The CleanSweep Conspiracy (21 page)

CHAPTER 25

Two Names

M
att’s life turned another dangerous corner when he met Carling near the foot of the arches at Nathan Phillips Square. “Make sure you’re on the east side of the square,” Carling had insisted in his earlier call to Matt.

The detective’s foul mood was unmistakable as Matt approached, pulling his hood over his head. Carling held his fedora in his right hand and used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his brow.

“Not having a good day?”

“How about a bad day, week, and month?” Carling snarled.

“CleanSweep?”

“What else?”

Carling spotted an empty bench and pointed. There wasn’t any shade, and the temperature was nudging toward the eighty
-
degree mark, hot for that time of the year.

The seasoned detective knew something about tailing suspects. Now he wondered out loud who might be tailing him, and he remained standing, casually sweeping his gaze around in a three
-
hundred
-
and
-
sixty
-
degree arc to see if they were under surveillance.

When they were seated, he said, “I have no idea if anyone is following us right now or not. I’m good, but these guys are also well trained. I’m not sure I would spot their tail.”

Finally, sitting next to Matt, he leaned over slightly. “It’s odd. Did you know that
surveillance
wasn’t even a word until Edgar Allan Poe invented it?” Carling looked and sounded unsettled. “I don’t have much time, and I have no idea why I just told you that about Poe. It has to be my nerves. I should know better; acting nervous that often gives my suspects away. See that takeout container?”

It was sitting on a railing as if someone had left it there, abandoned. It made Matt realize how litter
-
free the city was now.
Why haven’t I noticed that before, the absence of litter?
he thought.
That’s all new.

“You will find a bagel and a diet cola in that container,” Carling whispered before he stood up abruptly and starting walking south, toward the street. He looked back at Matt and gave a brief nod before boarding a streetcar. His sad look spoke more loudly than words. It was like he carried a heavy weight on his shoulders.

Matt turned back to see a young woman in a uniform nearby. She had spotted the paper bag and was moved quickly toward it. It was clearly her duty to make sure there was no trash left behind by some rude person. Matt hurried; he needed to get to the container first. He stepped to the railing and picked up the bucket before she could get to it. He looked at her with a “How could someone leave this here?” look. She smiled and waved her approval at his good citizenship, then turned to direct her inspection to some other part of the square.

Matt settled his breathing and hoped nobody had noticed his odd behavior as he walked to the nearest trash container. Picking out the bagel first, he inspected it and saw nothing unusual about it. He dropped it in the garbage bin. Next, he pulled the takeout cup from the bag. It felt light; in fact, it was empty. He took care while opening the lid and peered into the container. He was about to toss both into the trash receptacle when he looked at the lid in his right hand. A note was taped to its underside.

“So that’s where he put it.” Matt gave his best acting performance as a man casting a casual glance around, then slipped the lid into his jeans pocket and tossed the cup away.

Exiting the square, he took a meandering walk before catching the streetcar heading east. Anyone following him might think he was out and about for an afternoon stroll.

Fat chance.

An hour later, he was sitting in his favored overstuffed chair at Java Jivery. He needed a caffeine fix, and he watched Connie behind the counter. She was getting ready for the late
-
afternoon crowd by making sandwiches of some kind. Her back was to Matt, and he could hear her humming as she worked. Her arms and shoulders moved in a steady cadence: bread, meat, lettuce, mayo, bread, meat, lettuce, mayo, bread, meat, lettuce, mayo.

Unfolding Carling’s note, Matt began reading:

Here are two names you need to check out. They should help you with your investigation. I met Mattie Reynolds when I was a beat cop. She must be in her late sixties now. She might not seem or act like the sharpest knife in the drawer, but don’t let that fool you. She’s a survivor and wise to the street.

Clifford Horne is a guy I ran into during a homicide investigation. He turned out to be a good witness. He’s a stand-up guy and tough as nails, but you’d never guess by looking at him.

Both have gone to ground. If they agree to meet you and tell you their stories, it’ll go a long way toward explaining why they are in hiding. They have both escaped the clutches of CleanSweep.

If you decide to talk to them, you will have to go through a network of gatekeepers. They will vet you and let you pass—or they won’t. It’s up to them. They won’t trust you. Hell, they don’t trust
me
all that much, but these are people who know I have helped them in the past.

I never did think we should treat marginalized people as criminals.
Criminal
is a word that should be reserved for the bad guys. People like Mattie and Clifford aren’t bad, just overwhelmed.
Criminal
is a word we should reserve for someone like Claussen.

I’ve passed along word that you’re a stand-up guy, on the right side of the story. Like I said, though, whatever they decide is up to them.

Go into the coffee shop chain that uses the distinctive red-and-white sign. They have a store at the corner on Sherbourne Street, south of Bloor. Be there at nine tonight. I know it sounds stupid, but order a blueberry fritter. Then order an extra-large, double-double coffee. The people you need to meet don’t know what you look like, but when they hear your order they will recognize it as a signal from me. That’s as much as I can do to vouch for you.

If they decide you’re a go, a man called Stinky will sit down at your table. You won’t have to wonder how he got that name. If you pass his test, he will be your conductor. If not, enjoy your fritter and coffee and go home.

KBO, Carling

There it is again,
Matt thought.
What the hell does KBO mean?

Following Carling’s earlier instructions, Matt tore the note to pieces and hoped Connie wouldn’t notice or look up from making sandwiches to see him walking around and distributing random pieces of it in several wastebaskets.

“Bye, Connie!” Matt shouted as he walked to the door.

“See ya, Matt,” Connie said over her shoulder. “When’s this smoke going to clear?”

He contacted Cyberia, who said his apartment was still safe.

Back there, Matt sat in darkness. Time seemed to pass in slow motion. He stared at the clock. The digital readout flashed 7:17 p.m. Only three minutes had passed since he’d last checked the last time. He had figured out when he needed to leave. It wouldn’t take long to get to the coffee shop. He visualized his route to pass the time.

What am I setting myself up for?
he wondered.
Trust seems like a rare commodity these days.

He needed something to calm his nerves, so went to the kitchenette to pour a glass of single malt. The scotch left a happy trail down his throat when he swallowed, and it reminded him of the drink he’d shared with Tanner. The whiskey did little to calm him; nothing would, he realized. He took his drink back to the living room and picked up the TV remote. He didn’t turn it on, though. He just stared at the blank screen, wondering if he had nerve enough to keep going on.

A noisy crash
-
bang shattered the silence, and he almost dropped the glass. Liquid splashing over its rim. He heard shouts from the street and tiptoed to the window. A car had turned into the side street, and Matt saw that it had smashed against a parking meter. It was only a minor car accident, but he couldn’t steady his hand enough to finish the drink.

He looked at the clock again. It still wasn’t even eight. He began to pace
—
thirty more minutes to wait.

A phone rang in the next apartment. A door opened and closed in another. They were typical apartment
-
living sounds, but he couldn’t get them out of his head. He walked into the bathroom to splash water on his face. It didn’t help.

He was back to watching the numbers on the clock change when he heard the sound of a siren. It almost tipped his emotional scale into the red. CleanSweep vehicles used a distinctive European
-
type siren that growled from high pitched to low. He heard that warble in the distance. He realized it probably wasn’t heading in his direction, but it was a bad sound, a sound he couldn’t erase from his thoughts. The siren faded, and quiet returned. It was finally time to go
—
afraid or not.

He hadn’t been standing at the trolley stop long before he heard the familiar clanging bell signaling the approach of the next streetcar. It was dusk, and the dimming light was coming under attack by storm clouds forming in the west. A strong gust of wind whipped his shirt collar as he stepped in. The operator glanced at Matt’s monthly pass and nodded him to the rear. Just like before, the driver took no notice of Matt.

As the car approached Sherbourne Street, the first hint of rain came in fits and starts. Matt experienced that electric feeling people say they have in advance of an approaching storm.

At least we don’t have to pass through the destruction zone,
Matt thought.

When the first powerful burst of wind started blowing, rain lashed against the windows. Fierce lightning made the streets look like a scene from an old black
-
and
-
white movie or a scrum of old
-
time news photographers using flashbulbs. Each flash of lightning created glaring reflections on the pavement ahead, complementing matching sparks from the trolley pole as it connected with the overhead wires.

He barely made the transfer from the westbound streetcar to the Number 75 bus heading north.

Matt stepped off at the designated corner and spotted the sign of the coffee chain Carling had mentioned. In the rain, it looked like a lighthouse beacon directing ships to safe harbor. He started to shiver as he ran across the street through the sheeting rain that quickly soaked him. The conditioned air inside didn’t help. He didn’t see anyone in the coffee shop who looked as if he might be called Stinky, and Matt’s nose was on high alert for any noxious smell.

An old man sat in one corner, staring at his cup. He looked like a lonely pensioner thinking about someone from his past. A young couple sat at a table by the window.
The boy looks tentative,
Matt thought,
as if he’s getting ready to propose something
—
either marriage
—
or maybe just a night together.

Ignoring all of that and trying to stem his shivering, Matt stepped into the line of customers waiting to place orders.

What was it I was supposed to order again?
he asked himself.

When it was his turn, he muttered, “I’ll have a fritter.” He rushed to add, “Blueberry.” The young man behind the counter looked at him blankly, and Matt realized he was whispering through chattering teeth.

“I’ll have a blueberry fritter and a large double
-
double coffee
—
with double cream and double sugar. A double
-
double,” he said, almost shouting. He looked around to see if anyone noticed or was paying attention to his cue.

He carried his order to an empty table next to the door. Matt looked at the coffee and was revolted. He always drank his coffee black and the thought of cream, let alone sugar, was
…
well, appalling.

He wasn’t sure what a fritter was, but his fingers felt sticky after he picked it up for a taste.
Damn, it’s pretty good,
he thought. He was too nervous to actually eat and he determined to never order a double
-
double coffee again after that night. He just sat there, shivering, and decided this had all been a big waste of time.

He flinched at a movement to his right. A man had appeared in the doorway. It was like an apparition had come in out of the rain. Matt didn’t have to ask who he was; the stench coming from the person sitting down at the table rated somewhere between a septic tank and a compost heap.

What was that punch line from a George Carlin routine? Something about someone’s body odor or bad breath being strong enough to knock a buzzard off a shit wagon?
Matt mused.

That description seemed to fit the man called Stinky.

CHAPTER 26

Voice Mail

“A
nother
abandoned farm? How do you keep coming up with places like this?”

Susan pulled a blanket up to offset the morning chill. A slate
-
colored sky did little to brighten the room. Embers from the fireplace logs hissed and popped, barely giving off any heat as the fire slowly faded away. She felt Carl next to her and smiled, basking in the memory of their first time making love. The night
-
to
-
morning transition was truly magical.

Carl turned out to be a sensitive lover, adept at pleasing her. A strong sensation flooded over her as she thought about it. A blazing fire and romantic music playing on Carl’s smartphone had made the moment even more enchanting. She remembered giddily tossing their clothes around the room with abandon. She turned to him now, draping her arm over his bare shoulder. Carl stirred. She saw a smile spread across his face and knew he was fully awake.

“We’ve changed hiding places so many times, I’m losing track of them all. I wake up and have no idea where we are.”

“You’re next to me, I think.”

“I wonder if this place has any food,” she said as she stood up. The blanket fell away, and she blushed when she saw Carl looking at her. His fingers were locked behind his head, and his look would have done the Cheshire Cat justice.

Picking it up and wrapping the blanket tighter around her, she walked to the kitchen to begin rummaging through cupboards and drawers, looking for food
—
any food.

“Some dry cereal. That’s all I can find. It’s always the last place you look, eh?” The pantry shelves were empty except for one at the top. “Look at this! Our absentee host did like good coffee.” She pulled down a bag of beans.

Next to the coffee was a well
-
worn, old coffeepot. She turned it around. “Where’s the power cord?” She opened the lid on the coffeepot and looked inside. “There’s nothing but a metal basket on top of a metal rod.”

“City girl!” he said with a laugh. “That’s been used over an outdoor fire; you can see from the creosote buildup. I used one like that when I went camping,” he added. “Someday soon there won’t be anyone left who knows how to make coffee this way anymore. I have a friend who bought a car recently, and insisted on getting an adapter that would allow him to plug in his gourmet electric coffee maker. I’m not usually mean, but I have fun thinking about him waking up to find his car battery drained and him petulant because he hasn’t had any coffee.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s no electricity in this place, either,” Susan quipped.

There was a pump on the sink, so Carl worked the arm up and down until a stream of water came out. He filled the pot. “I think that’s about enough,” he said.

He held the coffee container and filled the basket. “I’m guessing at the amount, but that should work,” he said. He put the basket on the metal rod, inserted them into the pot, and closed the lid.

“Fire might be a problem.” He opened a storage door and found a box of firewood. “This wood’s cut especially for use in that cookstove.”

Carrying over an armful of kindling, he opened the door to the old
-
fashioned cookstove and soon had a fire going. Holding his hand over the stove, he judged when it got it hot enough and placed the coffeepot on its top.

“I love places like this,” he said, holding his hands over the range next, to warm them. “They don’t need electricity or city water service. This is back to the basics. I love it.”

Carl glanced at his watch, timing how long the coffee percolated, then pulled the pot off the stove. He wrapped a towel around the handle for protection. “This sucker gets hot.” He filled two cups Susan had found in a cupboard.

“This is great coffee!” Susan said, sounding surprised. They each munched handfuls of dried cereal as they sat in front of the cookstove’s open door, using it as a fireplace. “And you do make excellent fires.”

She leaned against Carl, and he put his arm around her shoulder. They had reached a high level of comfort together without effort. Susan almost forgot why they were there
—
the danger that was beyond the walls. Then it all came back to her in a blinding flash.

“I wonder if there’s a signal here. Grab my handbag for me.” She pointed. “It’s in the other room.”

“A
please
would be nice,” he said, but he was smiling as he said it.

“Two bars! I wouldn’t have expected
any
signal here. I guess the owner’s life isn’t that rustic after all. I haven’t had my phone on since we were with Matt at the resort.” She looked at the screen. “Whew, the battery’s still good
…
But damn! I have over twenty voice mail messages.” She scrolled through the numbers listed as missed calls. “I don’t think I need to listen to any of them,” she said.

She started to click the master Delete icon, but stopped when she saw a number that stood out from the rest. It was the call that had come in when they were with Matt at the Loon Lake Lodge.

“This is from the number I didn’t answer before. There’s no caller ID for this number,” she held it out for Carl to see. “Do you recognize it?”

“As I said earlier, it’s not one I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m going to delete it,” she said. But she couldn’t. Her finger just wouldn’t click the Delete icon.

Curiosity can be a potent drug.

She deleted the rest until there was only the one remaining, the one that tugged at her inquisitive nature. Finally, she clicked to retrieve the message and held the phone to her ear. Carl watched her frown, scrunching up her face. She looked puzzled as she closed the phone.

“That was interesting. In fact, it’s
most
interesting. Have you ever heard of a man named Roger Ulrich? Here
—
you listen,” she said. She played the message again, turning on the phone’s speaker.

Carl stood next to her as they heard the message on speakerphone.

“My name is Ulrich
—
Roger Ulrich. You don’t know me, but please don’t hang up. I won’t stay silent anymore. The riots were even worse than I thought they would be.” The line went silent, and Carl wondered if the message was over. Then Ulrich’s voice continued. “I overheard it all. I was there, in the next room, when it was all planned and decided. I know how Charles Claussen engineered CleanSweep. I have it all on tape. I will call back in two days. If you answer when I call, I will know you’re interested. I won’t leave another message.” The line went dead.

Carl looked at Susan. “What do you make of that?”

“I have no idea,” she said.

“That was two days ago.”

“I
just
did the same math.”

“If he meant what he said, he’ll call back today.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

They both stared at the phone, waiting for it to ring. “In movies, at moments like this,” Carl said, “the phone always rings on cue.”

When nothing happened, they cleaned up the kitchen, emptied the coffee grounds, and packed what little they were carrying. Carl opened the front door and stepped out.

“The storm’s over, I think. We need to get on the road. I hid our car while you were brushing your teeth.”

They loaded their belongings into an old pickup truck they had found in a shed near the cabin and left their sanctuary. The car they had been driving was shut away in the same shed.

“A better
-
than
-
even trade, I would say. This truck’s so old it was easy to hot
-
wire.” Carl estimated there was just enough fuel to get them close to the city.

Even though they were hoping for a call, when the phone started emitting a shrill ringtone, they both flinched, startled.

Susan answered and was holding the phone to her ear when a wheel hit a rut. “Dammit, Carl. Be careful.”

“What?” she heard on the other end.

“I’m sorry,” she said into the phone. “We just hit a bump. This is Susan Payne.” She recognized the call as coming from the same number as the man who called himself Roger Ulrich. “Who are you?” she asked.

“You know who this is. I told you who I am.”

“Anyone can leave a message like that and claim to have any name,” she said. “If you know who
I
am, you also know I’m a serious reporter. I check my sources.”

“I have something you need for your story. You won’t be sorry.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You will or you won’t. When we finish, I’ll give you instructions for a meeting. I won’t stay on the phone for much longer. CleanSweep programs could be scanning calls like this. We have little time to waste establishing bona fides. Make your decision. I will be there. If you don’t show, I will just disappear. I don’t know where I could go yet, but it will be somewhere safe, I hope.”

After the call disconnected, Susan told Carl about the despair in the man’s voice. She told him where the man said he would meet them. Carl knew the location. “Our stalkers may not pay any attention to this old truck. We have two hours; it’s going to be close.”

Carl drove with care, not wanting to draw attention. They passed several patrol cars. Carl’s hands were white from gripping the steering wheel.

Driving up to the meeting place, they saw a man standing ramrod straight and knew it must be Roger Ulrich. He stood next to a gazebo in a small neighborhood park
—
exactly where he’d told Susan he would be.

“Look at him,” Susan whispered. “So many people are walking around with a depressed, dirty look after the riots. It’s incredible to see a man dressed like him.” Ulrich wore an elegant suit. A sparkle of sunlight flashed briefly from his perfectly shined shoes.

“I have to ask,” she said as she approached him. “Why are your shoes so highly polished?”

“What can I say?” he told them with an indifferent shrug. “I’m a manservant, skilled in the old ways. It was my father’s profession, and something his father did before him. None of that matters now. What’s important is who my employer is, or I should say,
was
. I’ve served Winston Overstreet for over thirty
-
seven years. Four years ago, things began changing. I skimmed some envelopes, correspondence he left unattended. There was an unsealed envelope on the top of a pile of mail one day. I did something I had never done before. Reading other people’s correspondence is
—
how should I say it
—
indecorous. What made me break the professional valet’s code? Call it accidental curiosity, if you have to put a label on it.”

Roger Ulrich was very well spoken, but Susan thought she detected something like an intriguing accent slipping between the words.

Ulrich continued, “I read a letter that day, a letter from Charles Claussen. Everything I thought Overstreet stood for was suddenly turned on its head. I will make this quick. I contacted trusted comrades and told them what I had read.” He had a wistful look as he continued. “My life changed direction. Given instructions, I went back to Mr. Overstreet’s home and never let on I was on to him. I made plans
—
plans to find a way to expose him for the snake he is.”

Ulrich looked composed, but a nervous glance from side to side gave him away.

“When I learned he was inviting a group of coconspirators to his remote lodge near Lion’s Head, I realized I was in a position to get the goods on the plan. I started to work on a way to secretly record them
—
something I would never have dreamed of doing before then.

“I was convinced of how sinister it was
—
in my opinion anyway. You’ll never guess who was in attendance that weekend. Charles Claussen was there, of course. The whole evil plan was his idea. But the meeting also included Spencer Abbot, and you can imagine how much money
he
has. He wastes more money than most millionaires make.

“The shocker was Richard Waverly. Did you know he likes to call himself
Sir
Richard Waverly? I repeat,
shocker
. Can you believe that? They met for two days, and Claussen laid out his entire CleanSweep scheme. They’re a bunch of raving fascists. They’re fanatics
—
and I have proof. Somebody has to go public. Do you have the guts?”

“I hope so,” Susan said.

“I was hoping for a stronger affirmation,” Ulrich said. “I tried to figure out a way to get it to that blogger Tremain, but he’s in enough imminent danger as we speak, and I didn’t want to risk contacting him.”

“We’re working with him already,” Carl said. Both Susan and Ulrich seemed surprised that Carl had spoken. “You asked if we have the guts,” Carl went on. “Afraid? Yes. Do we have the guts? Yes. Do any of us have a choice? I don’t think so. No!”

With that, Ulrich reached inside his coat pocket and took out a recorder. It was old
-
school technology
—
a cassette tape. Carl assured him he had equipment that would play it as Ulrich handed the tape to Carl with a formality that matched his dress.

Susan and Carl watched tears begin to form in Ulrich’s eyes. Then the manservant, the former majordomo to Winston Overstreet, turned away. They watched him walk with a military bearing to a van with the side door open, waiting. They glimpsed the driver and a passenger in the front as the side door slid closed and the truck sped away.

Susan broke the silence. “I don’t see actual smoke coming from that tape you’re holding, but I think it’s the smoking gun we’ve been looking for.”