Depth (13 page)

—Anika

Simone sighed and knocked the package into the trash, then picked it out again and brought it to her office, where she put it on top of her 3D printer. Makeup was good for disguises sometimes. She remembered what Anika had told her—that The Blonde was peddling bullshit. And Anika was a smart woman; Simone trusted her judgment, usually—though she could have been lying, too, to throw Simone off the trail. No one else seemed to think it was bullshit. Not even Caroline.

At least Anika wasn’t holding her responsible for the cops’ questioning her. If Simone made it through all this, she didn’t want to lose a client.

She went to the bathroom and ran a bath. She shouldn’t have snapped at Peter or gotten so suspicious. She wasn’t sure who she could trust right now—not when even Caroline was hiding something.

Maybe Caroline didn’t know, Simone told herself, stepping into the water and sinking beneath it. Maybe she was just friends with a dangerous woman. Maybe she was in danger herself. But Simone couldn’t believe that. Caroline was the best judge of character Simone had ever seen; she saw through people and knew exactly what they were. She knew who she was dealing with. And that meant that she was as dangerous as The Blonde.

Simone held her breath under the water for as long as she could before coming up for air. It was always good to practice holding your breath. You never knew when you might end up going under.

SEVEN

DECOSTAS’ HOTEL
WAS ONE
of the cheap tourist places, moored with a big, flashy chain to one of the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge. The towers were a few stories over the water, the suspension cables still coming off them, like stage curtains sloping down into the water. At one point, someone had proposed using the bridge towers as the base for a new bridge, but there had been protests that it would ruin the view. Instead there were boats secured all along the side with bridges running between them, usually lined in tourists, taking photos of the headstone-like masonry.

When Simone showed up, deCostas was already on deck staring at the cables, which dripped with rust and seaweed. Simone glanced up at them but quickly looked away. She’d never liked the rusted cords; they reminded her too much of bloody rope. Instead, she let her eyes run down deCostas’ back to his ass and linger there for a moment before tapping him on the shoulder. He turned around, his face surprised for a moment, harder than Simone had seen it, but then it quickly melted into the usual flirtatious smile as he handed her one of the cups of coffee he was holding, still hot.

“You taking the price of that out of my fee?” Simone asked.

“It’s a gift,” deCostas said. “A thank-you for still being my guide after I stuck my nose where it did not belong.”

“Yeah,” Simone said, taking the coffee, “but if you think you can buy me back with a six-dollar coffee, you haven’t been paying attention to my fees.” She wasn’t really angry with him anymore. She’d known he was senseless when she took him along trailing The Blonde; what he’d hired her for had already proven that.

“I know. You saved my life.” He blew on his coffee, more slowly than necessary.

“She wasn’t going to shoot you.”

“How do you know?”

“She was making a point. If she’d shot you, I would have shot her, and maybe she would have dodged it, maybe not, but it wasn’t worth the risk for her.”

deCostas nodded and sipped his coffee. “Can I ask what you were talking about?”

“You can ask, but I won’t answer. Another case. Confidential.”

“I think you like keeping secrets.”

“Only the ones you’re curious about.” Simone smiled as she sipped her coffee. “But we can walk and flirt. We shouldn’t be late.” She turned and walked away, leaving him to catch up.

“What is this place? I thought One Wall Street was just a rental building.”

“It is . . . of a sort. It’s all run by Mr. Ryan. He rents the space to a lot of people.”

“A lot of people?”

“Yes.” deCostas had caught up to her, so she walked a little faster. “The floors have all been emptied out, nonbearing walls torn down—but historical embellishments preserved, like the marble floors. It’s a beautiful space—clean, open, well lit, totally protected. Mr. Ryan employs some serious muscle to keep it safe.”

“Why?”

“At night, various renters gather there and sell their wares in a . . . nonjudgmental environment.”

“You mean stolen goods?”

“Stolen, laundered, illegal. It’s a bazaar, a real black market. It’s where everyone goes to sell. People from all over the world come here because Mr. Ryan keeps it safe and organizes auctions for the more . . . unique items. He auctions them off personally, hiding the owner’s identity, issues invitations to those he knows can afford it and would want it, and he takes only a small cut of the profits. There are a million places in the city to buy illegal whatever. But if you want the good stuff, you go to One Wall Street.”

“And he’s going to let me throw something down the stairwell?”

“Mr. Ryan is powerful enough to be a generally nice guy. No one is going to mess with him, and if someone does, he’ll find out about it before anything bad happens, and then that person . . . well, he hires people for that. And he knows me. I’ve shown up as a representative for a buyer a few times, and he’s hired me as an extra pair of eyes in the auction room. He trusts me. Or at least, he’s unconcerned by me. And you.” Simone took a long drink of her coffee, but it was cold, so she threw it in the nearest trash can.

“You know a lot of people.”

“It’s my job. This city is a web of important people and favors and secrets. I need to know those people, be owed those favors, and keep those secrets. Otherwise I’m not worth what you’re paying me.”

“Do you charge more than most detectives in the city?”

“Yeah, but I’m worth it, aren’t I?” She shot him a sidelong glance. He was grinning. Simone did charge more than most, but there weren’t many to compare her to. In the whole city, there were maybe a dozen private detectives. And they were all good. There were always a couple more who opened up shop every other month, but they were gone within a week or two—found by the recycling boats or, if they were lucky, making waves back to the mainland when they realized they were in over their heads. Simone had been around a long time, and she had inherited her father’s business, so she thought she was probably one of the best. Her and Dash. And neither of them could find Linnea. She couldn’t still be in the city, could she?

Mr. Ryan had preserved the outside of One Wall Street like a picture postcard. It was a perfect monolith. Straight angles, evenly spaced windows, rising fifty stories high from the bottom of the ocean, twenty-nine above water. Deco designs framed every window, gold lines against the gray stone. It could have been an incredibly elegant tomb. No one went in or out during the day, and there was just one narrow steel bridge to the small doorway. It was almost invisible in the shadow of the Freedom Tower complex, with its condos and fancy barge-parks where the wealthy walked their dogs.

Simone walked down the bridge, motioning deCostas to stay behind her. There was a small buzzer next to the closed door, surrounded by more gold lines. Simone rang it once. The door opened to a woman who filled the frame completely. She was tall, broad, and not smiling.

“We don’t open until after sunset,” she said.

“My name is Simone Pierce, this is Alejandro deCostas. Mr. Ryan is expecting us.”

The woman nodded, apparently unsurprised, and stepped aside to let them pass. Inside was a wide hallway. The whole area was tiled in pink-and-black marble. She closed the door behind them.

“You’re ten minutes early,” she said.

“I know how Mr. Ryan hates people to be late,” Simone said. “We’ll wait for him.” The woman didn’t say anything but stepped in front of the closed door. Motioning deCostas to follow her, Simone walked down the hallway, which led to a large room. It was spotlight-bright, sun pouring in through huge windows, reflecting off marble tiles and bouncing everywhere like an insect trapped in a jar. Simone could hear the soft patter of the waves against the windows. The room was entirely empty except for the elevators and two stairwell doors. A single painting hung opposite the elevators. Simone walked over to get a closer look. She had never been in One Wall Street during the day. Usually it was so crowded with people, she’d never even noticed the painting.

“I thought there would be stalls or shops or something,” deCostas said.

“Everyone brings their own setup. They clean up their own problems that way,” Simone said, looking at the painting. It wasn’t particularly large—perhaps three-and-a-half feet tall and four-and-a-half wide—and was framed in the same gilded color as the window adornments. It was a subtle sort of painting. Simone understood why she had passed over it before, but now it drew her in.

It was yellow, golden really, and showed an ancient port at sunset. There were ships coming in, moored right next to the stone docks that cropped out of great columns. Not really docks, actually. Just . . . a courtyard. Framed by the sea on one side. Across from that were more columns, like the walls of a building emerging from the ocean. People were everywhere, not minding the ships parked around them.

“Claude Lorrain,” came a voice, echoing across the empty room. Simone turned. Mr. Ryan was a narrow, elegantly dressed man, with a shaved head and a thin line of a mustache. She had never seen him wearing anything besides a tailored suit, complete with pocket square, and today was no different. He had a faint accent—something European, maybe, or pretending to be European. He smiled at Simone. “Please, keep admiring it. That is what it is there for. But I am afraid people get so caught up in the goings-on that they never even notice.”

Simone turned around again, staring at the painting. Mr. Ryan stepped up next to her, and they looked at it together. She could feel herself looking to where his eyes looked, trying to take in what he was seeing. “It was painted in the 1630s or ’40s. Lorrain was a landscape painter—very influential. Painters copied his style for generations. He painted many seaports, but this one is my favorite, so I took pains to acquire it. I love the light, the liveliness of it. It’s like a city on water. Perhaps it makes me happy to know that we are not the first.” He sighed happily as though this were a private joke between Simone and him. “It has two titles. Some call it
Th
e Return of Odysseus
, and some call it
Odysseus Returns Chryseis to Her Father
. In the former case, it would be after the Trojan War, at the end of
Th
e
Odyssey
, when Odysseus finally returns home to his ever-faithful wife, Penelope, strings his bow, and slays her suitors. . . . In the case of the latter, it would be one of the first acts of contrition during the Trojan War, as Agamemnon has Odysseus deliver the captured Chryseis to her father to end a plague. But it just makes the war longer and bloodier. It could be about a man giving in to the gods, or it could be about one returning home after triumphing over them. I like that about it, too.”

“I’m sorry I never noticed it before,” Simone said. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you’ve noticed it now.”

“It looks like New York would, if things were simpler.”

“It is either the beginning or end of a war, Ms. Pierce. Surely that is just as complex as now?”

“In war, you’re given orders,” Simone said. “Here, you just make them up for yourself.”

Mr. Ryan ran his thumb over his chin, considering. “Maybe so, but we are not here for art history lessons or philosophical debates. This is your Mr. deCostas?” deCostas had been standing back and away from them, as if wary.

“It is. He just wants to see the stairwell and drop one of his devices down it. Show Mr. Ryan the device.”

deCostas pulled one of the small marble devices from his jacket pocket and held it up. Mr. Ryan approached and examined it without taking it.

“How do I know it isn’t a bomb?”

“Because I’m sure one of your detectors in the hallway would have told you if it was. How many do you have now? Twenty-six?” Mr. Ryan smiled but waved a finger at her.

“It would be foolish for me to tell you that. But you are correct. I know the device has a wireless signal, but it does not convert audio or visual data, so I see no reason to keep it from the bottom of the ocean. Come!” He clapped his hands. “Let me show you the stairs.” He walked them over to the stairwell and opened the door. It wasn’t even locked. Mr. Ryan probably never had to worry about anyone getting as far as the stairs. The stairwell itself was like the rest of the building—pristine and cleanly ornate. Even the water lapping against the stairs seemed cleaner somehow. deCostas stepped forward and knelt down to examine the water while Simone and Mr. Ryan hung back in the doorway.

“Was there something else you wanted, Ms. Pierce?” Mr. Ryan asked, sotto voce. Simone shook her head. “I have heard that you are Linnea St. Michel’s assistant these days.”

“Some people seem to think so,” Simone answered carefully. What did the St. Michel case have to do with Mr. Ryan?

“And are you?”

“Do you think I’d answer that?”

Mr. Ryan murmured a small laugh. “A good point. Well, if you happen to run into her, please let Ms. St. Michel know that if she is in need of funds and is willing to sell the object she once approached me about, I could put an auction together within a day. It would fetch a hefty price.”

Simone watched deCostas carefully take a water sample.

“Would it?”

“Yes, it would. But I’m not giving you another art history lesson, Ms. Pierce. Either you know the object’s worth or you don’t. I begin to suspect you don’t.”

deCostas dropped the small marble into the water and watched it fall away. Then he took out his notebook and began making notes.

“Linnea doesn’t tell me everything. I didn’t know she had approached you about the object at all.”

“Once. But then she changed her mind. Very disappointing. But if you should run into her . . .”

“I’ll give her the message. Thank you, Mr. Ryan.”

deCostas put the notebook away and stood back up, turning around to face them.

“All done,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I am a friend of education and archeology, Mr. deCostas. I hope you will remember me if you uncover anything.”

“Of course,” deCostas said. “Thank you again.”

Mr. Ryan nodded and gestured that they should go out of the stairwell ahead of him. He followed them and closed the door. This time he locked it.

“It has been a pleasure as always, Ms. Pierce. And charming meeting you, Mr. deCostas. I hope your expedition to our City on the Sea is fruitful.” He bowed slightly, but did not shake hands. “Ms. Antiphates will show you out.”

The large woman who had opened the door for them appeared and gestured that they should follow her.

“I’m hoping for another art history lesson sometime soon, Mr. Ryan,” Simone said as she followed the woman.

“As am I, Ms. Pierce,” Mr. Ryan said. Simone turned around and flashed him a grin. He was standing exactly where they had left him, watching them walk down the hallway. Simone imagined him staying there, watching, until they were out the door and Ms. Antiphates locked it behind him again.

“That was pretty easy,” deCostas said.

“Yeah. The next one is easier. 590 Madison is residential, no doorman. We should be able to walk in and check out the stairwell. Clinton Tower is the same as the Broecker Building, just not as fancy. I have an appointment for four p.m. We’ll take the elevator, cancel, hop into the stairwell, and then run.”