Depth (17 page)

Her few contacts didn’t have any new information for her. Neither did the junkies she found lying in the corners of bridges, their mouths white, their eyes vacant, almost looking drowned, breathing heavily. Yeah, they said, a woman who looked like Linnea had been around. She’d scored some Foam, pocketed it, and vanished downtown. No one had seen her today, though. That was it. Maybe Linnea was a former MouthFoamer, falling back on old habits because of the stress. But Simone didn’t think so. That stuff left permanent damage—a glazed look, like only being half awake—and Linnea hadn’t shown any signs of that.

Next stop was back downtown, to Above Water Exports/Imports. It was open, despite it being Sunday. Lou was inside, going through some large crates that now filled the room. She had her back to the door and didn’t turn around when Simone shut the door behind her.

“We’re not really open today,” she said, “I just had to be here to accept this shipment.”

“I’m not here to buy, Lou,” Simone said, walking towards her.

“Oh,” Lou said, turning around, “the shamus. Sober by now, I hope?” She raised an eyebrow as Simone sauntered forward, nodding. “You can help me get this lamp out, then.” She jabbed at the crate with her thumb, then stepped away from it, took a cigarette out of her pocket, and lit it. Simone looked over the top of the crate—about the same height as Lou—and saw that the lamp was stuck under a rocking chair. It was a heavy desk lamp, curving around like a spring or an ancient staircase overrun with trees. Simone managed to unhook it and hand it to Lou, who was by now haloed in smoke.

“Thanks,” Lou said, taking the lamp under one arm, cigarette still in hand. She walked over to her desk and put the lamp down, evaluating it. “What are you doing here?”

“I think Henry was killed because of a sculpture he found in your inventory.”

“Why would Linnea kill him for a sculpture?” Lou asked, blowing smoke out her mouth. She folded an arm over her chest, looking unimpressed.

“If it
was
Linnea, it was because they were trying to sell it. For a lot. The art is by Reinel. You have anything in storage?”

Lou raised her eyebrows, then started to laugh. “Reinel? Who would kill for a Reinel? The man was nobody special.”

Simone shrugged. “I know. But that’s where the evidence is pointing, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe someone thought this art was worth killing for.”

Lou shook her head and went to her touchdesk, where she typed a few things with the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette. The smoke was making Simone want a cigarette, too, so she fished one out of her pocket.

“No smoking in here,” Lou said, glancing up from her table screen. “At least not that crap. Here, take one of mine.” She tossed Simone her pack.

“Thanks,” Simone said. She took one and lit it. It tasted like burnt earth and melting sugar.

“We had a Reinel a few years back, but we sold it to a small museum in Brazil. Nothing since then.”

Simone walked closer and handed the cigarettes back to Lou, still breathing deeply, enjoying the beautiful filth of the tobacco.

“And you don’t know why a Reinel would be valuable?” Simone asked. Lou shook her head.

“They’re nice sculptures, and they’re early coral work, but he never made a big splash. Only an insanely rabid collector would kill for one. Only someone stupid would pay more than . . . maybe twenty grand for one of his really big pieces, or a bust of someone famous, maybe. But those are all in museums.” She shrugged, rippling the cloud of smoke around her.

“That’s what I thought. This whole thing makes no sense.”

“Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“That’s fine. Thanks for the cigarette. I gotta get to an art history lesson.”

Lou snorted a laugh. “And I was just starting to like you.” Lou headed back towards the crates, not turning back around. Simone looked after her, wanting to bum another cigarette for later, but instead turned around and left. It was almost five.

TEN

ONE WALL STREET
HAD
an edge of anticipation about it early in the evening, especially on an overcast one like this. The lights were on, glowing an angry yellow through the windows and fog, and people milled around nearby, waiting for the doors to open but trying to look like they weren’t. They cast occasional glances at the door and then at each other. Their faces varied from angry to ashamed, but none of them looked friendly. Simone could feel their stares as she walked down the bridge to the door and pressed the buzzer.

Ms. Antiphates opened the door quickly and, seeing Simone, stepped aside. Once Simone was inside, she slammed the door closed.

“Mr. Ryan is waiting on the twenty-fifth floor,” Ms. Antiphates said, walking down the hall to the main room. Inside, the room was midway transformed: merchants’ stalls, only halfway set up, looked like skeletons, just metal poles suggesting frames. Soon there would be walls made of curtains, draped over and around, and signs listing vendor names and available goods. Most of the merchandise was still in locked trunks, though a few merchants were laying things out in clear cases. Simone saw guns and jewelry, exotic spices and foods, and plenty of alcohol. Some of what was sold there was legal in the mainland but taxed to the point where it was only affordable to the obscenely rich; the jewelry especially—the “vanity tax,” they called it. Women couldn’t wear pants without getting fined, but they were allowed to wear jewelry, if they could afford it.

“This way,” Ms. Antiphates said, summoning an elevator. Simone turned away from the stalls and followed her into the elevator. Simone had only been to the upper floors of One Wall Street once before, for her initial interview with Mr. Ryan when he was deciding if he could hire her for anything. It hadn’t just been her, then. It was her father, too. She was the junior, the apprentice, but Ryan had interviewed them both as though they were partners, and Simone’s dad didn’t correct him. Simone felt tougher after that. Today she didn’t feel tougher. The elevator moved quickly, and for a few seconds she felt seasick.

The doors opened onto a hallway lined in red-and-gold mosaics. Standing in the center of the hall, waiting as though the walls were spreading out from him like fiery wings, was Mr. Ryan, in a navy suit and red tie, holding a walking cane.

“The last time you were here was with your father, wasn’t it?” Mr. Ryan asked before she could even step out.

“Yeah. I was just remembering that, too,” Simone said, stepping into the hallway.

“I’m sorry if the memory is unpleasant,” he said. “I only just remembered when the door opened. I had a memory of a young woman—you were what, eighteen?” Simone nodded. “Eighteen and already a detective. Your father was nervous, I remember, but you just stared at me with that quiet smile you have, like you were never going to be defeated. You didn’t wear a hat back then. Your hair blended with the walls . . .” Mr. Ryan motioned at them with his walking cane. “They were originally on the first floor, these mosaics. They were removed when the waters rose. It took me nearly a year to get them back once I’d bought the place, and more than a little finger-breaking.” Simone said nothing, the flickering shadow of her father at the edges of her vision. He was tall back then—not like when she found his body. He seemed so small then. “Well, come along. Let’s get to your lesson.”

Mr. Ryan nodded once at Ms. Antiphates, who disappeared behind the closing elevator doors. He turned and walked down the hall, and Simone followed.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said. “I know it’s short notice and an odd request.”

“Ms. Pierce,” Mr. Ryan said without turning around, “I am happy to tell you all I know about Paul Reinel. But I suspect you’re here because you want to know about a specific piece of his, yes?”

“Yes,” Simone admitted.

“Do you in fact represent Ms. St. Michel, and has she sent you here to ask me to auction off the piece in my little market?”

Simone considered lying but knew it would be a stupid lie, the kind that was sure to get her in trouble and lose her a regular client.

“No,” she said. “I’m here because I know that it’s a Reinel now, but I don’t know what would make a Reinel important, or worth killing for. And I need to figure it out, because right now I’m suspect number one.” And Caroline is suspect number two, Simone thought, with half the city lining up to join her. Ryan opened a door and led Simone into a white room with a white bar, white sofas, and a white carpet. The glasses on the bar were white, the table was white. It was all a canvas, a display for the one thing in the room that wasn’t white: a large sculpture in the center of the table. It was a deep, dried-blood red, and had a texture that looked like thousands of tubes facing out, packed so closely together that it seemed soft. The sculpture was of a naked woman reclining on a low table. Her legs were stretched out to the side, bent, and a robe or shawl was draped loosely around her. In one hand, she held what looked like a branch, and around her were animals—pigs, goats, and a cat. They all looked at her, pleadingly, but she looked straight ahead, her expression an invitation.

“
Circe
,” Mr. Ryan said. “One of Reinel’s earlier coral pieces. The only one I have. It’s made from pipe-organ coral, which was unusual. Most of the coral sculptors used something less fussy, like fan or lettuce coral—the sort of thing people expected. This is his only piece in the pipe organ. I love the texture of it and, of course, that color.” Simone approached the statue, wanting to touch it. Circe’s gaze was magnetic. “Would you like something to drink?” Mr. Ryan asked, going behind the bar. “I’m going to have a glass of the white Bordeaux.”

“Sure, thanks,” Simone said, still staring at Circe. She was beautiful, but beautiful enough to kill for? And how was it more than just a sculpture? Dash had said he thought it was like a chocolate egg, but Simone couldn’t picture anything
inside
the coral. Mr. Ryan handed her a glass of wine and sat on the sofa in front of the sculpture. Simone sat next to him.

“So you want to know what makes a Reinel worth killing for. Does seeing one answer your question?”

“No,” Simone shook her head. “It’s beautiful, Mr. Ryan, but . . . to kill for? I expected something people could say is worth something, something concrete.”

“You don’t think people would kill to possess something beautiful?”

Simone was silent. She took a long drink of her wine. It tasted expensive and heavy.

“Maybe,” she finally conceded. “But I’ve been told it’s not the art that’s worth killing over. It’s something
in
the art. Or maybe about the art. And unless you can crack this open—and I don’t think anyone would do that—I don’t see what it could be.”

She still had one more stop before her meeting with Sorenson. She didn’t have more time for art appreciation. She had thought that with Reinel’s name she would be closer to solving this, to getting herself out of Kluren’s gold spotlights, to getting rid of The Blonde, and to getting her friendship with Caroline fixed. But she didn’t feel closer to any of those things. She felt like she was in a white room, drinking wine, and staring at a bloodstain shaped like a person.

Mr. Ryan stood and walked around the statue, regarding it.

“His early coral work is more daring. More beautiful,” he said. “After this, he becomes just another coral sculptor. Early for the technique, yes, but not exciting. Not interesting. A shame.”

“What does that have to do with his art being something else?” Simone asked.

“He started as a painter, you know,” Mr. Ryan continued, as though Simone hadn’t said anything. “In general, I actually prefer his paintings. They weren’t just paintings; they were almost mixed media.”

“But—” Simone tried to interrupt, but before she could speak, Mr. Ryan brought his cane down on the floor in a loud thud.

“I promised you an art history lesson, Simone,” he said quietly. “I’m giving you one because I saw in your eyes a genuine interest and appreciation when you looked at the painting downstairs. I saw you become, for just a moment, something more. I saw it again when you looked at Circe here. That’s something art does to some people. Not many, unfortunately. But I saw it in you, and I want to encourage it. I’m not here to solve your problems or solve your cases or give you some vital clue.” He paused, and his face softened, his voice became lighter and smooth, like the oil coating a frying pan. “Unless, of course, you’d care to give me something in return?”

“Something like what?”

“There’s an item coming into the city in a month or so. I want it. Would you be willing to retrieve it for me?”

“Like an escort?” Simone asked, but she knew that wasn’t what he meant. He shook his head.

“Like a thief, Ms. Pierce,” he said. Simone took another sip of her wine.

“I’d like to hear more about Reinel,” she said softly.

“As I was saying, I prefer Mr. Reinel’s paintings. Generally. Circe is certainly more impressive than any of his early paintings, but he had a style in his brushwork: hard, glamorous. Common people he met on the street looked like movie stars. And they were fused into objects around them—hair turns into streets on a map, lips become bridges.”

“Maps?” Simone asked. Mr. Ryan’s lips turned up at this, but then he shook his head slightly, as if a little sad.

“His early work involved taking photos with an old-fashioned smartphone. This was just when the water was rising. He’d mark on his map the place where the photo was taken. In his studio, he would project both these images over each other, onto a canvas, and from that he would paint. He would combine the scene and the map. And then he’d spray the whole thing with Privilux, so no one could take a photo of it. He said it was about art from media; but media from art from media was one too many layers. He needed his work to be appreciated in person.”

“So he painted a scene with a map, and it couldn’t be photographed,” Simone said, standing. “It’s a treasure map.”

Mr. Ryan sighed with disappointment. “Do you want an art history lesson, Ms. Pierce, or do you want to solve the case?”

Simone stared at Circe. “I want both, Mr. Ryan. That’s the truth. But I need to solve the case first. Can you tell me what Linnea’s Reinel was a map to?”

“Are you willing to pick up the object next month?”

Simone shook her head. “But I’ll work security for you—free.”

“It’s my job to know the value of a thing,” Mr. Ryan said, shaking his head. “This information is worth more.”

“It is,” Simone agreed. She needed to know what the map led to. She felt suddenly so close, as though there was merely one more wall to be scaled. “Can I get back to you?”

“You’re going to go try to figure it out yourself, you mean, and if you can’t, then you’ll come back to me?”

“Yes.” Simone saw no point in lying to him.

“I’ll allow that, but you’re giving me that free security no matter what. Five nights’ worth.”

“Two,” Simone said.

“Let’s just say three then,” Mr. Ryan said. “And you will come back for a real art history lesson. I miss having people to share my collection with. I miss seeing that look. That look used to be like home for me.”

“I promise,” Simone said. She reached out and shook Mr. Ryan’s hand. “And thank you.”

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I won’t wish you luck. In fact, I hope you have to come back to me. I would very much like that object, and Mr. Ormond’s rates keep going up. Besides, he’s so much less pleasant than you.”

“Everyone is less pleasant than me,” Simone said, downing the last of her wine in one gulp. She put the glass down on the bar.

“There are degrees, though.” Mr. Ryan opened his mouth as if to say something else but closed it again, then extended his arm for Simone to take. “Let’s take the elevator down together, shall we?”

Simone was silent as they walked through the hallway, reminded again of her father.

“You thought my father was scared, the time we came to see you?” Simone asked as they got in the elevator.

“Oh yes. Terrified. I’m familiar with the look.”

“I never thought he was afraid of anything.” The elevator plummeted downward.

“That’s probably how it should be with fathers and daughters,” Mr. Ryan said. Simone remembered the flash of red on her father’s temple when she found him, like a button oddly sewn onto the leather of his remaining skin.

“Probably,” she said. The doors opened on the lobby, which was now fully alive. The people who had been waiting furtively outside prowled the hall, going from stall to stall—the empty frames now plush, silk-lined tents, like some sort of ancient bazaar. It smelled of gunpowder and spice, bitter and acidic and dusty all at once. People spoke softly, but there were enough of them so that it was like a cool murmur blending with the waves outside. When customers wanted to buy something—an antique pistol or a pound of un–genetically modified peanuts—they flashed their wristpieces and transferred money directly into the seller’s account. Money was moved around, but nothing was bought on paper, so no taxes applied. The system had been put into place by the mainland to help the very wealthy manage their finances, but it worked well for the black market as well. This sort of thing couldn’t exist on the mainland. All it would take was one loyal citizen calling it in, and everyone would go to prison. Too risky, there. In New York, no one cared. It was part of doing business.

“I don’t suppose you’re looking to buy anything tonight?” Mr. Ryan asked, dropping his arm. “We have a few art dealers in.”

“I can’t afford any of this, and you know it,” Simone said. “And besides, I’m late. I need to get to church.”

Mr. Ryan clutched at his chest as though having a heart attack. Simone almost leapt to help him before she realized he was joking.

“A pastor wants to see me. Don’t worry, if he tries to reform me, it won’t take.”

“I should hope not.”

“Thanks again, Mr. Ryan. I’ll be back for the next lesson.”

“And for that free security you promised. I’ll send you the dates.”

“Sure,” Simone said, shaking his hand before taking off for the door. The crowd was getting thicker as she walked, and people pressed up against her in a surge before she could get outside.