“He looks legit. Everything checks out.”
“Good.”
Danny stood and walked over to the printer. “What’re you doing for him?”
“He wants to explore the city, looking for places where the buildings have held so that you can go down below the twenty-first floor,” Simone said with a grin.
“A tunnel hunter?” Danny said, sounding excited.
Simone arched an eyebrow. “Don’t get enthusiastic about the idiot stuff, Danny.”
“So I should be like you and save my enthusiasm for cigarettes and silly hats?” he asked with a smirk. He looked down at the printer and tapped it idly with his finger as it oozed plastic into a neat white sheet. Simone folded her arms. Danny was terrible at keeping anything to himself, you just had to wait. He looked up again suddenly. “But it’s not so stupid, you know.”
“Yes it is,” Simone fired back before the last syllable had left his mouth.
“There were all these companies when the waters first started rising,” Danny said, waving his hands—a gesture that looked particularly absurd as he was still in costume. “Aquatube, C-Rail, the Waide Corporation—they were all working on building tunnels so they could control trade between here and the mainland. I read all about them when I was coming here. They knew that—”
“I grew up in the city, Danny,” Simone interrupted. “If there were some underground pipeline to the mainland, I’d know about it. No one could keep that secret.” Danny shrugged and looked back at the printer. It was nearly done, the card baking in a red light. “OK, then, you’re the one who literally has information on any server or cloud. Can you genuinely tell me that, with all that information, you believe there is a working pipeline?”
Danny turned one corner of his mouth up as if both amused and sad. “No, of course not. It doesn’t exist. But it would be cool, though, wouldn’t it? An underwater train?”
“It would make our connection to the mainland much stronger; they’d have more control, could enforce all those federal decency laws no one obeys out here, and find you a lot more easily. Be happy there’s no pipeline. And I’ll be happy there are people dumb enough to pay me to help them find it anyway.”
“Yeah,” Danny said, his shoulders slumping. “Still. It would be cool to ride an underwater train. I wonder if it would have windows.”
Simone patted him lightly on the back. “I’ll take to you the Carnival Ship sometime. They have a little train ride for kids that goes through a tunnel that’s also an aquarium—water all around. I rode it once. It was pretty cool.”
“How is Peter these days?” Danny asked with a sudden smile. Simone narrowed her eyes. She had, in fact, been on the Carnival Ship with Peter.
“Is that ready yet?” Simone asked, pointing at the IRID in the printer. Danny took it out and fanned it in the air to dry.
“What, we can talk about my stupid excitement over a train, but not your stupid decisions with men?” Simone stayed silent, her arms refolding in fluid motions. “Fine, fine,” he said, grinning. He held out the IRID to her. “Here, press down with your thumb so it can get the initial scan.” She did so, placing her thumb on the small square next to her face on the card. The scanner on the card lit up for a moment and then buzzed gently. “All done. Here you are, Alexis Foyle, of Maple Leaf Importing. All your data is in order.”
“Fantastic,” Simone said, standing and taking them.
“What does tunnel hunting have to do with Canadian importing, anyway?” he asked.
“Nothing. Different cases.”
“Don’t overwork yourself.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Are you still using your infrared-blocking wallet?” he asked.
“Sure, of course.”
“I can feel your real IRID’s signature. It must have a hole. You should get a new one if you’re going to carry two IRIDs around.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that when I have a moment. You want to come out with Caroline and me this weekend? I think we’re finally trying that VR bowling thing.”
“Sure, I’m in. Now scram, I have another client in ten minutes, and I have to check what year her dear departed Grandma Elsie died. I always forget. Hard to pretend to be a dead woman if you don’t know when she died.”
Simone smirked. “Some business you got.”
“Same as yours, just different wrapping,” Danny said with an amused look. “It’s why we work so well together.”
“Is that why?” Simone asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought it was because you didn’t charge me.”
“I’m sure that helps. As do my phenomenally good looks. Keep you coming back for another glance. Got anything else? I don’t wanna have to do any work for you in front of Caroline. It weirds her out; she always thinks we’re doing something damp and dirty.”
“Just keep an eye out for The Blonde, if she pops up anywhere.” Simone put her finger to her lips, deciding. “Yeah, and if you could check out the finances of Henry St. Michel and send them to me when you get a second, that could be useful.”
Danny put the turban and cape back on as she spoke.
“St. Michel?” he asked.
“Yeah, M-I-C-H-E-L. Saint.”
“Funny name for this city,” Danny said.
“Funny name for anywhere, these days. Thanks again.” They walked back through Danny’s inner sanctum to the waiting room, where a young girl with honey-colored curls was waiting, her eyes already wet. Simone turned back to Danny and clasped his hands.
“Oh, thank you,” Simone said, in a voice wrought with tears. “Thank you so much, Yanai. You are as great as they say you are.”
Danny glared but bowed with a flourish. Simone walked quickly from the room, trying to stifle her snickering.
False IRID in her leaky wallet, Simone strolled the bridges of New York towards St. Michel’s place of business. The day was blue, but the clear skies from early morning were clouding over, and the wind was picking up. Still, it was a nice day, and Simone enjoyed the walk, even stopping at one of the cart vendors on the decommissioned tanker Guandong for a quick lunch of warm noodles. Guandong and the neighboring cruise ship, Fu, were what was left of Chinatown. Fu was mostly residential, but Guandong was filled with carts that sold cheap electronics or fresh noodles or fish caught that morning from the deck. It was hung with red lanterns and streamers and was often crowded. Simone liked that. She ate her noodles on a stool by the cart, surrounded by throngs of strangers, feeling like calm water—invisible and safe.
When she got to Above Water Exports/Imports, it was nearly two, and the skies were steel and chilly. St. Michel’s business was operated out of an old masonry building, nearly twenty stories above sea level. He was on the thirty-fourth floor, but thankfully, they had put in a new algae-powered elevator in the building, so Simone didn’t have to hike. The offices were marked only by a small plaque. Simone knocked once and went in without an answer. The room was barren: concrete walls, metal desks, one large touchtable in the center of the room, and a few cheap chairs lining the walls. The room was empty except for an older woman leaning over the touchtable, apparently tracking something on a map.
“Yes?” she asked, without looking up. Simone walked up to her.
“My name is Alex Foyle,” Simone said, “From Maple Leaf Imports. I was hoping to talk to a Mr. St. Michel?” The woman turned to look at Simone. She was easily eighty and her gray hair was tied back in a tight bun. She was tall and had good posture without looking like a tin soldier. She appraised Simone with the look of someone who hadn’t been impressed by anything a young person had done in several decades.
“I’m Ms. Freth,” she said, “I’m Mr. St. Michel’s partner. What can we do for you?” Her voice was low and rough but had the tone of a woman used to getting what she wanted. She walked to one of the metal desks and opened a drawer to take out a pack of cigaret
tes and a lighter. Real tobacco cigarettes, Simone noted. Maybe being in importing made them easier to get. She lit one and began to smoke, waiting for Simone.
“We’re interested in doing business with you,” Simone said carefully. “I was told Mr. St. Michel was the one to talk to about exporting American antiques to Canada.”
“He’s in the john, you’ll have to talk to me.”
“Of course, it’s just that—”
“I handpicked everything in our inventory and know all our dealers,” Ms. Freth interrupted, “so don’t think I’m old and absentminded. I started this company with my husband, and I can still remember everything we’ve ever bought. I have a whole catalogue of our stuff up here,” she said, tapping the side of her head and giving Simone a hard look. Simone nodded, accepting.
Ms. Freth sat down at her desk and motioned for Simone to sit opposite her. Simone did so, her eyes scanning the room for the toilets, hoping St. Michel would show himself before she got in over her head.
“We sell to several major furnishing stores in Canada,” Simone said, “and several chains. American antiques are going to be the next big thing in Canadian interior design. Some of our stores want actual antiques to sell, but several are also looking for archetypal antiques from which to draw inspiration for products they design themselves for the virtual shops.”
“I see,” Ms. Freth said, blowing smoke out her nose. “And what furnishings, specifically, are you looking for?”
“One of our clients is most anxious for table lamps,” Simone said, “but most of the others are looking for basic furniture sets: couches, chairs, tables, and so on.”
From the back of the room came the sound of a door creaking closed and then Henry St. Michel appeared from behind a column, wiping his hands on his pants.
“Henry,” Ms. Freth said, “this is Ms . . .”
“Foyle,” Simone said, standing.
“She’s looking for antique American furniture.”
“Ah, good to meet you,” Henry said, stepping forward and extending his hand. It was still damp, but Simone shook it anyway, her face a mask of professional friendliness. “Has Lou been helping you?”
“She said she was told to speak to you,” Ms. Freth said, “but I talked to her anyway.”
“Ah, well, anything you would say to me you can say to Lou, here,” Henry said. “She’s my partner.”
“Right,” Simone said. With a flick of her thumb she removed the small bug from her inner sleeve and transferred it to her index finger. “Yours was just the name I was given,” she said, gesturing at Henry, her palm up. “I didn’t mean to cause any offense.” She closed her hands slightly, then opened them again, sending the small bug flying off her finger and landing on Henry’s jacket, where it quickly faded into the fabric. It was a good bug, fairly advanced, a clear circle that faded into fabric and then transferred sound up to fifty miles away for forty-eight hours, after which time it would dissolve.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Henry said, looking at Ms. Freth.
“No, you didn’t,” Ms. Freth said. “Now tell me more about what you’re looking for. What period antique, exactly?”
“Oh,” Simone said, “the 2090s, or thereabouts.”
“The nineties?” Ms. Freth said. “There’s a style I was hoping wouldn’t come back.” Simone smiled politely. “Everyone thought it was so cute, wearing rain boots all the time. My husband had a pair—bright blue with ducks all over them. Ridiculous.”
“Does he still have them?” Simone asked politely.
“He’s dead.” A thin curtain of smoke fell from her lips as she said it.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a few years. But thank you. Still don’t know why anyone would want to bring the nineties back. Rubber boots and umbrellas. Chairs made to look like rising waves. It would just be depressing now.” She sighed, as if the idea bored her. “Give us your information, and we’ll send you what we have on hand, and if you’d like, what we think we can get. Tell us what you want to look at and then we can set up a viewing.”
“That would be wonderful,” Simone said, as she took out her false IRID and touched her thumb to the thumb-scanner, releasing the information on the infrared chip into the local network. Lou glanced at the screen of her table briefly, then nodded. “Hope to hear from you soon,” Simone said standing. She gave them another cheerful look, pivoted, and walked out the door, not wanting to shake Henry’s hand again. In the elevator down, she tuned her earpiece to the frequency of the bug she had just planted.
“The nineties?” Lou Freth’s voice came in clearly. “I tell you, every time I think of retiring to Canada, they go and do something to make me want to stay right here.”
“More business for us, Lou,” Henry’s voice said. “Don’t complain.”
A small tone played over the bug’s feed, indicating a message in Simone’s cloud. Simone set the earpiece to record the feed from the bug and pressed another button. A sensually inhuman voice read her new message aloud to her: “To: Simone Pierce. From: Alejandro deCostas. Subject: Buildings. Text: It was a pleasure meeting with you today, Ms. Pierce. I look forward to exploring with you. As requested, here are two buildings I would like to examine: The Broecker Building and the Hearst Tower. See you tomorrow.”
Simone pressed a button, ending the message dictation. The Broecker Building she knew; it had been one of the last built when they still thought they could re-freeze the polar caps with the Mercury ice and lower the sea level again. Some developers had built a whole bunch of buildings like it in Long Island City, hoping to make the area the new business center of the city and partially succeeding. It was an office building, so getting in would be easy. Getting past the lobby would require some finesse. The Hearst Tower sounded older. She’d have to look it up. But not now. Now she wanted a drink.
It was approaching four, and the wind had picked up, the sky gone pewter. The fog would come down soon. She would find a nearby bar where she could listen to the bug feed and wait until Henry was leaving work. Then she’d follow him again.
THE BAR IN THE Icewater Hotel was clever. The building itself was huge, built in 2045 or so with a giant atrium. Twenty-one stories up, the large hole in the middle of the building that once looked down on the lobby now looked down onto the ocean. And not very far down. It was a clever aesthetic, not unlike having a koi pond in the middle of the room, but less tranquil. The management had opened up the rest of the twenty-first floor, so there was a small desk for a concierge and a very large bar. It was decorated in old-style deco, with rusted bronze finishes and statues of angels. On one side of the bar, a holographic rendition of a singer with long pink hair in a white dress sang in low, romantic tones. Over the bar hung a large, classical-looking painting of a woman in a pink dress sitting at a loom, cutting a piece of thread with her teeth while just beyond the stone wall behind her, men tried to get her attention, holding out flowers and gifts. Simone liked the bar and stopped by whenever she was in the area. It was as good a place as any to wait and listen in on Henry and Lou. She ordered a Manhattan and drank slowly, her earpiece tuned back to the bug.
The conversations at Above Water Exports/Imports were generally pretty dull, Simone discovered over the next few hours, and peppered with inside jokes she didn’t understand. Lou seemed to forever play the part of grump, while Henry was her doting, optimistic kid brother. Simone had just begun her second Manhattan when she felt a hand on her back and spun quickly.
“Get your hands off me, you—” She looked up into familiar eyes. “Peter.” Lieutenant Peter Weiss smiled at her.
“Hey soldier,” he said. “No offense meant, just saying hi.” He was handsome, of course, but it was his voice that always sparked the kindling. His mother was Anabel Acevedo, a lounge singer at The Blue Boat—not really famous, but New York famous—and he had her smooth intonations, her lilts and pauses like mur
muring waves. His voice was as alluring as the ocean.
“Sorry,” she said, reminding herself she was on a case, and she had no time for distractions. “How are you?”
He shrugged and smiled that half-smile, where only one side of his mouth went up. “I’m all right. How about you?”
She shrugged back and took a sip of her drink. Their families had been close, when her family was still around. Both she and Peter had had fathers who were NYPD, but where Peter had followed in his father’s footsteps, Simone had skipped over actually becoming a cop and had gone straight to taking over her father’s detective agency. They had been childhood friends, then adult friends; then they fell into an inevitable romance that lasted a year and a half. Then she broke his heart—and maybe her own a little, too. She kept doing that for a while, re-breaking them both every few weeks or so, but she hadn’t seen him in over a month now.
“What are you doing here?” Simone asked. “Some dry out-of-towner get held up by a sea rat, and you’re here to take the statement?”
“Apparent suicide in room 3307.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Simone turned back to her drink. The ice fell against her lips, bitter and cold. She put the empty glass down.
“I didn’t know the guy, nothing to apologize for. How about you? Little early to be on your second.”
“You watch me finish my first?”
“Took time to get the nerve up to come over.”
“Since when do you lack for nerve?”
“Since you came into the picture.”
He smiled, then creased his brow, realizing what he had just said. Then he looked down and ran his hand through his brown curls.
“So,” he asked after a beat, as if pretending there hadn’t been a moment of unsaid things, “working on a case?”
“Yeah,” she said, “can’t live off salt.”
“Something interesting?” he asked, sitting on the stool next to her.
“Not at the moment,” she said with a shrug. In her ear, Lou was complaining about how stingy traders from the EU were and asking Henry to close up. The door slammed, leaving Henry alone. Simone shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
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