Depth (16 page)

She’d stop by the West Side to ask the junkies about Linnea on her way to the Hearst Building, where Sorenson would be waiting. But before that, she needed to walk, to breathe in the brine of the ocean, and think. She got up, made herself eat some toast, then threw on her trench and hat and headed out.

The day was a damp one, the sea beneath her particularly active, the sky gray, the fog thick. She lit a cigarette as she walked and took a long drag. So that art Trixie had mentioned—this Reinel—was somehow valuable, even though valuable Reinels didn’t exist. The package she had seen Henry pass Marina must have been payment for her services as a broker. And Marina was going around offering up the Reinel sculpture to various people who could afford it—the Khans, Anika, Sorenson. Was deCostas on that list? He was only a student, but he had some funding.

But what coral sculpture could catch the fancy of all of them? The sculpture couldn’t even be that old—no more than a century, which wasn’t much these days. And Reinel wasn’t much more than a footnote in an art history class.

Simone thought of heading to Undertow, but her head still felt soft from the drinking last night. Instead, she turned uptown and walked towards the ferry docks near City Hall. She used to go there when she was little, with her mom. Mom would talk about the mainland, where she’d grown up, and about going back some day. Simone never realized it would be without her. The docks were made of solid wood and stretched out for the mainland so far that if you stood on the end you might think you could see the shoreline. The ferry had already left that morning, so the platform was deserted. Simone sat down on a bench and looked at the water. White froth swirled around the dock legs, all white lines and bubbles, like excited children around a clown. They kept the water clean there, the bridges and buildings, too. When the tourists got off the ferry, they saw a dream of New York, not the real thing. If they were lucky, that’s all they ever saw. The air felt cool on her face as she leaned back, squinting into the sunlight. She took her hat off and put it on her lap, letting the wind blow out her hair. Salt singed her scalp, burning away the toxins from last night, boiling her bad choices out of her.

It felt like she had all the pieces to the puzzle, but they just weren’t fitting together. Why didn’t Linnea just resurface, sell the sculpture, and leave? Maybe Marina had double-crossed her—had murdered Henry, and Linnea had gone into hiding, fearing she’d be next. But then Marina wouldn’t still be shopping the Reinel around. And who had hired Dash? She reached into her pocket and felt for the tracker she’d taken from her hat. She hoped he’d been following her around. At least then she wouldn’t have been the only one wasting her time. But now she knew something, and she didn’t know what she might stumble on next, and didn’t want him to follow her to that, so it was time to return the thing. She stood up and put her hat back on, looking out at the clean water one more time. Then she threw what was left of her cigarette into it and walked away.

DASH’S OFFICE
WAS IN
one of the newer buildings in East Midtown, all sleek, black lines and open expanses of glass daring the ocean to puncture it like a balloon. He kept his apartment and office in the same building, like she did, but his office was downstairs, connected to the apartment by a glass spiral staircase suspended by wires.

It wasn’t very early—she’d gotten a late start—so she was surprised to find the door still locked. Dash sometimes had a secretary; more often, though, one had just quit after he’d slept with her, then her best friend. Or so Simone had heard. She’d only been to his office once before, when they’d been asked to bid on some security work. Dash had probably thought home-court advantage would help him, but Simone had won the job anyway.

It was a plain door with a simple gold plaque on it announcing “The Ormond Agency.” The lock was more complex, with an electronic keypad. Luckily, it was a screen, so Simone leaned over and breathed on it. The 2, 3, 4, and 7 keys all bore fingerprints. Simone rolled her eyes, typed in the numerical equivalent of DASH, and went inside.

It looked like it had last time she was here: black leather sofa in the waiting area, black desk for the receptionist, white walls with chrome detailing. Light poured in through the huge picture windows. The floor was a pale wood. The spiral staircase was the focal point, ethereal and arresting. Simone had never been up it. She knew she shouldn’t snoop too much—Dash hadn’t done that much, he’d only bugged her, and there was a code among private investigators. It was a murky, nebulous code, but rifling through his files would have been a violation. Still, she could poke around.

The staircase made low, hollow notes that sounded like sighs as she walked up. Upstairs was a small balcony with three doors. One was probably his private office, the others his living space and maybe a bathroom. Simone opened the door on the left to find black-and-white tile, a black sink, and a black toilet. She rolled her eyes again and closed the door. The next room was his office, in which there was a black-and-chrome touchdesk—the latest model. She stared at the office a moment. Dash seemed to know why people were after Linnea, and while the code was foggy, she felt she could probably get away with looking through his things, provided she was only looking for something that would help her on her case. Besides, she would gladly trade in the relationship she had with Dash to get back the one she had with Caroline.

She stepped into the room. It was unseasonably warm with all the light coming in through the window. She tried turning on the touchdesk, but it asked for fingerprint validation. Simone pursed her lips. She thought of taking some tape and removing a fingerprint from the keypad, but she didn’t have tape on her and Dash didn’t seem to have any in his office. No filing cabinets either. Everything seemed to be on the touchdesk.

Simone stepped back out onto the balcony and opened the last door, which led to his bedroom. Clothing and rumpled white silk sheets at the foot of the bed. No underwear, Simone noticed.

She headed back downstairs to check the receptionist’s desk for tape. She sat behind it, opening drawers and closing them again, until she heard the click of the lock in the front door. She quickly sat up, leaning back in the chair, her feet up on the desk, as though she’d been waiting.

When Dash opened the door and spotted her, Simone was pleased to see a look of shock on his face before he covered it with a mask of humor and an arched eyebrow.

“Hello, Simone,” he oozed, closing the door behind him. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Well, you said you’d be naked, so I thought I’d take a peek.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” Dash said, walking closer to her. “But I am happy to oblige, if you’ll just let me wash up first.” Simone cocked her head as if considering.

“I have some time,” she said.

“Lucky for both of us.” He went upstairs and into the bathroom, where Simone could hear the water running, then came back down, his hat, gloves, overcoat, and jacket all gone. He wore a patterned button-down shirt—gray check on white—a red tie, and black slacks. He loosened, then undid the tie as he walked back towards the desk. He slipped the tie off his collar like a whip crack and put it down on the desk in front of Simone, then smiled at her. Then he began to undo the buttons of his shirt, keeping eye contact with Simone the whole time, a perpetual smirk on his face that she mirrored. He finished unbuttoning his shirt entirely and let it hang open as he took off his belt. His bronze stomach muscles looked somehow polished. When he undid the first button of his fly, Simone put up her hand to stop him.

“As much fun as this show is,” she said, “I’m really here to return this.” She reached into her pocket and took out the bug she’d found in her hat. “I think you must have dropped it at my place.”

“Ah,” Dash said, not rebuttoning anything and taking the tracker. “Thank you. These things are expensive.”

“You don’t use the dissolving kind?” Simone asked.

“Not in cases when it’s just a hunch and I don’t know how long I’ll need to follow. It was really just a backup plan. I always have a backup plan.”

“I don’t know where Linnea is,” Simone said.

“I gathered that,” Dash said. “I’ve been watching your movements. You seem as confused as I am.”

“I am,” Simone said. It came out as more of a threat than a confession. “So what do you know?” She didn’t want to team up, exactly, but she didn’t mind sharing a little information, as long as it was on her terms.

“Linnea was selling something. My client wants it.”

“The Reinel,” Simone replied. “And I’m assuming your client, having hired you, is the sort who would prefer to get the Reinel for under the asking price?”

“
Au contraire
,” Dash said, walking over towards the windows. “My client just wants to be sure that they get what’s coming to them.” Dash slipped off his shirt. His back was to Simone, but Simone was appreciating the view. He threw himself onto the sofa, stretching out on it, face to the ceiling.

“You mean because The Blonde—Marina—is auctioning it off? Your client is afraid of being outbid?”

“Precisely. Or of the goods not being delivered. Or of the Reinel not being what everyone seems to think it is.”

Simone stood and walked over to the sofa, looming over Dash. “And what does everyone seem to think it is?”

Dash looked up at her, appraising. His body was damp with the first pinpricks of sweat, his muscles highlighted, his skin honey gold. “That they haven’t told me. Just that it’s not about the art, but what’s in the art. I keep picturing a chocolate egg with a prize inside. I was hoping you’d know.”

“Nope,” Simone said. “All I know is there shouldn’t be any piece by Reinel that’s worth this much trouble.”

“Everything is trouble to somebody,” Dash said, reaching out and taking her wrist. “I was hoping we might cause a little trouble for each other.” Simone considered it, could feel Dash tugging her onto him, and could imagine that it would be fun to just fall. To forget for a while. Even with Dash. But she didn’t trust him—didn’t even think he was a good person. But she could get around that, she thought, looking at the curves of muscle on his stomach, his shoulders, his hips. But there was too much happening. She needed to stay afloat right now. Solve the thing. Then she could relax.

“Tempting,” Simone said, pulling her hand away. “But let’s wait till the case is closed. Then we’ll celebrate.”

“Tease,” Dash said. Simone smiled and started walking for the door. “So where did you plant your tracker?” he called after her. “Tit for tat, right? One of my belts?” Simone turned and waved over her shoulder, then walked out the door.

Outside, Simone stretched and let her body cool down in the open air. She didn’t know everything yet. But she finally felt like she knew enough to start putting the pieces together. She needed to know more about the Reinel, and what could be hidden inside. There was only one other person she knew who had seen it. She hoped he’d see her without an appointment. She told her earpiece to call Mr. Ryan’s line. He picked up after four rings.

“Ms. Pierce,” he said. He sounded primped and prepared as always, as though her calling was no surprise at all. “What can I do for you today?”

“I was hoping for another art history lesson. On Paul Reinel.”

On the other end of the line, Mr. Ryan paused. Simone could hear the sound of a glass being clinked down on marble. “And when were you hoping for this lesson?” he asked, his tone exactly the same.

“Today,” Simone said. “If you’re available.”

“Come by at five.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ryan.”

“And, Ms. Pierce, let me be frank: I don’t give away anything for free
except
art history lessons. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely.”

“Excellent. I look forward to our meeting, then. See you at five.” He hung up without waiting for a reply. Simone checked the time on her earpiece holoscreen. She still had a few hours, and there were a few more places where she could fish for information.

First she headed west, to where the junkies and bums lived. The buildings there, the high rises of what was once Chelsea and Hell’s Kitchen, had been some of the first coated in Glassteel, before the formula was perfected, and so they stood, but they were crumbling faster than everywhere else. They were also usually the first to get hit by storms. The buildings had probably been nice once—large buildings filled with spacious family condos—but now they were rotting and always smelled like mold. People who were down on their luck, who were still determined to rise up and live as good a life as New York could offer, had the old penthouses. There it didn’t smell so bad, and no one else bothered them. They just had to deal with walking up dozens of flights of stairs and the knowledge that when a storm hit, they were the most likely to get blown away.

Everyone else in the area lived on the lower floors, where whole apartments had been cleared out, with cheap plaster walls or curtains for privacy. People shared molding mattresses and threw plastic tarps on the floor to keep it dry. A lot of these people were Foam addicts, and they stuck together, forming dens and packs; the rest had just given up and stared out their windows all day. Their view wasn’t of the city, just of the huge expanse of ocean, and Simone thought that to them it probably looked tempting, like a future they were waiting for because they were too tired or scared to go outside and claim it themselves. Simone understood that. The edges of the city—the flat foreverness of the ocean—appealed to her. These places were quiet and peaceful. When the sun cast long lines of light on them they looked like a good place to die.

Simone knew some junkies and dealers and walked around the neighborhood looking for them. It was chilly, and the water seemed especially black. The bridges here were thin, reedy things that creaked underfoot and groaned like old instruments. The smell was worse than in the rest of the city—from rotten wood and rust, and the damp smell of people who hadn’t bathed. Simone stuffed her hands in her pockets and kept her feet firm.