Depth

by Rosen, Lev AC

  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 yo
u 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.

  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.”