Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(33)
I thanked her for her time, and released her from the call.
A quick check of the local paper reminded me of the name of the outgoing commission president: George Ward. Everyone of any character I’ve met so far has spoken well of him, and if the ludicrously named True Americans are that desperate to get rid of him, he must have at least a few principles stashed about his person . . . or so I told myself as I feathered through the phone book.
I found his listing right away, but when I inquired after him, his wife informed me that he wasn’t home. She pointed me toward his old office, where he was cleaning things out and doing his best to ease the transition. I heard a catch in her voice as she said that part; she didn’t want the transition eased in the slightest—she wanted to fling a thousand boulders in front of it, and I could certainly understand the sentiment. But as she stressed, Mr. Ward was a consummate professional, and he wanted to fulfill every ounce of his final obligations.
A cab ride brought me to the government center in under fifteen minutes.
The city’s administration headquarters were typical of government buildings all the world over, or the Western world, at any rate. Greek inspired, Roman confused. White columns and wide, short steps—oversized entryways, heavy double doors . . . all of it intended to remind the citizen of how small he is, in the scheme of government.
The council wing was off to my right. I found it down a corridor with marbled floors and lots of brass fixtures, everything modernized (very slightly) with the nouveau lines that were popular ten years ago, and already look a bit dated . . . but at least it wasn’t more of the humdrum Mediterranean mishmash, so I gave it a pass. Likewise, the plates on all the doors were carved in a current typeface, something with triangle-edged points and doubled lines on the capital letters. It was sharp, and it suggested that someone, somewhere, was interested in bringing Alabama into the modern age.
I watched the nameplates and office designations until I found one reserved for the City Commission president. The door was ajar, for a man with a bucket and a scraper was carefully removing George Ward’s name from the frosted-glass window set within it. He gave me a nod, but didn’t look at me. I responded in kind, and stepped inside without disturbing the door.
I rapped politely on the frame, in order to announce myself to the fellow who stood behind the desk. He was a lean man, tall and sharp, in a gray linen suit that was cut like it cost a pretty penny. In keeping with the citywide style, he wore a mustache, keenly waxed; his hair was smooth and shiny, parted on the side, as dark as a crow’s wing. It was a startling shade of black on a man who must’ve been in his late forties. Not a speck of salt, nor a hint of pepper marred it. He was holding a phone, but he wasn’t using it. He’d either just hung up or hadn’t yet dialed.
“Can I help you?” he asked. Smooth voice, and oily like his hair. It was the voice of an educated man, with a higher-class version of the regional accent I’d been hearing on the streets thus far.
“I beg your pardon, but my name is Simon Wolf. I’m an inspector from Boston, visiting your fine city on a bit of business.” I produced a badge that identified me as a veteran representative of the police department there. It wasn’t true, but no one ever followed up on such a bold claim; and even if anyone did, the police and my home office have a quiet agreement on such matters.
“Boston business? In our fair city?” He set the phone down atop the big oak desk. “I suppose we’ve had some high-profile crimes over the last year or two . . . but I’m still surprised to see a guest from such a distant corner. Please, pardon my manners: I am the City Commission president, Nathaniel Barrett.” He extended a hand, and I took it. We shook, and he continued. “I hope our little town has treated you well so far.”
“I find myself enchanted by your cityscapes, your citizens, and most especially your cuisine. And it’s a pleasure to meet you.” It wasn’t, but we were both being pleasant. And I, for one, was being careful. “I’ve been sent here, that I might look into your recent spate of axe murders. I’m a specialist, you see—and I’m often assigned to strange and violent cases. I have an exceptional record for solving them.”
“An interesting specialty indeed,” he said, then looked around behind me. “I do apologize—I’d offer you a seat, but as you can see, I’m still getting settled in.”
It was true, the office was in a state of disarray. Two chairs were present apart from the one behind the desk, but they were stacked atop one another in a corner. Several boxes of papers, notebooks, files, and other assorted paper goods were overturned and shuffled into madness; two of the desk drawers were lying beside it, their contents scattered across the floor. This did not look like an office changing hands. It looked like the site of a particularly brutal ransacking.
I demurred. “No apologies necessary—I understand completely. In all honesty, my own office rarely looks much tidier, and I don’t have an administration change to pin it upon. Speaking of which, congratulations on your new position.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wolf. I appreciate your kind words, and I hope I can be of some assistance to you . . . but as I said, I’ve only just arrived. I’m still learning what archives are kept where, and under what system of organization. My predecessor and I had different ideas about filing.”
I almost said, “Among other things, I hear,” but I bit my tongue. “Perhaps I could have a word with your predecessor, then . . . ? I understand that Mr. Ward was the commission president during the bulk of the killings.”