Depth

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 implications 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.

Simone looked hard at the photo. Caroline and The Blonde were smiling, as though they’d just shared a private joke. Simone had smiled like that with Caroline.

She closed the photo on her touchdesk screen, her hands numb and barely aware of what they were doing. She stood, not sure what was happening for a moment, her mind blank, and then walked to bed, stripped off her clothes, and went to sleep.

THE NEXT MORNING, BEFORE she had time to think about anything, Simone went to get a cup of coffee and heard whistling from her waiting room. She peeked her head out. There was a man there. Had she forgotten to lock the outer door? He was sitting patiently in the chair in front of her non-receptionist’s table, reading the paper. He looked up, wicked grin on his face, when she came into the room. She was wearing a worn set of sweatpants and a tank top, and her hair was a mess. He was perfectly put together in a white shirt, gold tie, and gray herringbone suit that still glistened like diamonds where the waves had hit the hem. He was around her age, maybe a little older, with perfectly parted hair that grayed at the temples and a straight-edged smile. He had the good looks of a movie star, and the acting skills not to call too much attention to it.

“Dash Ormond,” she said.

“You know, I’ve never been in your office before,” he said, looking around as though he hadn’t just cased the place while she was sleeping. “It’s cute.”

She went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee and one for him, which she set in front of him.

“You’ve never been here before because you’re where I send the jobs I don’t want,” she said, coolly.

“Oh, now let’s play nice,” he said. “We’re not rivals. We’re… contemporaries.”

“Then shouldn’t we be writing each other letters and discussing the philosophy of private investigation?”

“I’d love to. Though I fear mine would be a short letter. You see, my philosophy is simple: Get paid.”

She sat down behind the reception desk and took a sip of the coffee. She didn’t entirely dislike Dash. He had a good reputation, though he was perhaps willing to go a little further than Simone. He usually specialized in “retrieval,” which meant finding out who had stolen something and getting it back. Those sorts of clients had reasons for not going to the police, and Simone usually didn’t deal with them. She had heard rumors about Dash—that he could torture you, smiling the whole time, until you told him where you’d hidden whatever it was he was looking for—but he had always been polite to her, and she to him, and she didn’t know if the rumors were true. He was hard to read. There had been several cases of his that ended in dead bodies—whether he or his employer was responsible, Simone never knew.

Sometimes, if they found themselves staking out the same hotel bar, they’d send each other drinks. He had magnetism, there was no denying that. Even here in her office, the way he crossed his legs had a distinctly sensual elegance: part wild animal, part fine tailoring. He was a good flirt, too, but Simone was smart enough to never let it go further than that.

“What can I do for you, Dash?”

“You can help me find Linnea St. Michel.”

Simone took another long sip of coffee to cover the frown she was trying to hide, then tried to force a disdainful smile.

“Don’t know where she is, Dash. Sorry. But feel free to finish the coffee.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Simone. We can help each other out. My client wants something from Ms. St. Michel. You, I assume, want to get paid. We find her together, we both get what we want. It’s a beautiful thing.”

“Who’s your client?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“What do they want with Linnea?”

He shrugged slowly. “C’mon, Red, make a handsome man happy.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Fair enough. But think quick. I’ll be looking for her myself, and if I find her without you, then it’ll be you coming to my office. And I don’t wear pajamas.”

“What do you wear?”

He smiled and eased out of the chair.

“Nothing, of course.”

“I thought you were trying to discourage me.”

She raised her eyebrow and sipped her coffee, keeping her eyes on his. He grinned.

“Your teasing wounds my heart,” he said, and tapped himself on the chest. He took a card from his inside pocket and laid it on the desk in front of her. “In case you’ve lost my number. Call anytime. Day or night. I’ll be looking forward to hearing your voice.”

“I’ll bet.”

He winked, plucking his fedora from the coatrack and donning it, left the office, hands in his pockets, probably aware that he looked like a dancer doing it. She thought she could hear him whistling down the hallway. Simone let herself smile a bit more before heading into her office. She sat down at her touchdesk, booted it up, and looked at the photo again. Danny had sent over a few more during the night: Caroline and The Blonde smiling, Caroline and The Blonde laughing, Caroline handing The Blonde a small envelope, which she put in her purse without opening. Simone pulled up Danny’s message from last night and wrote back, “Where was this photo taken?”

She knew she was stuck in this now. Even if Dash hadn’t shown up, she had to find out what was going on. One of her few friends was involved, and someone was dead. That meant Caroline could be the next victim. Or, said the tiny voice in the back of her mind, a killer. Maybe. Maybe Caroline and The Blonde’s meeting had nothing to do with anything. But she had to know. And she couldn’t ask Caroline, because if she lied, it would be like being out at sea without a piece of driftwood to float on. Until she drowned. Until Caroline pushed her under.

People lied, people cheated, people were never what they seemed, never simple, and rarely good. These were things her father had taught her every day. Why had she forgotten when it came to Caroline?

The response came back almost immediately, since Danny was always hooked to his messaging: “Outside the Four Seasons. I was going through the security camera footage from a pho shop across the bridge to check if a certain someone met a certain someone else there, and I stumbled on your girl. I zoomed in for you and cleaned it up. But this is great, right? Now you can just ask Caroline who she is.”

Simone smiled at his innocence.

“No,” she wrote back, “I can’t. And neither can you. I need to find out what her involvement with all this is before I confront her with anything. If she’s part of this in some way, I have to figure out exactly how. Otherwise, it could be a trap. She might want to use me to find my client or some other reason. So don’t you dare mention to her that we’ve seen this photo. I’m serious.”

Another response came back a moment later: “Anyone ever tell you you have trust issues?”

Simone lit a cigarette. She wouldn’t be responding. But now she felt fairly sure that The Blonde was staying at the Four Seasons and, more importantly, that she was meeting people there. Maybe clients? Was Caroline a client? Anika had said she was selling something—peddling bullshit. But what would Anika, Caroline, and Henry all be in the market for? And why would that lead to Henry’s death? He didn’t have whatever The Blonde was selling—not if she was still going around selling it.

Simone clenched her jaw and looked at the photos again, willing them to stop making her body feel creaking and slimy. Willing their significance away. She knew the staff of the Four Seasons well enough to know they were hard to crack. Their only security cameras were in the lobby, and she still didn’t know The Blonde’s name, so the best she could do would be to go to the front desk, present a photo, and ask what room she was in. And Simone knew that she would be shut down right then and asked to leave, and that The Blonde would be warned. Better to be less direct until she was desperate. She would stake the Four Seasons out and, if she was lucky, The Blonde would show up and maybe meet with someone. Then Simone could start getting some information.

She stubbed out what was left of her cigarette, then showered and dressed, bought a newspage and a fresh pack of cigarettes on her way to the Four Seasons, and settled in. There was a café on a small boat just down the bridge from the hotel, so she sat there, and ordered a coffee. She read the news first swipe to last. She used the dicta feature on her earpiece to send out a few messages and listened to others—an automated job offer from a corporate espionage company, Henry St. Michel’s finances from Danny, and then, curiously, a message from Pastor Sorenson: “Dear Miss Pierce, I have the papers I would like your client to sign. If you could stop by in person on Sunday night to retrieve them, without your client, I would be most appreciative.”

Interesting. Simone blew smoke out of her mouth and sipped from her third coffee. deCostas didn’t really need to sign any release forms—he’d already dropped his marble. But Sorenson had said without her client. He wanted something.

She spent the next few hours watching the hotel while going over Henry St. Michel’s finances. The holo-projection from her earpiece could only create a small, flickering screen, so that took a while and gave her very little information. He’d taken out a lot of cash recently, but before then, his accounts were steady. He clearly wasn’t rich, and the business wasn’t thriving, but he was surviving in the city, which was more than a lot of people could say. Linnea’s finances were separate; Danny had tried to access them, but they were behind a heavily encrypted server that would take a while to crack. Simone told him not to bother. There was nothing here.

She’d been watching the hotel, camera at the ready, for nearly four hours. The Blonde hadn’t showed, and she had other things to investigate. And now a private meeting with Sorenson to wonder about. Maybe The Blonde had already checked out, or maybe Simone had been spotted and The Blonde had cancelled her plans to avoid being seen. Waiting and patience were part of a good detective’s job, but so was adaptability. There were other alleys of investigation to go down. Simone stubbed out her cigarette and left the newspage behind.

HENRY AND LOU’S BUSINESS didn’t look different from the outside. Henry’s name hadn’t been removed; there wasn’t a sign that said “Closed due to death of a partner.” Simone knocked and went in without waiting for an answer.

Inside didn’t show the signs of a hasty exodus that Simone had half-expected. No frantic Lou packing up goods in messy balls of plastic wrap and cardboard. It was the same as before. Lou sat at the same desk, a cigarette drooping from her mouth. It smelled good—real tobacco. Simone wondered how she could afford it. Wondered if she’d share. She looked up when Simone came in.

“Oh, it’s you.”

Simone walked closer to Lou.

“The cops said I shouldn’t talk to you,” Lou said, standing. “Said you weren’t whoever you said, from Canada. Said you’re a shamus and you helped Henry take his last drink.”

“That last one is a lie,” Simone said. “I want to find out who killed Henry.”

“That’s nice.” Lou took the cigarette from her mouth. She blew smoke out through her nose.

“You don’t seem too broken up over the death of your partner.” Simone sat down in the chair across from Lou.

“That’s a dumb line,” Lou leaned back in her chair. Simone stared until she looked away and started talking again. “Henry was a good guy. He worked for my husband, before he died. I liked the kid, but he wasn’t family. He was always closer with my husband.” She didn’t talk about Henry as though he were her son, Simone thought. More like he was a family pet.

“So who would have killed him? Was he working on anything big?”

“I told you the cops told me not to talk to you.”

“If you really cared what the cops thought you would have called them the moment I came in.”

Lou barked a laugh. “Fair enough.”

“So was he working on anything?”

“Nothing abnormal. You can look at his desk calendar if you want. The cops took his touchdesk server, but he kept everything on paper, too—people get old-fashioned in our business.” She gestured with her cigarette towards Henry’s desk. “Why are you even on this, anyway?”

“Linnea hired me,” Simone said, standing and walking over to Henry’s desk. “She thought he was cheating.”

Lou laughed again. “Cheating? They may not have cared much for each other anymore, but he wasn’t fool enough to cheat. Linnea was the one with the money.”

“What makes you think they didn’t care for each other?” Simone flipped through the calendar, finding the night he was shot. Usual business stuff was written down, but at the bottom of the page was the name Misty and “7 p.m.” No address. No last name. Simone took out her camera and shot a photo.

“Oh, nothing specific. He didn’t talk about her much; sometimes he sounded tense on the phone with her. But he didn’t confide in me. You should ask his mother.”

“His mother?”

“Trixie. She’s uptown, on the Paradise—you know, the cruise ship they made into an old-age home? Tasteless name. When I was younger I thought it was so tasteless it was funny. Now, just tasteless.”

“I know it.”

“It’s like a prison for people like me. I wouldn’t be caught dead on one of those. I’m still in the same apartment my husband and I bought before the water started rising.”

“You were there when it was retrofitted?”

“Oh yes. It was one of the late ones, built ten years before the water, so it was ready for it. Lots of neighbors moved out anyway. Cowards. Now I have a younger sort of neighbors. Noisier. I don’t mind it, really, but… Howard used to ask them to quiet down, and they would listen to him. I don’t bother.” Lou sighed and took a long drag on her cigarette. “Anything interesting on his calendar?”

“Do you know this Misty he was supposed to meet with the other night?” Lou shrugged, then turned to her touchdesk and pressed a few keys. “I don’t know the name, and we don’t have anything on record.” Simone filed the name away—maybe it was The Blonde.

“Don’t suppose you know where Linnea is?”

“Linnea? I hardly ever see her. Is she missing?”

“Not picking up her phone, anyway.”

“Isn’t that the sort of thing you’d call suspicious?”

“My dad always taught me to view everything as suspicious.” Lou cocked her head, half a nod of agreement. “Do you recognize this woman?” Simone found a photo of The Blonde on her camera and handed it to Lou. Lou held it away from her face, and lowered her glasses to the tip of her nose.

“No. Should I?”

“She had dinner with Henry the night before he died,” Simone said.

“She have a name?” Lou asked. Simone shook her head. “Well, I could see why Linnea might be jealous. But no. I don’t know her.”

“If you do see her, or she shows up asking questions, or Linnea pops up, would you mind calling me?” Simone took out one of her cards and put it on the desk.

“I’ll consider it.”

“That’s the best I can hope for.” Simone headed for the door but turned around as she opened it. Lou was staring at the card Simone had left on the desk, unmoving. “And thanks.”

“Police are idiots,” Lou said, not looking up. “But you seem like you might be smart. Don’t disappoint me. He might not have been family, but he was home. Part of… this.” She threw her arm out, gesturing at the empty room, then looked down at her desk, as if ashamed to have shown a flicker of sadness. Simone stared at Lou a moment longer and saw the wrinkles around her face slowly falling, like a wave in slow motion. She looked sad. Tired. Alone. Simone nodded and left. This wasn’t a moment she was invited to participate in. And she’d gotten enough.

LINNEA AND HENRY’S PLACE was just a half-hour walk uptown, around NYU. Once outside, Simone lit a cigarette and started walking. Her phone buzzed, announcing a new message. She tapped her earpiece as she walked away from the shipping company. The message was from deCostas.

“Simone,” her phone read to her, “I hope we’re still on for more exploration. I have selected more buildings, specifically One Wall Street, Clinton Tower, and 590 Madison Avenue. I hope you’re up for it. I promise to be a good boy this time and follow your every command.”

Simone took a drag off her cigarette as she walked. She didn’t really have time for babysitting deCostas anymore. But… he was still easy money and easy on the eyes. She could handle both cases. deCostas would just have to stay on the back burner. A lot depended on what she could get out of Caroline on Saturday, what she found at the St. Michel house, and what she learned from Henry’s mother. She had tomorrow open. She wrote him back that she’d meet him at his hotel and take him to One Wall Street. Best to do that one earliest, considering what it became at night. But for now she needed to figure out what was going on with The Blonde before she saw Caroline, and that meant finding Linnea, if she could. She finished her cigarette and tossed it into the water, then stared up at the St. Michel townhouse. If Linnea really had run off, she might have left behind some evidence of where she was going.

It was a simple-looking building: faded slate, glossy with Glassteel; probably the top of some residential building that went up in the 1950s or ’60s. Only three stories rose above the ocean, the first of them slightly higher than usual. It was one of a series of identical homes in the same building, and they all shared a wide, solid bridge, white polished steps descending from their doors to the walkway lined with waist-high lamps in the shape of old lanterns. It was a quiet part of town. A few bridges away were the buildings and boats where what was left of NYU operated, but these bridges felt private, like a gated community. A little ways away, Simone saw a woman pushing a stroller. She felt the gel in her coat warm up in response to an involuntary shiver.

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.

“So you must know by now that everything points to murder for hire.”

“And I’m the hire. I know. But I don’t do that, Peter, you know that.”

“Yeah, and so does Kluren, I think. It’s why she’s so angry. She’s a good cop, normally. Even a nice one. But with you… She’ll pin it to you if she can make it stick.”

“Which I knew already.” Simone tucked her hair behind her ears. Her neck hurt, and she wanted to rub it or crack it, but not in front of him. “So why are you here?”

“I…” Peter walked around the desk to her side and looked down at her. “Look, I have a boat. A good sturdy one. You can take it. Get out of town for a while.”

“A while?”

“Until this blows over.”

“I’m not doing that.” Simone felt her spine straighten, her hands clench for a moment. “Did someone put you up to this? This Kluren or Linnea?”

“What? No, soldier, just me. Promise. I thought we could go together, if you…”

“Sorry,” Simone interrupted before he could finish. She stood, awkwardly close to him. “But no. I’m not going. Thanks, Peter.” She waved her hand at the door and turned away, but he caught her hand and pulled her back, forcefully. For a moment, she thought he was pulling her into him for a kiss, the way he used to, but he let go before she got close enough.

“Take the boat, Simone.”

Simone turned away again, wanting this conversation to be over. She took a few steps away but could still feel Peter behind her, the way he tensed up when he got upset.

“Damn it,” he said finally, his words half sigh, half explosion. “I’m trying to help you.”

Simone turned back around. “I know,” she said, studying him, the angle of his jaw as it clenched, the deep brown of his eyes. “But I just can’t, Peter. That’s not me.”

“Fine,” he said, his eyes flickering away from hers for a moment. He stepped closer to her and took her hand in his, carefully, and then squeezed it. She couldn’t tell if it was because he was angry or protective or both, but it was a firm squeeze, strong enough she could feel the bones in her fingers pressing together. “But be careful.”

“I always am,” she said. He let her hand drop and left, closing the door behind him. Simone locked it and turned back to the package on the receptionist’s desk. She sliced it open with a knife from the drawer. Inside was a 3D printer cartridge from Belleau Cosmetics—the fall sampler, capable of printing out “any two lipsticks, any two blushes, and any two eye shadows from the entire collection—hundreds of possibilities!” and a note:

Simone sighed and knocked the package into the trash, then picked it out again and brought it to her office, where she put it on top of her 3D printer. Makeup was good for disguises sometimes. She remembered what Anika had told her—that The Blonde was peddling bullshit. And Anika was a smart woman; Simone trusted her judgment, usually—though she could have been lying, too, to throw Simone off the trail. No one else seemed to think it was bullshit. Not even Caroline.

At least Anika wasn’t holding her responsible for the cops’ questioning her. If Simone made it through all this, she didn’t want to lose a client.

She went to the bathroom and ran a bath. She shouldn’t have snapped at Peter or gotten so suspicious. She wasn’t sure who she could trust right now—not when even Caroline was hiding something.

Maybe Caroline didn’t know, Simone told herself, stepping into the water and sinking beneath it. Maybe she was just friends with a dangerous woman. Maybe she was in danger herself. But Simone couldn’t believe that. Caroline was the best judge of character Simone had ever seen; she saw through people and knew exactly what they were. She knew who she was dealing with. And that meant that she was as dangerous as The Blonde.

Simone held her breath under the water for as long as she could before coming up for air. It was always good to practice holding your breath. You never knew when you might end up going under.