Depth (15 page)

“The woman you were meeting with—” Simone started to explain.

“Marina. She’s an art dealer. I’m buying a Reinel for my parents. Remember? I told you I had crap to do for them?” Caroline was angry now. She threw up her arms and walked away from Simone, then back again. “Why couldn’t you just ask me like a normal person? And do you really think I’m involved? You think I wouldn’t tell you if I was involved in some sort of . . . what? Conspiracy?” She stared Simone down, and Simone glanced downward. Her voice got lower, colder. “That
is
what you think, isn’t it? One meeting with some woman involved in your case and you think I’m conspiring against you. You think I’m that crap of a friend, don’t you?”

“She pointed a gun at me,” Simone said. Caroline didn’t say anything—just stared at Simone and crossed her arms, waiting for something else. Simone didn’t have anything else.

“And you didn’t think I’d want to know that?” Simone didn’t say anything. “You thought I knew? You thought . . . what, that I was in on it?” Simone wanted to say something; she could feel words bubbling under the surface, but they just crept up into her mind and went back down again, half-syllables and lost protests drowning somewhere inside her. She opened her mouth, hoping they might come together, create some excuse, some explanation, some apology, but yes, she didn’t trust Caroline, she was afraid to, and not just Caroline, but . . . she sighed. Her mouth closed.

“Fuck you,” Caroline said, throwing off her glove and storming out of the room.

“Thanks,” Simone said to Danny after a minute. Danny still hadn’t lifted his head.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I’m shit for secrets. I could tell you about how I’m trained to share everything I know, or how I thought I was helping, but . . . I fucked up. Sorry.”

Simone shook her head. She’d been ready to hit him hard enough to dislodge the computer in his head, but all that drained out of her when she saw the expression of regret on his face. She knew she should be furious with him, but she just felt sorry for him. She was angrier with herself.

“I shouldn’t have tried to keep it from her. It was stupid.”

“And kinda mean,” Danny added.

Simone glared. “Be quiet unless you’re apologizing.” Simone took a deep breath and sat down on the floor. She felt cold. “Fuck,” she said to no one in particular. She reached to her side but remembered she wasn’t wearing her coat. “Give me my trench,” she said to Danny. Wordlessly, he complied. She took off her glove so she could fish her cigarettes out of the pocket. She lit one, leaned back against the wall, and pulled herself into a cross-legged position. When she’d had a good inhale she held her cigarette up next to her cheek.

“You should go apologize,” Danny said after a minute, taking his glove off.

“It could have been an act,” Simone said.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” She inhaled again. She wanted to believe it, though. What did that say about her? She didn’t ask the question aloud. Danny wasn’t good at lying.

Suddenly the door flew open, and Simone looked up, her mouth already curving into a smile in hopes it was Caroline, but it was the lane attendant.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled. “No smoking!” He pointed at the sign on the door he was still holding open. Simone quickly stubbed the cigarette out on the floor next to her. “Don’t do that!” he said.

“Sorry,” Simone said. Then an alarm went off, a loud piercing thing, and the room turned a dull red color, shutting the VR interface off.

“You set off the alarms!” the attendant shouted. “Oh fuck.” He ran out the way he came, just as sprinklers started spraying down thick pelts of freezing water on them. Danny began to laugh. He tried to cover his mouth and hide it, but he was bad at that, too. Simone stared at him as the water poured down on her, until he gave up and just let the laughter pour out of him.

“Sorry,” he said, between laughs, “sorry.” Simone got up and put on her coat, which was also soaked. The floor was covered with water and filling up fast. They needed to leave. Simone pushed the door open and waved for Danny to come along.

Outside the lobby was chaos as people ran from their lanes to the front door. Simone and Danny joined them, running out the front door and into New York, where waves were crashing, but at least it wasn’t raining. She and Danny walked a few blocks without saying anything, Danny still giggling.

Simone lit another cigarette.

“You really should apologize,” Danny said finally. “She trusted you.” He shrugged at her. She didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at him, but through him at the city. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “I’ll call ya.” Then he walked away, dripping wet, but with his shoulders back and his chest puffed out like he was the luckiest kid on the ocean. Simone watched him go and finished her cigarette. She lit another and finished that one too. The cigarettes weren’t doing anything for her, or maybe they were just giving her that sour sensation in her stomach. She needed something else to make her feel . . . different.

She pulled her hair back and wrung out what water was left, then put it in a ponytail so it wouldn’t stick to her. She dried her face on her sleeves. Her trench coat was already dry, her pants and shirt less so, but she didn’t care. She headed for deCostas’ hotel. She hadn’t answered that message from him—hadn’t even read it. She tapped her earpiece and told it to dictate his latest message to her as she walked.

“Simone, I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed our time together tonight, and that I was perfectly prepared to be a gentleman and order us dinner, or take us out for dinner—I’m not sure if my hotel does room service—had you only been there when I woke up. I hope your sudden departure didn’t indicate regret or, worse, disappointment with our activities. It was the most fun I’ve had since coming to this city. I also hope this doesn’t mean our partnership is over. I have many more buildings to inspect, and I look forward to your company—in the buildings or elsewhere. Let me know if you’d like me to send you more addresses.”

Simone smirked at the message. It was
careful
, she thought with a bit of disdain. But he had been fun, and the money was still good. She’d keep up with him. She might need the money for a lawyer soon, anyway. She hadn’t heard from Peter or Kluren; she didn’t know if they were building a case against her, if they were waiting at her office to arrest her, or if this would just be another mark in her file. They had just as much evidence as she did. Less now. She knew The Blonde’s name. Marina. No surname, though. She could ask Danny to figure it out, check the guest list at the Four Seasons, but she didn’t want to talk to Danny right now. Or anybody else.

The sun was setting when she rounded a building and got a view of deCostas’ hotel. A small car rolled past Simone, making the wooden slats of the bridge she was crossing shudder. Below, the water was getting anxious, splashing up in anticipation of something. Simone studied the horizon. There were some dark clouds, maybe a storm. She couldn’t tell how far away. She could always get a room in the hotel when she was done with deCostas. She didn’t want to spend the night, give him the wrong idea.

deCostas stepped out of his hotel onto the bridge and looked around. Simone rolled her head and stayed where she was. He didn’t see her. He checked his wristpiece and walked off, away from Simone. Simone followed him.

The whole city was dark, and the water was black, except for the bright spots of green beneath the streetlights. Simone wasn’t sure if it was odd that deCostas was wandering without her. Wasn’t she his tour guide? It was a silly thought, of course—he could go wherever he wanted. But it felt strange. Where was he going? She followed him for several blocks, keeping her eyes on the horizon now and then, hanging back so he didn’t see her stalking—no, that was Caroline’s word for it—
following
him. It felt good to be doing this, to be hanging back and watching, to be analyzing the way his head turned so she could duck out of sight in time.

They ended up in front of the Four Seasons. deCostas stopped to look at his wristpiece again, and, as he did so, The Blonde—Marina—came down the steps and shook hands with him. He said something, and she laughed. She smiled and said something. It was freezing cold, like the bottom of the ocean, but they didn’t seem to mind. As they walked off together, she linked her arm into his. He looked down at this gesture, as if surprised, or curious, but did not unlink it. Simone watched them walk away until they were tiny specks that vanished in the rising fog.

NINE

SHE WAS AN IDIOT
.
This was a truth which she could no longer call crystal clear, because it had been crystal clear from the start, but over the past few hours of drinking, that crystal had faded, so there was nothing left between Simone and the truth. She didn’t see it, she breathed it. She lived it. She was an idiot.

Trust. That’s not what it was, of course. She hadn’t
trusted
deCostas. But she’d trusted herself—her judgment of him as ambitious but harmless. She’d even liked him a little—enough that she’d sought him out when she needed distraction, or comfort maybe. And he was just another pawn of The Blonde. Maybe Caroline hadn’t been used in quite the way Simone had thought, but you didn’t have to
know
you were being used to be someone else’s piece on the board. The Blonde had a web around Simone, had wrapped it up quietly and tight, and Simone hadn’t seen it coming because she’d been too distracted by a nice ass. She wondered if The Blonde had somehow been responsible for sending deCostas to Simone. Perhaps she told him to go to Caroline, knowing she’d send him to Simone. Maybe Caroline was in on the plan from the beginning.

She swayed slightly as she walked down the hall to her home. She’d drunk a lot. The smell of tobacco—real tobacco—hit her like a bullet. A cigarette. That’s what she needed.

Lou Freth was leaning against the wall outside her office, smoking. The smoke hung in the air, thick under the yellow lights. It seemed to form eyes, looking at her.

“What are you doing here?” Simone asked. Lou held out the pack of cigarettes, and Simone took one. She was suspicious but wouldn’t turn down real tobacco.

“I wanted to see you,” Lou said.

“You could’ve waited inside, you know,” Simone said, opening the door to the outer office. She stuck the cigarette in her mouth and fumbled through her pockets for a lighter. She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Lou walked past her into the still-dark office, right up to the windows, and looked out.

“I don’t like invading people’s homes without their permission.”

Simone smirked. “How’d you know my apartment and office were connected?”

“I didn’t. I just assumed you lived in your office.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “I can’t be the first to think so.”

Simone lay down on one of the sofas near Lou, stretching her legs out. “I used to have a separate apartment. It was where I grew up. My dad and I lived there, and my mom, too, before she bailed. But I sold it.” Simone took a deep breath. She must be really drunk if she was talking about her parents, she thought.

“Why?” Lou asked. Simone took a long drag on her cigarette. There was the sound of a motorboat going by outside, the waves it left in its wake rising up and falling in whispers.

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see how the case was going.” Lou turned around and sat down on the sofa diagonal from Simone’s. She tapped her cigarette over the glass ashtray on the table between them.

Simone turned her eyes to Lou, studying her. “Did that blonde woman send you? Marina?”

“That photo you showed me? I don’t know her. I told you that.” Simone studied her but was too drunk to tell if she was lying. She turned back towards the ceiling.

“You’re probably lying. Everyone knows her.” She stuck the cigarette in her mouth and lifted her leg, bending it towards her and gripping it with one hand. With the other hand, she took out her gun and laid it on the table, next to the ashtray.

“Is that supposed to be threatening?”

“Not really.”

“I don’t mind dying, you know.” Lou crossed her legs. She wore knee-high black boots over gray slacks, and the movement was like the wince of a bruised eye. “My husband is dead, and the only thing I have left of him is our home. Henry is dead, and all I have left of him is the business. Did you ever find Linnea?”

“No. But her body hasn’t turned up either.”

“I’ll pay you to find her. I feel like I should do that. No one is paying you anymore, and you’re still investigating. Why?”

“Because people keep telling me not to, I guess. Because there’s a chance the chief of police will try to frame me for Henry’s murder if she gets bored trying to solve it for real. Because I probably just lost my only friend over it, so I better see it through, otherwise what has all this . . .” Simone gestured at the room, and then let her hand fall. Her cigarette was almost gone. She sucked down the last of it and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Lou was still smoking hers. Simone didn’t know how Lou did it so leisurely, how she could let the inhale linger and not just keep trying to get all of it inside her. “You got another?” Lou wordlessly took the pack out of her pocket and laid it on the table next to the gun. Simone sat up, fished out another and lit it, then lay back again.

Outside, another boat went past—this one quieter, but its light shone directly into the window, through the venetian blinds, lighting Lou from behind, so she was only a dark silhouette, and making lines of shadow over Simone’s face and the smoke that was now circling her. It started to rain, drops tapping on the glass like musical notes.

“How’d you lose your friend?” Lou asked quietly.

“I should’ve just asked her . . .” Simone started. “I don’t trust people. Or I didn’t, but now I do, but it’s the wrong ones.”

“Most people betray you at some point.” Lou took a drag on her cigarette and let it out slowly, smoke covering her face. “Maybe it’s something stupid, they don’t realize what they’re doing, but they do it, and it hurts because you thought they knew you, thought they knew better and would somehow know that doing whatever it was they did . . . but no one is a mind reader.” Lou lifted her hand up as if to take another drag of her cigarette, but let it fall back down before it reached her face. Her shoulders slumped backwards like old buildings, worn away and finally falling.

“My dad was,” Simone laughed, then coughed. “He could read guilt on a perp from a mile away.”

“No one ever betrayed him?”

Simone was quiet.

“Everyone gets betrayed at some point,” Lou said. “And we respond . . . well, we don’t always think. So we ask forgiveness. That’s all we can do.”

“Yeah,” Simone said.

“I didn’t know how these sorts of things were done,” Lou said, reaching into her purse, “so I got cash. It was hard to come by, so I hope it’s something you can use.” She took out and laid a stack of bills on the table. “That should cover it. Find Linnea. Find who killed Henry.” Lou stood up and straightened out her clothes.

“I’ll do what I can,” Simone said, without looking at her.

“Do the
best
you can,” Lou corrected. She didn’t look at Simone. She looked at the door and, without a goodbye, began to walk towards it, dignified, and Simone was suddenly struck by the memory of an old movie she’d seen with her parents, and a scene where a woman marched to the firing squad, blindfolded, proud, and not afraid.

“It’s raining,” Simone said, sitting up. “I can call you a cab.” But Lou was already gone, the door closed behind her, the room dark.

Simone finished her cigarette in the dark, the only sound her own breath and the rain on the window, like something trying to get in.

“YOU HAVE TO LEARN
how to swim, Simone,” her mom said. “Especially out here.” Her mom gestured around them—but they were on a cruise liner with tall railings, and the ocean could be heard, but not seen. She was five and was sitting on the edge of the pool her mother was in, wearing floaties on her arms. Her mom stood in the shallow end, water up to her knees, red hair streaming out in the breeze. She had on a floppy sun hat and huge sunglasses. She’d brought Simone to this public pool to teach her to swim, but Simone didn’t like the look of the water.

“Come on, baby,” her mom said. When she grinned, her nose wrinkled up, and her freckles danced on her face. “Just jump in. I’ll catch you.” Simone hooked a finger into her mouth, sucking on it, and looked at the water her feet were dangling in. It wasn’t like ocean water. It was clear, and the pool was painted blue. Her feet looked bone white. This water wasn’t safe, she knew. No water was safe. Here it seemed like an old dog that couldn’t bite anymore, but it was still water.

Her mom came to the edge of the pool and, in one swoop, lifted Simone up and put her in the water before she could protest. She bobbed there a moment, the floaties keeping her up, the water lukewarm.

“See? See how easy that is?” her mom asked, crouching down so she was eye-level with Simone. Simone paddled her hands so she was up against her mother and clung to her, as best as the floaties would allow. “Nothin’ to be afraid of,” her mom said. “Just water.”

THE SOUND DIDN’T JUST
wake her; it made her whole body convulse. Simone used the blanket to cover her ears, but it didn’t help. She knew she had been dreaming, and she remembered the smell of chlorine and feeling safe. That was gone now. Instead, there was the sound, the horrible sound that burrowed into her skull like a drill and wouldn’t go away. She opened her eyes. The room, thankfully, was dim, her blinds down, the lights off. She lay on the sofa, still fully clothed and smelling of stale smoke. And still the horrible sound persisted: her phone. It was on the floor, where it had fallen out of her ear. A weak holoprojection shone out of it, the name too blurry to make out. She hit it. Sensing no ear, it went into speaker mode.

“Hey soldier.”

“What do you want, Peter?” Simone rubbed her temples, and stayed on the sofa, eyes closed. It was an awful hangover, but a survivable one.

“Thought you’d want to know, a snitch fingered Linnea St. Michel sometime last night. I didn’t get the call, or else I would’ve told you.”

“Where was she?”

“Trying to score some Foam over on the West Side.” Simone furrowed her brow. Drugs again. Why would she need more?

“That doesn’t make sense,” she said.

“Snitch swears on his mother it was her. They sent some blues over, but she was long gone. Thing is, I know this snitch. We’re not the only ones he talks to.”

“And there are plenty of people looking for Linnea right now,” Simone said, thinking of Dash.

“Yep.”

“Fuck. Thanks for telling me.” Simone tried opening her eyes again but gasped as the light sliced her eyes, julienning them like soft grapes.

“You sailing smooth, there, soldier?”

“Just need a shower,” Simone said, rubbing her face.

Peter paused. “Guess you better take one, then,” he said.

“Yeah. Thanks again.” She hung up on Peter and made her way to the bathroom, where she shook out a handful of painkillers and took them without bothering to count. She tried Linnea’s number again but hung up when she heard the outgoing message. Then she took a shower. She’d screwed things up with Caroline; Linnea had briefly appeared, but was still missing; deCostas was meeting with Marina—The Blonde—and somehow this was all about drugs and art. Simone didn’t know anything about art.

She toweled herself off, feeling a little better, and drank several glasses of water. Then she got dressed and went to her touchdesk. When she turned it on, a screen was already up. Memories came back to her, hazy, sea-glass-stained from last night. She’d been searching the web for Reinel, the name of the artist Caroline had mentioned. Paul Reinel, born in 2063, died 2170. He went to art school in Chicago, then dabbled in painting for a while. But he was most known as a coral sculptor—one of the early ones. When the waters were rising, one of the bits of technology that was quickly born out of desperation was accelerated coral growing for making reefs to keep particularly nasty tides at bay, like breakers. They worked okay for a little while; New York probably still had some sort of reef somewhere around it, though no doubt dead from pollution by now, just a wall of bone. But the technology also led to a fad in the art world, where artists would grow coral, almost like bonsai, into the shapes of animals, plants, humans, or other, less definable forms. Reinel’s work was noted but not actively sought after or especially valuable.

She stared at some images of his art: eerie human forms bending backwards or laying down, arms stretched out as though they were reaching for something. Their outlines rippled because of the coral, so they seemed like they were underwater, drowning. Simone wasn’t an art collector, but she could tell they were good—just not good enough to kill for. And certainly not
valuable
enough to kill for, judging by recent recorded sales. He was just a sculptor who sold some work and taught college art classes. He wasn’t even dead that long. Simone shook her head. She had fucked up things with Caroline getting Reinel’s name, and still hadn’t learned anything new about the case.

She could
try
to fix it at least, she thought. She went online and found a place that sold straws—neon, bendy ones, Caroline’s favorite kind. Simone smiled thinking about Caroline and her straws. Simone had asked her once about it, and Caroline had said she thought it made life a little more fun. Simone shipped a carton of them—enough for a small restaurant—to Caroline’s address. No note. She didn’t know what to say.

The touchdesk beeped, and a reminder popped up. She had a meeting with Pastor Sorenson tonight. Simone leaned back and folded her hands together. That was for the deCostas case—except it wasn’t, really. Sorenson had told her to come alone. It was an excuse to meet with her privately, to talk to her about something else, which is why she decided to go. If it had just been about deCostas . . . Simone wasn’t sure what to do about that. She still hadn’t responded to the message from him. But he’d met with Marina. That meant everything he’d told her could have been a lie, that that little routine where she pointed a gun at him was staged. deCostas didn’t seem like the type to try to play her. Didn’t seem smart enough. Was he that good an actor?

Simone rolled her head. She’d meet with Sorenson, find out what she could about Marina, figure out where the fuck Linnea was, solve this case, and make good with Caroline somehow. After that, she was taking a nice long vacation—and only working cases involving missing pets.