Ice Queen #2
The hold music switches abruptly from Italian opera to a scratchy, jazz-age ballad. It’s a woman’s voice, bourbon-smooth, singing about diamonds and men who can’t be trusted. I smirk; she’s not wrong about the majority of them for sure. I check the time: seven minutes have gone by.
My mouth tastes of impotent fury and resentment.
I look over the Beauregard file again, searching for some chink in the matriarch’s armor.
The only thing that comes up is a note in Channing’s sharp, cursive hand: ‘She loves animals. Don’t mention zoos.
’ I can’t imagine why that would come up, but even if it did, I’d shy away from anything adjacent to the rumors about her husband’s sketchy safari death anyway.
At nine minutes, Reginald returns. His voice is even colder than before. “The Lady will speak to you now. Please remain on the line for transfer.”
It’s not a request, nor is there any apology in his tone. I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain an optic nerve, then put the phone back to my ear. My fingers find the bourbon glass and cradle it like a worry stone. The line clicks, and I inhale sharply—thank fuck, it’s time.
“Dean LeCiel. This is Regina Adelaide Beauregard.”
She doesn’t say, ‘how do you do’ or even, ‘thank you for calling.’ Instead, she makes her title a weapon, slicing my own in half. She sounds like ice cubes in a cut-glass tumbler.
“Thank you for speaking with me,” I say, aware that I sound like a courtier summoned to the throne room. I hate it, but I also can’t help the tremor that comes out as respect. “I’m afraid I have some hard news regarding your son, Rialto.”
She inhales so subtly that if I hadn’t spent years reading the tells of power-drunk donors, I would have missed it. “I trust the situation is not salvageable.”
Guess it’s not his first go-round with authority figures then.
It is not a question, but I answer anyway. “I regret to inform you that he was found deceased in the theater building last night. The police have ruled out suicide and are investigating as a homicide.”
A pause longer than her first one practically fills the air. For a moment, I think the line has dropped, and then she speaks. “I see,” she says. “Has the local press been informed?”
“No, but I highly doubt it will remain contained for very long. There are reports circulating online, but the official university statement is pending your notification. My office is coordinating with campus police and the city.”
“Of course you are,” she says, and I hear the faint creak of a rocking chair, or maybe the bones of her enemies. “You were efficient, Dean LeCiel. That is appreciated.”
I try to fill the silence with protocol. “If there is anything we can do to assist you or your family in this time?—”
“That will not be necessary. I have dispatched legal counsel and a family representative to your campus. Please have all evidence and personal effects secured for them.”
She doesn’t even attempt grief, nor hide that she was already making plans—indicating a leak somewhere. I wonder briefly if her heart is a rare gem, locked in a glass box somewhere and polished daily by Reginald. Maybe she just keeps it in the freezer.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, with genuine effort.
She makes a sound that could be a laugh or a cough. “Young men are a renewable resource, Ms. LeCiel. It is the principle that counts. Do you have children, Dean?”
Everyone knows I don’t after the trial; what’s her game?
“No,” I say carefully. “Just the university.”
“Then you don’t know yet,” she says, and her voice softens, just a millimeter, “that sometimes sacrifice is required for the advancement of the institution.”
That is a warning, delivered in the velvet voice of someone who has personally overseen several bloodless coups. It isn’t direct, but I feel it in my bones. “Rest assured, Dean, that whatever steps you take from here, the Beauregard name will not be tarnished. We will see to it.”
There is a cold, dry click, as if she has just snapped shut an expensive cigarette case. I can picture her in a wingback chair, dogs at her feet, a legion of lackeys ready to spill blood or serve tea at her whim.
“If you require any further information, please direct it through Reginald. Otherwise, I expect we are finished here.”
The abruptness should leave me angry, but instead I feel strangely deflated, like I’ve just been let out of a holding cell after a brief, instructive stay.
“I understand. Thank you for your time,” I say, because what else is there to say?
The line goes dead.
I stare at the receiver, then at my bourbon, which now seems insufficiently strong for the job ahead. For a moment, I consider calling Iggy, or Lucas, or anyone who has ever understood how power tastes: metallic, astringent, and always a little bit bitter.
Instead, I buzz Channing.
“That was quick,” she says, poking her head in.
“She’s sending a legal team,” I say. “And probably a hit squad, for good measure.”
Channing raises an eyebrow, then glances at the bottle. “I’ll get another glass.”
I nod, unable to shake the chill of Regina’s last words: ‘Sacrifice is required for the advancement of the institution.’
Somewhere, Rialto’s ghost is nodding along, and so am I.