Depth

by Rosen, Lev AC

  She walked up the steps to the door of the townhouse and rang the bell. No answer. So the servants had cleared out, too—if they had had any. Simone had assumed a woman like Linnea had a score of attendants, but there was no real reason to think that. She rang the bell again, but still no answer, and then tried the door. Locked, which wasn’t surprising. No alarm panel visible, and it looked like a run-of-the-mill electronic lock.

  Simone looked around, searching for the usual spots people hid their spare key. There was no doormat. There were small decorative sconces on the wall on either side of the door, sort of scallop-shaped, but no key tucked into either of them. She walked back down the steps to the bridge. She looked at the closest of the lanterns built into the bridge. It was a simple thing, with a metal-cone top and a tube of fogged glass. Simone glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then lifted the top off the lantern. There was no key inside the glass part, but when she looked inside the actual metal top, there was a slim, plastic card, taped so it wouldn’t fall down. Simone smiled. She took the card and replaced the metal top, then hurried back up the steps and slid it into the lock, which opened with a click.

  Inside it already had the stillness of a place abandoned. Simone recognized it in the way she could hear the waves outside, or how the air smelled overly cool. She called out “Hello” just in case, but no one responded, so she began her search.

  None of the lights was on, and Simone didn’t feel a need to change that. Silvery light came in through silk shades and a skylight on the roof. It was a nice house. It had been completely remodeled recently, by the look of it. There was no stairway to the flooded parts of the building, but a large spiral stairway went up. The color scheme was seashell pink and white, and a large tapestry of some Mediterranean city with a vibrant blue ocean dominated the living room.

  Next, she searched the kitchen and then the bedrooms upstairs. Linnea and Henry seemed to have separate bedrooms—his plain with a touchdesk; hers white and pink with oversized sheets and a vanity with a few photos tucked in the sides of the mirror. Some makeup was missing, and her closet was empty. Nothing under the bed, no stray notes or clues. Even the wastebasket was empty. Linnea had definitely taken off. Simone sat down at the vanity and opened the drawers, one by one, rifling through perfume samples and hairbrushes for some real sign of where Linnea could have gone, but there was nothing. She stared at the photos stuck into the vanity mirror. Why hadn’t these been taken? She tugged at one, but it was sealed to the frame. If she pulled any harder, she’d tear it. So Linnea had cleared out, fast enough she couldn’t bring this mirror.

  There were three photos. One of Henry and Linnea, but much younger. This one was on the right side of the frame, probably more for show than genuine sentiment. On the left were two older photos: one of a couple and a little girl, about forty years ago, judging by the clothes. Simone bent it slightly to look at the back. “Me, Mom & Dad,” it said in elegant cursive. The other photo was of a young Linnea, holding a small toddler in her lap. Simone furrowed her brow. Linnea had never mentioned a kid, and when Simone had done the usual background check on her and Henry, nothing about kids had come up. She bent this photo forward, too, and looked at the back. “Me & baby M,” it said. Simone shrugged. A niece or nephew, maybe?

  She let the photo go, now with a slight crease in it, and sighed. There were no obvious signs of where Linnea had gone. But there was still more to explore. She went back to Henry’s room and rifled through his touchdesk but didn’t find anything useful there. The bathrooms were all squeaky clean, and there were no notes in the pockets of any of Henry’s jackets or pants in the laundry room. There was a study another flight up, but the touchdesk was clean, except for some notes comparing the costs of tickets to the mainland by ferry and a few planes. Passage to the mainland wasn’t too difficult; there was one ferry that came in every morning and left every night. It was a long voyage—just over a day—but the ferry wasn’t cheap and didn’t hold more than a hundred, so it took some planning. It was why the mainland government couldn’t keep a steady grip on the city for more than a day or two. If you wanted to get away on the fly, you needed to hire a small airplane out of the Ohio, a decommissioned aircraft carrier that served as the city’s one airport, or a private boat sturdy enough to make it to the mainland and with radar up-to-date enough not to hit anything getting there. There were huge storms that rolled between the city and the mainland, tearing up any small boats or planes stupid enough to be in their way. And there were other, smaller cities between New York and the mainland, empty of even ghosts, with buildings that rose up to just below the water like hands eager to pull down anything they could grab.

  The next flight up was an immaculate guest bedroom and what seemed to be a large storage room. It was the one room in the house where Simone needed to turn on the lights, but it was mostly just shelves lined with plastic boxes labeled “clothes,” “blankets,” and the like. Simone looked at the dust on them to see if any had been gone through recently, but they had all clearly been closed for at least a month or two. Except one. It was a plastic box on the floor, in the far corner of the room. It was empty, but there were handprints in the dust on top. Simone picked it up and turned it around, looking for impressions of what had been inside. There was a peculiar smell, like chlorine and smoke. And in one corner a whitish residue. Foam?

  Linnea and Henry hadn’t seemed like drug users at all, much less MouthFoamers. But the box had definitely held Foam. The smell of it was unmistakable and brought back the memory of the one time she’d tried it, after her dad died and she found an old photo of her mom in his stuff. It had made her feel not numb, and not happy, either, but content. Like she’d transcended regular emotions and found some sort of Zen, Nirvana, inner-peace crap, and the ocean was a lake and the city was an opening flower, wilting as it floated. Then, a day later, she’d woken up in her dad’s bed, his old clothes woven around her like a nest, and the weird, sticky drool that the drug got its name from sticking her face to a jacket. And she felt not at all at peace. Not at all enlightened. Like she’d forgotten something important, like she’d forgotten how to be happy, had forgotten if it was even really possible to be happy. She knew then she couldn’t do it again. It was too good, too easy, and she knew she would just slip away like a stone into the water, and she was half terrified and half thrilled at how that idea made her feel. For a year, she’d avoided anywhere they bought and sold the stuff.

  And if Linnea and Henry had had this big a box of it . . . Foam was a fine powder, smoked, and a box this big would have been a year’s supply and probably obscenely expensive. Or stolen. Could all this be some sort of drug-dealer trouble? Neither of them had had any of the signs of being MouthFoamers—dazed look, the white in the corners of their mouths. Nor had anything she’d seen suggested it was a drug deal. Unless The Blonde was their distributor, and they were chemists. But that didn’t make sense either. Making the stuff was a complicated affair that took constant supervision. They had lives. They didn’t run a Foam Lab.

  Simone put the box back where she’d found it. She sent a note to a few of her contacts who knew the Foam business and asked them to keep an eye out for a woman of Linnea’s description. Maybe if they heard the name Misty, too. But it didn’t make much sense. She didn’t have any leads on Linnea or who killed Henry. She’d have to try Henry’s mother next.

  Paradise was uptown, moored somewhere over where Central Park used to be, so Simone hired a cab to take her. She lay back in the taxi boat, feeling the spray from the waves it left as it rocketed over the water, dodging building tops and other boats. It was a nice day. Strong winds, less fog, cool air.

  She tried to collect the facts of the case as she cruised through the city. Henry was dead, Linnea missing. Drugs—a lot of them—recently in their home, also missing. Someone had met Henry unexpectedly. And then there was Dash, looking for Linnea. And The Blonde, whose name was possibly Misty, who had met with Henry
and Anika, and had been in Sorenson’s mission—for a meeting with him? And she’d met with Caroline.

  What connected them? Or was everyone more innocent than they appeared? Did Caroline even know what The Blonde was up to? Simone remembered the way The Blonde had leveled the gun at her and then so easily pointed it at deCostas, as though his life—more innocent than Simone’s, surely—was completely unimportant to her. The Blonde was a whirlpool of trouble, and anyone around her was getting dragged in, or already drowning.

  Simone shook her head and took a deep breath. What was Caroline into?

  What was Simone into?

  The taxi pulled up by a stand next to Paradise, and Simone paid and got out. Paradise was an old cruise ship, at least twenty stories tall, with tennis courts and two pools. The gangplank up to the boat was unguarded, but Simone didn’t know what room Henry’s mother was in, so she sought an attendant, who wore white scrubs with military pockets and epaulettes—half nurse, half sailor.

  “I’m looking for Mrs. St. Michel,” Simone told her. The woman looked her up and down, her frozen smile melting to suspicion as she dealt with someone who wasn’t a resident.

  “You’re a relative?” she asked.

  “Her son’s lawyer,” Simone said.

  The nurse nodded, understanding, and checked her tablet. “Room 423.” Simone thanked her and walked past the senior citizens playing shuffleboard, past the wave pool, empty except for one old woman in a swimsuit, sunglasses, and bathing cap, resting in an inner tube. She took the stairs up to the fourth deck, then followed the room numbers to 423.

  Simone took a deep breath. She wasn’t good with mothers. She liked to think it was because hers had taken off, so she didn’t know how to act around them, but it was more that she didn’t trust them. Her mom had left when she was still a little girl—no two-sentence note on the dresser saying she loved Simone but had to go; she just wasn’t there one day. Her dad had told her the news softly, while Simone was still in her pajamas: “Your mom is gone. She’s not coming back.”

  Simone had only vague memories of her now. Long red hair. Lots of freckles. A giant smile. She used to sing, too. And she had that mainland accent. Simone remembered imitating it sometimes and how both her parents would laugh at the way she drew out her vowels and tilted her head to the side to achieve the effect.

  Mom had read to her every night and told Simone how she loved her. And then she’d gone. Which made Simone doubt there’d been any love there to begin with. She knew there were plenty of mothers who didn’t take off, who really loved their kids, but Simone suspected that more than admitted it would like to vanish, just like hers had.

  She knocked on the door, which was answered by a short woman, perhaps in her seventies, with small, burgundy curls and a drink in her hand. She smelled strongly of vodka.

  “Oh,” the woman said. “The police said you might show up.” She turned around and walked back into her room, leaving the door open. Simone followed. Inside was a simple cabin with a bed, sofa, and side table. A dresser was doubling as a bar, covered in bottles and glasses. On the sofa was some knitting in bright-red yarn.

  “Did they?” Simone asked.

  “Oh yes,” the words caught in her throat, but Simone wasn’t sure if it was the beginning of a laugh or sob. “They said you were a detective and the prime suspect.”

  “Mrs. St. Michel—” Simone began.

  “Trixie,” she interrupted. “Call me Trixie. Stupid name. Like you’d give a dog.” She sat down and put her drink on the side table. She picked up the red swath of knitting and began to pick at it.

  “If the police told you I’m a prime suspect, why let me in?” Simone asked.

  “You didn’t do it,” Trixie said, exasperated as she struggled with the knitting. “I’m trying to take this apart. It was going to be a sweater. For Henry. But now . . .” She pulled at the yarn, and some of it gave, leaving her holding a long red loop out from the rest of the fabric. She smiled and looped the yarn around her wrist, pulling it and pulling it, trying to unravel the knitting. It snagged. “Do you want something to drink?” she asked.

  “No, thank you,” Simone said. Trixie shrugged, plucking at the knitting again. This was sad. Even Simone could feel that. The smell of alcohol was as thick as the salt in the air outside. “So how do you know I didn’t do it?”

  “Their theory is stupid. If Linnea wanted Henry dead she would have done it herself. She’s a hands-on type. Maybe she did kill him. I don’t know. Wouldn’t surprise me.” Trixie didn’t look up but kept picking at the knitting, her fingers like pecking birds. “But she wouldn’t have someone else do it. That would be . . . too messy for her. All that money. She could have hired so many maids and cooks, but she couldn’t stand watching people do things wrong. She never let me help when I came over for dinner. Not even set the table. She’d kill Henry herself. And not until after they’d sold the art, anyway. Henry was going to run off with the money by himself. Wasn’t even going to take me. He said he’d write. Who runs away from his mother?”

  “A lot of people,” Simone said. Trixie snorted a laugh, then put down the knitting and picked up her drink again. “What art were they going to sell?”

  Trixie took a long drink before answering and put the glass back down on the table. “Some old piece of art Henry dredged up from storage. Linnea said it was worth millions, and she had some idea . . . Henry didn’t tell me much. He just said it was going to make him a fortune, and he was going to run away with it and leave Linnea. Called it his Mona Lisa. He said he’d send me a message when he was safe, that he’d set up a bank account for me.” She picked up the knitting again and tried pulling out another strand of yarn. With a yank, part of it became unknitted and several bright red lines twisted away from her hands. “But I guess Linnea had the same thing planned, and she was better prepared. Linnea was always well prepared.”

  Simone nodded. “Do you recognize this woman?” she asked, showing Trixie a photo of The Blonde. “Maybe her name is Misty?”

  Trixie shook her head. “No. Who is she?”

  “I saw her with your son, the night before he died.”

  “She’s not his type. He likes dark hair. And he never mentioned anyone named Misty. I’d remember. Worse than Trixie.” She finished her drink and got up and poured herself another.

  “Is there anything else you can think of?” Simone asked. “Anyone who’d want to hurt him besides Linnea?”

  Trixie turned around, her glass refilled, and locked eyes with Simone as she downed the alcohol in one long drink. Simone watched the soft skin of her neck and chin bob as she swallowed. Then she put her glass down and refilled it, and sat down again. She picked up the red yarn and began pulling at it again.

  “Well, thank you for your help,” Simone said, and made for the door.

  “Are you going to find Linnea?” Trixie asked, still picking at her knitting.

  “I hope so.”

  “I hope when you do you’ll gut her for me. Gut her from neck to cunt and throw her overboard for the fish to eat.”

  OUTSIDE, THE SUN WAS lowering towards the horizon. Simone started walking home. It was a long walk downtown, but she was in the mood for a long walk. The smell of the booze in Trixie’s room clung to her hair, and she kept imagining the red yarn in her hands and her mother’s red hair. Trixie seemed to be right about Linnea’s betrayal, but then why hire Simone? Was Simone just the fall guy? And who was The Blonde?

  She had a message from Caroline asking if she wanted to get drinks, but Simone didn’t respond to it. She didn’t want to think about Caroline or about Caroline talking with the woman who had pointed a gun at her. She pushed that to the side and thought about deCostas instead. Much sweeter thoughts to be had there. Back on that case, she sent off a message to Mr. Ryan, who owned the next building on the list, telling him about deCostas and his request to see the stairwell. Mr. Ryan
wrote back promptly, as he always did, saying he would be there to greet them at 9 a.m., sharp. You weren’t late when Mr. Ryan was doing you a favor.

  When she got home, someone was waiting in her office. She could see the shadow through the glass in the door. Simone sighed. It had been a long day with a lot of questions and not many answers, and all she wanted was to get into the bath. She took out her gun and held it at her side. Just in case.

  She found Peter sitting in front of the empty receptionist’s desk, dressed in uniform, his hat in his lap. There was a package on the desk in front of him.

  “Oh,” Simone said when she recognized him, and holstered her gun. She turned away and took her hat off to hang on the coatrack.

  “Expecting someone else?” Peter asked, standing behind her. Simone looked down at her hat, still holding it. It felt off somehow. Peter was stepping closer to her. She quickly felt around the brim, and tucked inside found a small tracker. Dash. She was annoyed with herself for not noticing it earlier. She pocketed the tracker and hung up her hat and coat, turning just as Peter had gotten in arm’s reach of her.

  “You my mailman now?” Simone asked, nodding at the package on the desk.

  “No,” Peter said. “Some messenger dropped it off. I just signed for it. I figured that was okay. I’ve done it before.”

  Before when he spent most nights here. Before she asked for his key back.

  “If you’re here to arrest me, can I take a bath first?” she asked.

  “No,” Peter said, looking down. “I just wanted to let you know that Kluren knows you’ve been poking around, interviewing Mrs. Freth and Mrs. St. Michel. She’s not happy. If there were enough evidence, she would lock you up right now.” He looked down at the space between them.

  “Lucky me.” Simone stepped to the side and sat behind the nonexistent receptionist’s desk.