Depth

by Rosen, Lev AC

  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.

  THE SUN WAS HALFWAY into the ocean, a gold semicircle burning through the layers of gray fog. Simone still had some time. It was a good thing Sorenson had wanted this meeting at night—although that meant he wanted it after most of his parishioners and staff had cleared out. Simone walked to the end of the bridge leading away from the black market, weaving her way through the people heading in the opposite direction.

  She wanted to call Caroline, to talk the case over with her while they ate at someplace awful and greasy that Caroline had chosen. She stopped at a hot-dog vendor—one of those small boats that bobbed just off a low bridge, cooking and selling all day—and bought one. It was salty, and she ate it too quickly, leaving her chest feeling burnt out. She took a taxi to City Hall, knowing Caroline would still be at work.

  When the waters had risen, the old City Hall had been covered pretty quickly, and the politicians had had to find a new spot. They chose two adjacent buildings in midtown—once called the MetLife Tower and the MetLife North Building. Their Art Deco exteriors had been carefully coated in Glassteel, so each angle shone in the fading light. A large dock surrounded them and filled the space between, acting like a wooden plaza. Streetlights thrust up through the plaza on the perimeter and then again in a circle around the center. From above, Simone imagined it looked like a shooting target in bright white, the green of their algae generators winking up between the wooden slats of the platform. There were potted plants and even a small sea-water fountain that someone had rigged to pump stuff up from the ocean and shower it back down again. It was lit from underneath, so when the sun began its descent, the fountain seemed to spray liquid light. The entire area was called City Hall Plaza and was often featured on brochures put out by the city’s plucky travel bureau, with the Chrysler Building glowing behind it. This was probably because it looked, in many ways, how New York used to look—that is, if you cropped out the ocean waves rising up angrily just beneath the plaza.

  The mayor’s offices were at the top of the tower, above the other municipal offices. That’s where the balconies were, and the mayor reportedly enjoyed a nice lie-down on a hammock he had set up outside. Caroline’s office was right next to the mayor’s, but anyone who knew the city knew to get an appointment first. Simone sat down on one of the benches and stared up at Caroline’s office. It was too far up to see anything specific, like a person moving around, but the light was on. It glowed a lonely pearl color, the only one on the floor.

  Simone tapped her earpiece, said the word “call,” and almost said “Caroline,” but waited long enough that her earpiece told her in soft metallic tones to repeat the command. She wondered why she was always looking up at Caroline’s window. Stalker. She could almost hear Caroline whisper the word in her ear. Then the light went out in Caroline’s office. Simone sat down at the end of the plaza farthest from the door. She wasn’t in shadow—there was no shadow in the plaza, not with the streetlights and the fountain—but she thought she’d be hidden by the water bubbling up between her and the door.

  So she knew that the Reinel was a map. But what could it lead to? If it were just deCostas, she’d assume it had something to do with underwater air pockets—maybe the location of a particularly well-coated building or something, but for Sorenson to be interested, or the Khans? They were too smart for all that. She knew Caroline didn’t believe in that pearl-diving nonsense. Then again, Anika had called it bullshit—so that lined up. But how could the painting show the location of an airtight building? Did he paint a large sign in the background that read, “Future site of Underwater Living”? Simone shook her head. The revelation that Reinel painted maps had seemed so significant, but now that she was thinking about it, she felt just as lost as before.

  The door across the plaza flashed open, and Caroline walked out. Simone stood, then squatted again, but then stood entirely. Caroline didn’t seem to see her. She walked past the fountain, but Simone stood where she was, then turned to follow Caroline. When she had cleared the fountain and there was nothing between them but space, Caroline stopped. She stayed there a moment before turning to look at Simone. She held a black leather briefcase in both hands. She was wearing black gloves and a dark green coat that fell down to her knees in the shape of a bell, and under that something white and high collared, like a priest.

  They stared at each other for a while. Caroline once opened her mouth, as if to speak, but then closed it again. She was too far away for Simone to read her eyes. The air was cold, and the saltwater from the fountain was blowing on her with every gust of the rising wind. The salt felt like small shards of glass biting into her. Simone looked down, took a deep breath, not sure what to say, but knowing she had to speak first. But then she heard Caroline’s footsteps, and when she looked up, Caroline was walking a
way, dissolving into the mist and darkness.

  ELEVEN

  * * *

  SIMONE SMOKED THE CIGARETTE down to the very last bit of ash as she walked to her meeting with Sorenson. The night had come in on heavy sheets of gray, and the fog was weaving itself into thick knots, moments of blindness Simone had to walk through on faith. That meant soon there’d probably be rain for a couple days. Hopefully nothing too hard. She didn’t want to be locked up inside her office, unable to go out without getting killed.

  A few people were milling around outside the Hearst Tower when she showed up. They were dressed conservatively and speaking in low tones. They all turned to stare at Simone as she pulled open the door of the building. She winked at one of them, and he blushed a bright scarlet. Inside, the receptionist was packing up to go home and told Simone the pastor was waiting for her in his office on the top floor.

  Simone took the elevator up. The doors opened onto walnut walls and big open windows that let in the damp air. Large religious paintings hung on the walls. Sorenson sat behind his desk, looking at Simone expectantly. Behind him, staring out one of the windows, was—

  “Marina,” Simone said before she could stop herself. The Blonde turned to her and smiled.

  “You learned my name,” she said. “You care. That’s sweet, it really is, but we don’t know each other that well. Maybe you should just call me Ms. Beck.”

  Simone’s hand was already at the gun in her boot. “Is this some kind of setup?”

  Sorenson rose, his hands extended, palms out, reassuring. “No, no, Ms. Pierce, I assure you, this is no setup. Ms. Beck and I just need your help. She told me about your . . . encounter, so I thought perhaps it would be best if I didn’t mention her bein’ at this meeting.”