Two fifty-cent Ronald Reagan stamps. No return address.
The television was flashing a “signal error” message at me. I shut it off.
Okay, are we paranoid yet?
Holding the corners of the envelope, I walked to the kitchen with it. I set it down in the basin of the sink and pondered what to do with it.
Unfortunately, I work in a profession that is a lot more likely to receive dangerous things in the mail than most.
I went into the bedroom, grabbed a table lamp, stripped off the shade, and carried it into the kitchen. I plugged it in and turned the thing on.
Then, feeling like an idiot, I grabbed a pair of tongs and picked the letter up by the corner and held it up between me and the incandescent bulb. I stared at it, lit from behind.
The good news: no wires, no electronics. It contained a folded piece of paper with some writing on it in the same hand as the envelope. The lumpy bit was something else, rectangular, about the size of the two stamps on the envelope. There seemed to be some transparency to it. When I tilted the letter, it stayed in the same place, as if it was taped there.
There didn’t seem to be signs of anything loose inside the envelope.
I set it down on the counter.
“So?” I asked it. “Are you safe or not?”
The fact was my self-destructive curiosity was getting the better of me. I figured I was safe from most hostile magic, I certainly paid enough for the wards in this building, a nasty enchantment shouldn’t have made it through the front doors. Mundanely, there didn’t seem to be any surprises inside this letter.
Even so, I got a pair of latex gloves out from under the sink and dug out the sharpest paring knife I could find. With the envelope flat on the table, I very carefully slit open one side of the letter. Then I backed up and spread the opening with the end of my tongs.
Just a folded letter with something taped to it.
Figuring I was safe, I drew the letter out of the envelope. Still wearing the gloves, I opened it and laid it flat on the table.
What the hell?
The letter was a single line long:
“This is why he killed himself.”
Somehow, I had a pretty good idea who “he” was.
The object taped to the letter was a small ziplock bag that contained a few grams of some granular white substance. I looked at it and shook my head.
“What were you into, Mazurich?”
CHAPTER THREE
T
HE letter stayed on the counter, slipped back into its envelope, and the envelope, in turn, isolated in the biggest ziplock bag I could find. I figured that there was a good chance it was evidence of something, and I didn’t want too much contam ination from myself or from my apartment on the thing.
Not that I was about to turn it over to the cops.
Not yet, anyway.
What I did do was grab a beer from the fridge and settle down in front of my TV. I turned it on and it was still having signal difficulties.
“Damn it.”
One would think that with a dozen years working on the signal problems in this city, they could come up with a reliable television. I had paid almost double the national standard to get a TV and satellite hookup that had the custom electronics to work within the Portal’s influence—and the damn thing couldn’t lock on a signal.
I leaned back and sighed.
I couldn’t bitch too much. The Portal’s influence on data transmission was why I had a job in the first place. The interference, the inability to transmit or receive video without special equipment, was why there were no local broadcast or cable TV stations around the Portal. That meant no local TV news. That meant the revival of print journalism to the tune of five local dailies in the Greater Cleveland area along with hundreds of regional weeklies.
TV in northeast Ohio was an elitist luxury.
It was still annoying.
I shut it off again and walked over to the windows. I looked out at the purple sky where a swollen yellow moon competed with the streetlight glare off of Shaker Square. Signal blackouts usually happened because of weather conditions, storms, thick cloud cover . . .
The sky was perfectly clear.
The phone rang.
I walked over and picked up the phone, “Maxwell.”
“Dad?”
“Hey there,” I said, staring up into the cloudless night sky. I effortlessly forgot Mazurich, dwarves, and political conspiracies as I slid into Father mode. Something I’ve gotten a lot better at in the years since me and Margaret split. “All ready for this weekend?”
“More than ready.” I could pick up the exasperation in her voice all the way from California.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“What particular nothing is it this time?”
“Oh, you know, Mom.”
She wasn’t a little girl any more, but I could hear the child-like frustration in her voice—probably half calculated to catch my sympathy. A long veteran of long-distance parenting, I asked, “So, why are you upset with your mother?”
“She can’t stop it with telling me what to do. I’m seventeen, Dad. I’m not a kid who needs to be told how to cross the street.”
“She just worries about you.”