On deck were a bunch of uniformed officers, taking smoke or coffee breaks, chatting and laughing, but the moment they caught sight of Simone, they went quiet. They knew her, of course. She’d been dragged there enough with her dad, first when he was a cop, and then when he was in trouble with the cops. Simone could feel the heat of their silence. Kluren was a popular chief among her men and had made her dislike of the Pierce family very public. Simone was in enemy territory and they wanted her to know it.
The day Peter had applied to the Police Academy, he’d come over and told Simone. Simone hugged him and, when he left, went to the application server and started filling it out. Her dad came home when she was up to the psychological profile section. He leaned over her shoulder, smelling of cigarettes and gin, and looked at what she was doing. Then he slammed the touchdesk off so forcefully the screen cracked.
“You don’t need to do that crap,” he said. “Police are all about rules. That’s where corruption comes from. If you have an officer so tied up with regulations he can’t move, he’s going to ease free of them. You work for me. You’re a private eye. We don’t worry about rules, we worry about finding the truth. That’s what police work should be. Trust me, you’ll be better off this way.” He laid his hand on her head and looked down into her eyes and smiled. “You’ll be better than me,” he said. She smiled back. She hadn’t really wanted to be a police officer anyway.
Peter opened the door on deck and took her into Teddy. More cops were there working, but they all paused to stare at Simone, like a wall of razor blades and ice. Simone wondered how it was Peter hadn’t become like these men, or turned bad like her dad said they all did eventually.
“C’mon,” Peter said, resting his hand on her shoulder. She pulled back slightly, like she was sighing, removing herself from his touch. Peter led her down two flights and across the length of the ship into Tara Kluren’s office. Kluren wore her hair like a helmet, her pantsuits too loose and her face in a perpetual scowl, at least whenever Simone was around. Her dad and Kluren had come up through the force together, were even partners briefly, and she’d hated him, too. Maybe it was a bad joke gone wrong, or competition between them. Simone’s dad had never told her, and he’d died before she could ask.
Kluren had offered Simone a job on the force once, right after her dad died. Simone was never sure why. Kluren had never seemed to even notice her before then. Simone had said no, or not said anything, and then a few months later, working one of her first solo cases, she crossed paths with the force, and Kluren threw her in the brig for a night. She never offered Simone a job again. Or even a friendly nod. Her hatred of Simone’s father had been passed down to Simone like a delicate heirloom.
When Peter led her into the office, Kluren was smiling like a water snake. Her suit that day was pale—maybe gray, maybe tan, maybe just dirty white, like the color of her hair. The irises of her eyes were gold, the telltale sign of augmented-reality contact lenses. Those weren’t usually seen in the city. On the mainland, and in other civilized nations, they were popular; people could use them for networking, to avoid getting lost, for gaming, for restaurant reviews, whatever. But in New York, the maps changed faster than satellites could keep up, and restaurants were boats that, even moored, could drift in the night. Nothing really stayed put, so overlays were usually confusingly off by a few feet, or completely wrong, unless people wanted to put up small signaling devices on their buildings and boats letting everyone know exactly what sort of place it was. Not surprisingly, no one did.
But Kluren’s contacts weren’t for social networking or restaurant reviews. They were the obscenely expensive, Israeli-made ForenSpecs; they provided an augmented reality that could pick out fingerprints and blood splatter; they could read names off IRID signals and display those names hovering in space over the people they belonged to. They could read facial expressions and body language to determine if someone was lying. They were incredibly advanced and seldom used except by military interrogators and investigators. And they made Kluren seem a little inhuman, her dark eyes punctuated by gold, metallic circles. Simone always tried to make herself stiff around Kluren, unreadable, but she wasn’t sure if she ever succeeded.
“So you’re the one who stopped by to check out the leaking body,” she said, leaning back in her chair. She put her feet up and looked Simone up and down. “Unlucky, that body. Should have sunk right to the bottom with the hole it had in it, but it must have drifted a bit, snagged on the corner of a roof under the water, just twenty feet down. The nets brought him up. Real unlucky.”
“Maybe so,” Simone said, “but not for me. I didn’t kill your guy.”
“Your guy,” Kluren corrected. “Something to do with a case?”
“His wife thought he was cheating.”
“And paid you to shoot him?”
“Only photos.”
“Wife got a name?”
“Linnea St. Michel. The corpse is Henry.”
“Mmmm,” Kluren took her feet off the desk and put her hand to her chin, trying to figure out a way to pin it on Simone. “Your caliber bullet hole.”
“And a lot of people’s.”
“True. But I like you for this. You’ve got killer’s eyes. Your dad’s eyes.”
Simone said nothing but stared at Kluren. She knew who her dad was, and he’d never killed anyone, except in self-defense. Shot them in the leg to keep them from running, maybe put a hole in their hand when they were holding a gun. But nothing worse than that. Kluren was just trying to get a rise out of her. She realized she was curling the fingers on her right hand and stopped.
“Tell you what,” Kluren said, standing. “No need to arrest you now. I’m going to send Weiss here back to your office, and you’re going to give him everything to do with this investigation. Photos, recordings, notes, everything. Then, we’ll look it over. If we can pin it on you, we will, and you’ll be sunk for a good, long time. If not . . . I’ll be disappointed, but this little moment is making me happy enough I should be okay for a couple years—provided I never see you again. Which means you’re staying out of this. Got it?”
Simone continued to stare.
“Like talking to a MouthFoamer,” Kluren said. “Weiss, take her home. Get everything. If I find out later you missed something, you’ll be on hull-scrubbing duty for the next few years. Anything you want to confess to, Pierce? I’ll go easy on you if you confess now. Later, I won’t be so nice.” Kluren glared, waiting, but Simone kept her mouth shut. “She has two IRIDs on her. One of them must be fake. Confiscate it, issue her the usual fine.”
Simone stared a bit longer, wishing she’d fixed her IRID-blocking wallet. The fine wasn’t a cheap one. Hopefully someone would end up paying her. Then she took out the fake IRID and handed it to Peter, who handed it to Kluren, who by now had grown bored with them and was looking at some papers on her desk.
“I heard the murder,” Simone said. Kluren looked back up. Pleasure danced on her lips.
“You heard the murder,” she repeated, smiling again.
“I bugged Henry, followed him, he went into an empty building on the outskirts of town, waited for someone, but I couldn’t see who. I heard a shot, ran to the scene, but the body and killer were gone.”
“Run real slow, did you?”
“I had to stand far off so they couldn’t see me.” She didn’t mention her slip. Kluren would enjoy it too much.
“So you hear gunfire but don’t call the police?”
“There wasn’t a body.”
“Ah, well. Of course,” Kluren said, her words like little teeth sinking into Simone as she paused. “But what would make more sense is for me to put you in lockup for obstructing an investigation. Weiss can go by your place alone.” She looked back down at her desk and waved them off again.
“I can show you where the bloodstain is,” Simone offered. “If you don’t mind my swimming free a b
it longer.”
Kluren looked at her and leaned back in her chair again.
“Sure,” she said after an achingly long moment. “Show us the crime scene, give us your notes, and stay the fuck out of my life, and you can swim free a few tides more—till we hook you for something else.” She sighed as she said the last few words, then stood, her body relaxed like dangling rope. “But just for fun, I’m going to have Weiss handcuff you as you lead us to the murder scene.”
“Suits me fine,” Simone said, placing her hands behind her back. Peter shook his head and clicked his cuffs loosely around her wrists.
“Now, let’s see this crime scene of yours,” Kluren said, motioning Simone towards the door. Simone led the way out. Other cops looked up briefly at her; some snickered, and most went back to work. Kluren chose a handful to accompany them to the crime scene.
Kluren made Simone take crowded streets. People stared at her, then quickly looked away. Simone held her head up, her chin pointed high. It wasn’t great for business, being paraded through town in cuffs, but it wasn’t as bad as actually being arrested. She briefly wondered if Kluren might accidentally nudge her over the edge of a narrow bridge in her handcuffed state, but Kluren wasn’t like that. Her dad had said that was why he couldn’t work with her: She was afraid to bend the rules. Simone knew that wasn’t entirely true, though. Kluren wore pants, ignoring all the bullshit federal laws everyone in the city ignored. She was clearly fine with bending some rules. Simone had never asked her dad which rules he’d meant.
Simone led them to the small building, and Kluren ordered her crime techs to start examining the place.
“Someone’s taken a sample of the blood,” one of the techs called. Kluren looked at Simone.
“Just blood type. It’s O positive, same as the vic.”
“I hope to see that in the files Weiss brings me.” Kluren glared, then tapped something on her wristpiece. Her eyes began glowing a bright blue—another ForenSpec feature. She looked around the crime scene. “There are a few blood drops leading out that way,” she said to the techs, pointing out the door opposite where they had come in. “Follow them.” She turned to Simone as though she’d forgotten she was there. “I’m done with you here. Weiss, take her home, please. Get the files. Keep the cuffs on her.”
A few blocks away, Peter took off the cuffs. Simone instinctively put her hands to her wrists to feel them, though they hadn’t chafed.
“Thanks,” she said.
“What the hell kinda waters you swimming in, soldier?”
“You don’t need to keep calling me that.”
“I like calling you that. And you dodged my question.”
“Why did you always let me be the soldier when we were kids?” Simone asked. “The soldier was the best action figure. You always got stuck being artillery guy, hanging back and bringing me guns when I needed them.”
“You liked being the solider.”
“Didn’t you?”
“I didn’t care either way.”
Simone smiled as they walked, but looked down so he couldn’t see. “And you dodged my question again.”
“What was the question?”
“What sort of trouble are you in?” Simone felt him close to her, warmth coming off him and touching her shoulder like the early sun. She stepped farther away.
“The usual kind, I guess.”
“You have no idea, do you?”
“I have too many ideas.”
“Well, do me and you a favor and drop them all.” His voice rose in frustration.
“No promises.”
“Of course not,” Peter sighed. They continued downtown in silence, walking an awkward space apart, trying to maintain a buffer of air, but sometimes knocking lightly against each other when the bridge swayed or the wind came on strong. Then they would put their hands out flat as if to apologize for that soft touch, to put more space between them again. The air smelled like salt and sweat.
When Simone unlocked the door, the memories of when she would bring Peter here after a night out washed over her for a moment. She pulled her hands through her hair, tugging at the roots.
“Everything is in the office,” she said. He followed her and handed her a compression card, which she laid down on her touchdesk. She pulled up the file marked 31-42-21, not minding if Peter saw it. If anyone could figure out her file-coding system, it would be him, but he wouldn’t give it up, either. She dragged the file to the compression card and waited as the two linked up and everything copied over onto the card—the photos of The Blonde, Linnea’s information, the recordings from Henry’s office, the video of Anika. She hoped that wouldn’t lose her a client. There really wasn’t much, it turned out. She handed the card back to him.
“Thanks,” Peter said. “Sorry you had to get mixed up in this.”
“It’s my job,” she said, smiling at him. She was sitting behind her desk; he was standing at the door. They looked at each other a while.
“I’ll let myself out,” he said and left. Simone took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She still had all her own copies of the files, but she was nearly content to let the case drop. There wasn’t much left to go on, and chances were Linnea wouldn’t be paying her anytime soon.
Then she checked her messages.
Most of them were junk, but the one that caught her eye was from Danny. The subject was “Found her again.”
There was no text, just a photo attachment. It was clearly yanked from a security camera somewhere in the city and was fuzzy, with poor color quality. Simone recognized both figures in the photo. The first was The Blonde. She was smiling, wearing a trench coat and pushing her hair from her face. The other was Caroline Khan.
SIX
* * *
SIMONE FOUND THE BONDS of friendship to be more akin to tightrope wires that she had no balance for. Consequently, she rarely walked them. Caroline was the exception.
Simone had met Caroline when she’d been hired to investigate whether the mayor was receiving under-the-table payments to favor certain city councilmen’s bills. She quickly realized that there were discrepancies in the mayor’s public itinerary, events where Caroline would stand in for him last minute, leaving his whereabouts unaccounted for. Seeing these absences as an opportunity to tail the mayor to a possible secret meeting, she tried to find the next gap by accessing Caroline’s schedule, guessing that she would know about her stand-in duties ahead of time.
She had thought Caroline would be spoiled, appointed for her family connections, and an easy mark. She had used a short-range EMF blocker to cause Caroline’s touchdesk to malfunction, then posed as an IT specialist. Caroline laughed as soon as Simone came in and, still laughing, waved Simone back out the door. Simone tried to get a word in, but Caroline just shook her head, still laughing. Outside, she got a text on her phone: “If you think I wouldn’t know what the PI investigating the mayor looks like, you must not think very highly of me. But thanks for the laugh. CK.”
Simone had tried a few more tricks, like hiring actors to stand in for her, but Caroline laughed them out of the office each time, and sent Simone a friendly text after each attempt. It wasn’t until Simone held a network extender outside the office and had Danny hack into Caroline’s touchdesk that she finally got what she needed. She tailed the mayor the next time he went off schedule—only to find that he was going home for a nap. She had Danny hack the network again and this time was surprised to find in Caroline’s schedule a note that said “1 p.m.—Coffee with Simone Pierce, MochAfloat.”
Simone decided to keep the appointment, where Caroline bought her coffee and proceeded to explain that the mayor was lazy, but not corrupt—or at least not corrupt in the way Simone thought he was. Caroline was vague about anything outside the scope of Simone’s investigation, but she knew who had hired Simone and why, and explained to her the overreaching political implicat
ions of such a hire—how the investigation itself was the tool, not what it turned up. Before long, she was laughing as she complained about the odd details of her job. Simone liked her. She was smart, respectful, and sarcastic. She drank hot coffee through a straw. She ended it by telling Simone she would help her finish the investigation, if Simone wanted, because she knew she was right. Simone didn’t take her up on the offer, continued investigating on her own, and turned up nothing except that the mayor was, indeed, very lazy. She reported as much to her client. The next week, the papers were all writing articles about the private investigation into the mayor’s practices. When that faded away, they suddenly were reporting that the mayor took naps.
She had Danny hack into the system again and put in another coffee date for her and Caroline. Caroline showed up, and this time Simone bought. She felt she owed Caroline something—maybe an apology—and they both understood that this coffee was that apology, if not in words. They talked about the various pressures of their jobs, about not being taken seriously, about their families. Simone had thought originally she could cultivate a good contact in the mayor’s office but was surprised by how naturally the friendship floated into place. It was something Simone had never had before. Sure, she was friends with Danny, but she always knew that that relationship was based on the fact that Danny owed Simone his life, and that made her feel more secure. Other friends were more like acquaintances—people she could nod at in bars or contacts in the field. And there was Peter . . . but that was different. Caroline was an equal. Her friendship was earned and genuine. Simone always valued that, and was a little afraid of it, too. It meant she had to trust Caroline, and trusting people was never her first instinct.
Depth Page 9