The CleanSweep Conspiracy (8 page)

CHAPTER 9

What Just Happened?

S
usan was the first to speak. “What happened? Where are they? How did we just get away like that?”

“I think they were distracted. They must have been sure the cards were somewhere in one of the cases. They assumed they had what they were looking for, and we just didn’t matter to them
—
for a brief moment. I was hoping they didn’t have the back stairs covered. Nobody uses them, and that door doesn’t attract attention. But I admit, I was surprised when no one popped out and tried to stop us from leaving.”

“What do we do now?” Susan asked.

“We walk.”

“At least I have the shoes for it today.” To Susan, it was all about the shoes. Shoes were important to her. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew she was fanatical about them. For some men and women, they were the ultimate sign of success
—
Italian or expensive European leather creations. Perhaps outside of work they were for her, too. But when it came to shoes for work, it was a different story.

“I can’t look good on camera if my feet are cold or if they hurt,” she had once told Carl. “Besides, who ever sees my feet?”

Susan was meticulous about her on
-
camera image and took care in picking her wardrobe. She always checked her e
-
mail for the latest assignment or changes, to make sure she would have a look that matched the story. Also, Hurricane Sue kept a wardrobe bag in the news van, always ready for a change if needed. She had standing appointments with her hairdresser each Monday and Thursday morning, but was surprisingly never fussy about her hair during a shoot. “Letting the wind blow it around gives me field credibility, don’t you think?” she asked Carl.

When it was time for her to look into the camera and tell a breaking news story to her audience, she always looked the part of someone who took it all very seriously. She rarely accepted human
-
interest or fluff assignments. She was hard
-
core news all the way.

Susan and Carl spent a lot of time together, working hours in the field, chasing down news stories, constantly on the run as they jumped in and out of the van and raced after newsmakers. Susan was famous for uncovering stories first. She and Carl were usually at the front of any pack of reporters. It was uncanny. Susan seemed to have an inner radar for stories that would turn into scoops.

Wardrobe and coiffure aside, Susan was sensible about shoes. She wore a brand that was advertised to be the perfect blend between a walking shoe and a hiking boot.

“Those are the ugliest shoes I have ever seen,” Carl once told her, not bothering to disguise a laugh. She had ignored him.

These were electric blue
—
a vivid neon color. Sometimes bystanders would even point and snigger. Other reporters, especially the other women reporters stumbling about in heels, often envied her wisdom in choosing comfortable footwear. Women and men alike envied her choice when they found themselves standing in mud, slush, or snow for long periods. Susan was adamant that Carl never shoot her full profile on camera. She didn’t want to mar her reporting image
—
or reveal what gave her an edge.

“Those sensible shoes are an asset today,” he said as they started walking.

“Where are we going again?” she asked for the umpteenth time.

“It’s not much farther,” Carl said. His panting voice was clear evidence of his past life as a smoker.

“We’ve been walking for over an hour and a half,” she mumbled. “How does Tremain know where to meet us? You said the same place we met before, but we’re going in the opposite direction.”

Other than her redundant questions about their destination, they hadn’t spoken much. They walked with their heads down and planted one step in front of another. Carl led the way east on Cherry to Commissioners Street, toward the Martin Goodman Trail. They were careful to turn their heads away from headlights and to avoid curious looks from the few passing cars. When they got to the trail, they followed it until it twisted finally to Eastern Avenue. They were about to turn due east when they spotted a cyclist pedaling toward them. Carl and Susan each took a quick breath, evidence of the tension they both felt. Carl put a hand on her shoulder to urge her to the side as the rider sped past without slowing. Carl watched until the young man was out of view, then they stepped into a lighted street.

“What about those cameras?” Susan asked, pointing overhead as they walked past a streetlight. They could see a camera pointing almost directly at them, a bit to the side.

Carl took a small electronic instrument from a pocket of his work jacket. It was the type of jacket favored by photographers, with many pockets for holding small cameras, batteries, and the like.

“I was setting the camera up for a shot and needed to use this.” He held it out for her to see. “When I pushed this button”
—
he mimicked the action
—
“I found out it screwed up the cameras, causing them to go all wonky. I guess it has something to do with the frequency it uses to send streaming video back to a computers. Now I’ve been using it”
—
he pointed it up
—
“as we pass each of those damn surveillance cameras. If it doesn’t work, well
…
” He didn’t need to finish.

“Where are we going, Carl?” Susan insisted again. “How does he
—
you know, Matt
—
know where to meet us?”

Carl said, “Remember that ‘no
-
tell motel’ on Lakeshore, the one where we met him the first time?”

She nodded.

“I figure these guys know all about that place by now. My guess is they have a team of watchers there already. I can just see the poor agents counting bedbugs in that filthy hovel right now. The only way to ever sanitize that place would be to burn it down. I never could understand the desire to rent a room like that by the hour, let alone an entire night. I wonder if they get any ideas when they look up at the mirrors on the ceiling
…
” He started laughing. He knew it wasn’t that funny, but he couldn’t help the burst of nervous laughter.

“Anyway,” he continued, “Matt and I had our first meeting in another place, before you ever met him.
That’s
where we’re heading now, the Europa Motel,” he explained, watching her eyebrows lift in surprise.

“That place
…
” She searched for words. “That’s where that murder was a few years back. What a dump. And you thought the place on Lakeshore was shoddy!”

After leaving the walking trail, they looked over their shoulders whenever they heard a car coming. Sensing something different about one that was approaching, he pushed Susan into the alcove of a store doorway and clutched her in an embrace. The car slowed, almost paused, then accelerated and moved on. He held her in a hug as the lights swept past them.

Hugging her, he felt a stirring, a strong desire to kiss the woman he’d spent so much time watching through the camera lens. He had been struggling with his feelings for months. Now he was slowly admitting to himself that he was in love with Hurricane Sue.

The moment for the kiss passed, unfulfilled.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said, putting distance between them. She was teasing, and he knew it. They stood silently apart for several moments, both taking stock of a new chemistry rising between them. They started walking again, and she slipped her hand into his as she said, “Just playing my part in this drama.”

But then again
…
Carl smiled at that thought.

“I heard you talking to him
—
Matt
—
earlier. You never mentioned the name of the place you would meet,” she said. “How can you be sure he’ll know?”

“
Susie
was our code word for it. I know how much you hate being called that.” He smiled as she flinched. “When he heard me use that name, he knew where to meet.”

Carl explained as they walked slowly on. “This job we have has often taken us to the edge of safety and danger. You and I both feed on risk. But this story is different from the others, isn’t it? We both know it. Before, when we faced danger, we were always careful. We might walk up to the edge of danger, but we always knew when to step back. I’m not so sure that we can step back this time, Sue.”

“Carl, you’re really starting to scare me
…
more.”

“Welcome to reality,” he snapped, then immediately smoothed the tone in his voice. “He knew what I meant when I mentioned the name Susie. The first time he met with me was at the Europa. I never told you about that.”

Carl saw the hurt in her eyes.

“Matt contacted me one day and said he wanted my reassurance that you were a stand
-
up reporter. He seemed to trust me when I assured him you were.”

If Susan was annoyed by Matt’s uncertainty on that point, or that her cameraman had been the one to take the initiative with her informant, she didn’t show it. “I could use a sit
-
down,” she said, pointing to a small park bench in a small courtyard that was safely tucked away in the shadows.

“Damn, it feels good to sit,” Carl admitted as he looked at his watch and began massaging the back of his right leg. “We’ve been walking for almost two hours now. Matt won’t be there until later. We can rest here for a while.”

“I didn’t believe Tremain at first. I know now I was wrong.” Her voice echoed from the nearby walls, wistful and pensive. “The pieces of the story just didn’t add up for me at first. It seemed incomprehensible that in
our country
—
” She stopped. “I mean, locking up the homeless and anyone else who makes us uncomfortable. It’s preposterous.”

Carl looked at her. “I did
—
I believed him. It fit with everything happening all around us. People began disappearing, the kind of people we would barely miss. Maybe we even subconsciously felt glad they weren’t around anymore. Look at this place,” he said, waving his arm around in a circle. “Six months ago this courtyard was home to derelicts, the detritus of our society, and there was a rusted shopping cart over there,” Carl said as he pointed to one side. “I know, I was here and saw it.”

“I can’t believe Charles Claussen is behind it all. That is really hard to swallow,” she said.

“It’s all here,” he said, patting his pocket. “I shot your entire interview series with Matt. Watching the two of you interviewing each other was like watching a battle
—
with no quarter given. Did you notice how frightened he was that last time we met? He appeared more and more worried each time the two of you talked. Then you kicked your butt into professional high gear. I thought he was going to lose it when you challenged him about his sources.”

“You heard Tremain,” she said. “He may be young, but he had his sources nailed down tight. I didn’t expect that kind of professionalism from an amateur blogger. And those pictures he has
…
They’re proof that it’s even worse than just locking people away. I wonder who took that video. It looked like it was taken with a smartphone.”

Carl stretched his legs out. “We have to get moving,” he said, but without getting up. “I’ve been thinking about that raid on the newsroom. They pretended to search everywhere, but you and I both know they focused on your office and my camera cases. I recognized that woman. She is head of security for Claussen’s team. Her name’s Angela Vaughn. They know we have your interviews with Matt recorded. They knew exactly what they were looking for.”

He patted a pocket of his photographer’s jacket. “These three media cards hold hours of interviews on each card. They are desperate to get their hands on them, desperate enough to stop at nothing
—
even torture or murder. They’re after these and the evidence Matt has with him. We were lucky to get away this time, but
…
”

Carl looked over his shoulder at another passing car. A decrepit, ten
-
year
-
old Saab bounced over a pothole, belching clouds of black exhaust. He relaxed.

“I don’t know why they dropped their guard back in the parking deck, but I’m not going to overanalyze anything. I’m just thankful we could take advantage of it.”

He stopped talking when he saw the crack in her defenses. Tears began to fill her eyes as she spoke. “It was too close. They aren’t going to stop, are they?”

Carl shook his head. “I have something else. Matt gave me a copy of a file. He had it on a flash drive and gave it to me when we were having coffee one morning. He left it beneath a newspaper as he got up to leave. It was like we were in some spy novel.

“Claussen’s teams are looking for this and any copies of it, and they think either you or Matt have them. They are searching our homes now
—
you can bank on it. His, too,” he added. “I left a fake for them to find back in my apartment. They’ll know it’s a fake soon enough, but I have the real
-
deal version here,” he said. “I made another copy and hid it in a safe place. Four or five years ago, I rented a mailbox under a fake name. Last week I mailed the copy to that box. It’s still there. I checked yesterday. I wanted you to know about it, just in case
—
”

“Have you looked at what’s in the file? Can they find anything on your computer?”

“Not unless they know which computer I used at the central library. I’ve never used a computer at home for anything I wanted to keep secret. And yes, I looked at it.”

“And?” She left the question hanging.

“It’s Claussen’s family tree. At least the first file is. His grandfather was an engineer in Germany. The old man was one of the first to join the Nazi Party in the 1920s. I uncovered a file with his party number. He was eligible for the ‘distinctive’ badge called the Golden Medal of the Nazi Party, the
Goldenes Ehrenzeichen der NSDAP
,” he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.