Depth

by Rosen, Lev AC

  “I am sorry about that,” Marina said, walking forward from the window to sit on Sorenson’s desk. “You see, I’m used to transporting large sums of money and valuable artwork, so when someone is following me, I assume they’re trying to take it from me. I didn’t know who you were. That you were working for Linnea. Like I am.” She smiled pleasantly, an obvious mask, but a good one, as Simone couldn’t read anything but insincerity in her tone. She couldn’t tell if Marina was lying or not.

  “You’re working for Linnea?”

  “Well, it was Henry and Linnea. But turns out you were right about Henry being dead.” She raised her eyebrows, as if amused by a titillating scandal of some sort. She was good. Everything about her dripped with false friendliness, but only false friendliness. She didn’t have a single tell. Simone had a sudden itch to play poker with her.

  “Ms. Beck was hired by the St. Michels,” Sorenson said.

  “To sell a Reinel painting, I know,” Simone said.

  “I guess I’m not the only one who’s been doing her homework,” Marina said.

  “I bought the painting,” Sorenson said. “But with Linnea hidin’ away somewhere, I have yet to receive it.”

  Simone narrowed her eyes. “If you bought it, why was she meeting with deCostas last night?”

  “Oooh,” Marina said, smiling. “Very good. I’m impressed, really. Keeping tabs on your clients like that. Does he know?” Simone kept staring. “Well, as the painting still hasn’t surfaced, I’m still taking bids on it. Pastor Sorenson here has outbid every competitor so far, but if I can get a higher number out of him, well, he won’t blame me for trying. I work on a retainer and a percentage, after all.”

  “You can see why I’m anxious to get the paintin’,” Sorenson said. “With Ms. Beck here handling the sale, the price just keeps goin’ up.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Why deCostas? He’s just a student.”

  “With some serious investors. When I was finding out about you, I found out about him. He seemed like a potential buyer, so I approached him.”

  “He didn’t mind, after you’d pointed a gun at him?”

  “Said having the gun pointed at him was the second most exciting thing he’s done since he got here.” Marina paused to let her statement sink in. Her smile was cool as a bullet. “But he couldn’t afford it.”

  Simone crossed her arms.

  “We just want to know where Linnea is,” Sorenson. “So I can get my paintin’.”

  “The thing I don’t get,” Simone said, pausing, considering how much to pretend to know, “is what the fuss over this painting is. Reinel shouldn’t sell for more than ten grand, tops. I imagine you’re paying quite a bit more, Pastor?” Sorenson straightened his back and nodded after a moment.

  “You don’t know, then,” Marina said, getting off the desk. “Well, I guess that’s the thing we’ve kept the most secret. It’s a Reinel, sure. But it’s not about the art. You know what he did, right, in his paintings?”

  “Maps and photos sprayed with Privilux, yeah.”

  “Right. This particular piece is a portrait of a couple, one of the last Reinel did before he got into the whole coral thing.” She waved her hand, as if discounting his entire body of work—Circe included. For a moment, Simone wanted to slap her. “The waters were just rising. People were still thinking it wasn’t going to be a big deal—just lay down those floating plastic platforms, and the city would be fine. But the couple isn’t important. The trucks are. In the background.” She took a step forward and Simone raised an eyebrow. “Big trucks,” Marina continued, “marked with the C-Rail Corporation’s logo. It’s an ugly logo; all yellow and blue. You know it?” Simone shook her head, and Marina looked disappointed in her. “Anyway, there are C-Rail trucks, and they’re unloading huge parts of . . . a tunnel, I guess, or a tube—a big one; large enough for a train to drive through. And they’re unloading them into a building.”

  “Seriously?” Simone asked, closing her eyes.

  “And,” Marina continued, though she didn’t need to, “the location of the building is marked on the map part of the painting.” Marina stared at Simone. “One would need to compare it to old maps and do some research, of course. But you could figure out where the painting was painted.” Simone held her breath, then expelled it. She was disappointed in them right now, in the entire city. It felt like she was tied to a pole with rough rope while around her everyone jumped into the water and drowned, while she screamed at them to stop. Instead, she forced herself to smile.

  “I can’t—” She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to hold back her anger. This was the only theory she’d actually had, but she’d dismissed it as too absurd. And here it was, alive in front of her. “A pipeline? You think this painting shows the location of a pipeline between here and the mainland—a magical, waterproof one that would stand up to any pressure?” Simone relaxed and looked up, made herself chuckle. Marina chuckled with her, which answered that question—Marina didn’t believe, but she had no problem selling fantasies. Sorenson did not look amused.

  “It’s real,” Sorenson said forcefully. “Or one of them is. The government tunnel was never finished—they didn’t have the budget, they were too busy airliftin’ monuments from DC to Salt Lake City. But private corporations—several of them—all tried to take advantage of New York’s soon-to-be offshore status. Private companies funded by millionaires and defense contractors, like C-Rail. I’ve seen the records: These tunnels were all built, or at least started. But the waters rose faster than they thought. None of the tunnels were made really ready. But some are just waitin’ under the waves. Almost ready. And the American government ain’t the only one lookin’.” Sorenson took this moment to gesture fiercely at his chest with one hand, as though he were being martyred. “There are more unsavory sorts who would love to get their hands on a passage like that, finish it up, use it for the black market. That Mr. Ryan for one. Can you imagine? Or this deCostas fellow, making it an EU property? Or even the Khans—then it would be a private, family-owned tunnel. You may be friends with Caroline, but do you know her parents?” Simone shrugged. She’d shaken their hands once or twice. Sorenson furrowed his eyebrows. “Vicious, greedy, power-hungry. And others that are worse. We all know each other, and we’re all lookin’ for a workin’ tunnel. There were over a dozen started. I think at least one of them is in near-workin’ condition. We could finish it and connect the drowned city to the mainland. No more day trips to the Appalachian Islands, hopin’ your ship doesn’t snag on a building, and then another day by maglev train to the mainland proper. No more rickety planes that can’t hold cargo. No more storms makin’ shipping unsafe and a bad investment. The mainland could extend its reach—we could get building supplies out here within days. Extra military could be sent to control a crisis and not get here a week too late. We could set up more missionaries, rebuild the city, make it part of the mainland. Think of how good that would be for the city.”

  Simone pursed her lips. She and Sorenson had very different ideas of what “good for the city” meant. She didn’t want New York to become like the mainland, with its decency laws and dress codes. And if they were easily connected, that’s exactly what would happen.

  “I don’t know if it’s real or not,” Marina said, sounding bored. “But that’s what the painting shows. So if it is real, I could understand its value. We can’t use traditional imaging techniques to just map the ocean floor around the city. Too much debris—cameras, sensors, and even echo-devices all get clogged and useless within moments. But a map? A map is easy.”

  Simone shook her head, looking down.

  “Someone killed Henry for a fairy tale,” she said.

  “Not a fairy tale,” Marina said. “A dream. People are always killing for dreams.”

  “Linnea killed Henry,” Sorenson said. “She double-crossed him so she wouldn’t have to split the mon
ey.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me that,” Simone said.

  “You don’t believe it?” Sorenson asked. Simone shrugged.

  “Lot of people want this painting, like you said. Even more than I knew about, it sounds like. Why haven’t people been searching for it before now?”

  “No one knew it existed,” Marina said, rolling her eyes. “Reinel gave the painting to the couple he painted. That was what he always did. Usually they sold it, or their kids did, but this one was never in a museum. It was in someone’s home, for decades. They probably didn’t realize what they had.” She looked down, splayed out her hand, and glanced over her nails. “You think Henry had the painting and it was stolen. But I don’t think so. It’s not a small painting.”

  “He didn’t have it with him,” Simone said. “But maybe a key.”

  Marina shrugged and walked back to the window. Sorenson sat down.

  “I pray for Henry,” Sorenson said after a moment, “and his murder was an awful thing. But I’m not askin’ you to find out who killed him. I just want you to find Linnea. I’ll pay you well if you can get me my paintin’.”

  “You want me to make sure you get the painting and Linnea doesn’t run off with it, you mean.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Sorenson said in a near growl.

  “Fine. I’m already looking for her anyway.”

  “Good. My receptionist has those release forms for deCostas. You can bring him by again whenever you want. She also has the code for the stairs now. I don’t expect to see you again until you have the paintin’. I’ve wasted enough time and money on this.”

  “Fine by me, preacher man,” Simone said, turning to go.

  “Nice meeting you, Simone,” Marina called out musically. Simone didn’t turn around, but she could feel Marina waggling her fingers at her in a wave goodbye. She took the elevator down, ignoring the people still gathered outside the Mission. Her mind was elsewhere. There was someone else she wanted to see.

  SHE FOUND TRIXIE OUTSIDE Paradise on the bridge in front of the gangplank. She was standing in front of a large metal barrel with a fire in it. She had on an oversized knitted sweater, and her arms were crossed tightly around her chest, like she was cold. Around her, the fog was thick, and she looked alone in the world. Simone walked up to her slowly, respectfully. Trixie looked up at her, then back at the flames.

  “They wouldn’t let me burn it on the ship,” she said, half explaining the fire, half complaining. Simone looked closely at the barrel. It was filled with trash, but on top was a heap of bright red yarn, burning down into black, ashy strands. “I thought I should burn it. That seems like the right thing to do, right?” She looked anxiously at Simone. Simone nodded. Trixie looked back at the flames. “Right. We buried him yesterday. Well, we poured what was left of him into the ocean. That’s what burial is here, I guess.”

  “You’re not from here?”

  “No, I was born on the mainland. I married young. My first husband, he used to hit me. A lot.” Trixie rubbed her hands up and down her shoulders as if trying to warm up. “And then I met Frank. We fell in love, but divorce is illegal, so we just ran off. We stopped here and acted like we were married; no one questioned it. We did pretty good for a while.” Trixie smiled, her eyes on the fire. “Had Henry, had a family. Frank got sick—one of those weird diseases that popped up when the Mercury ice melted. And now Henry is gone, too.” She stopped rubbing her arms to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Then she crossed her arms again, staring at the fire.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry for me,” Trixie said, taking a thin glass bottle of liquor from her sweater pocket. She took a long drink from it. “I don’t need pity. I don’t need anything, I guess. Just a fire and a drink.” She pointed her chin at the fire, looked into it, and smiled faintly. “What do you need?”

  “I know why Henry was killed. It was for a painting. Well, the myth of the painting, really.”

  “I don’t care,” Trixie said flatly. Simone nodded. They watched the fire in silence. It popped and made sounds like crinkled cellophane, and it smelled heavy with chemicals and dust. “I wasn’t totally honest, last time we talked. I didn’t tell you something.”

  “Oh?”

  “Linnea was never really rich. She had fancy things, sure. But she didn’t come from money. She was a grifter. A con artist. Henry knew. He liked that about her. Said it made her exciting. And she was looking to retire, so they settled down together.”

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  “Because I thought you should know about her past. I just didn’t want you to think Henry was stupid . . . trusting someone like that. He was a good son.”

  “I know he was,” Simone said. The yarn and trash crackled, and the fog came in thicker, like a down blanket tossed over them.

  “Thank you,” Trixie said. She peeked into the fire. “It’s all gone. Do you know how to put out a fire?”

  “Sure. Stand back, though.” Trixie took several steps back, and Simone used her feet to scoot the flaming barrel towards the edge of the bridge, near an empty taxi stand. It was hot but didn’t burn through the soles of her boots. Finally she got it to the edge and kicked it over.

  “Oh!” Trixie said as it fell into the water, taking a few steps forward. Then she stopped. The barrel turned sideways in the water, bobbing half above the surface for a moment, then began to sink. Trixie began to laugh. Simone turned to look at her, and she looked genuinely happy, her eyes fixed on the barrel as it went under. A small stream of bubbles popped on the surface, quickly at first, then slowly, then not at all. Trixie kept laughing, and Simone smiled. But the laughter went on and on, longer than it should have, and still Trixie watched the spot where the last bubble had come up. Quietly, Simone turned and walked away.

  When she got home, the fog was thick, and the air sliced past her ears like the sound of a sharpening blade. There would definitely be a storm tomorrow, probably a bad one. Simone frowned as she walked up the stairs to her office. She knew almost everything now, and she still didn’t really know anything.

  Simone ducked the moment she opened the door to her office. The smell of blood was clear and sharp in the darkness. She took her gun out and stayed crouched by the door, listening for an intruder. She stayed that way for what seemed an eternity but could have only been a few minutes, but there was no sound—just the smell, rusty and floral. She cautiously raised a hand up and flipped on the lights but stayed crouched, her gun ready. There was just one figure in the waiting room, slumped over in the chair in front of the receptionist’s desk, as if waiting for an appointment, but clearly dead. Blood sparkled on her fur coat like rubies. It was Linnea.

  TWELVE

  * * *

  LINNEA HAD BEEN TORTURED before she was killed and deposited in Simone’s waiting room. Simone did a quick search of the office and her apartment. There was no one else there—just Linnea’s body, wrapped in her coat, topped with a hat and veil. The coat hung open, and under it she was naked, with cuts and bruises on her face and stomach, a few puncture marks in her arm, and several red cigarette burns crawling up her leg to a single, blackened cigar burn on her inner thigh like a smudged thumbprint. No obvious sign of how she’d died. The ends of her hair were matted with dried blood, and stuck to her chest. It was a thorough going-over.

  Simone turned away from the body. There was something too easy about it, too natural, and it chilled her. She could almost imagine Linnea was merely asleep in her coat, wearing red stockings and waiting up late in bed for the husband who never came home. Well, they were together now, whether they liked it or not. Simone pressed her hands down on the desk for the secretary who would never exist. She bent her head. Linnea wasn’t her friend, but Simone hadn’t disliked her, which was more than she could say for a lot of people.

  Normally she’d call Caroline now to tell her a case had co
me to a body in her office and she was going to call the cops; she’d ask Caroline to come over, smooth things out, maybe let her lean on her shoulder a little. It wasn’t the dead body. Simone had seen bodies. And it wasn’t the sense of invasion. It was something else. She found herself thinking of Trixie, and the way she’d looked when Simone kicked the trash-can pyre into the sea.

  “Phone,” she said, and her earpiece beeped, ready to be given an order. “Call Peter.”

  “Hey, soldier,” he said when he picked up. He said it with a creak in his voice that she recognized, the way he talked as he was sitting up in bed and stretching, like he had after sex, asking her if she wanted something to drink. Then he’d walk to his kitchen naked and bring back a few beers. They’d lay in bed and drink, the sweat from the bottles slowly dripping down their arms and onto their bodies.

  “Hi,” Simone said, realizing she’d let the pause linger.

  “You called me.” He was smiling; she could tell.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I had to work late, I was just grabbing a few hours where I could.”

  “If you need to sleep, I can call back—”

  “What’s wrong, Simone?”

  “Can you . . .” she trailed off. “Can you meet me at the battlefield? I don’t want to talk about this over the phone.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She could hear him moving, putting on clothes.

  “Thanks.” She hung up before he could reply. She turned around again and leaned back on the desk, taking a long look at the body. She memorized the way the body fell, one arm over the back of the chair, head leaning. Natural, but not. Just the wrong side of alive. She stared at the burns again, circles of different sizes, like a map of the solar system, and the lines of dried blood like empty riverbeds. Then she tightened her coat around her, turned out the lights, and left, locking the door behind her.