Depth

SEVEN

DECOSTAS’ HOTEL WAS ONE of the cheap tourist places, moored with a big, flashy chain to one of the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge. The towers were a few stories over the water, the suspension cables still coming off them, like stage curtains sloping down into the water. At one point, someone had proposed using the bridge towers as the base for a new bridge, but there had been protests that it would ruin the view. Instead there were boats secured all along the side with bridges running between them, usually lined in tourists, taking photos of the headstone-like masonry.

When Simone showed up, deCostas was already on deck staring at the cables, which dripped with rust and seaweed. Simone glanced up at them but quickly looked away. She’d never liked the rusted cords; they reminded her too much of bloody rope. Instead, she let her eyes run down deCostas’ back to his ass and linger there for a moment before tapping him on the shoulder. He turned around, his face surprised for a moment, harder than Simone had seen it, but then it quickly melted into the usual flirtatious smile as he handed her one of the cups of coffee he was holding, still hot.

“You taking the price of that out of my fee?” Simone asked.

“It’s a gift,” deCostas said. “A thank-you for still being my guide after I stuck my nose where it did not belong.”

“Yeah,” Simone said, taking the coffee, “but if you think you can buy me back with a six-dollar coffee, you haven’t been paying attention to my fees.” She wasn’t really angry with him anymore. She’d known he was senseless when she took him along trailing The Blonde; what he’d hired her for had already proven that.

“I know. You saved my life.” He blew on his coffee, more slowly than necessary.

“She wasn’t going to shoot you.”

“How do you know?”

“She was making a point. If she’d shot you, I would have shot her, and maybe she would have dodged it, maybe not, but it wasn’t worth the risk for her.”

deCostas nodded and sipped his coffee. “Can I ask what you were talking about?”

“You can ask, but I won’t answer. Another case. Confidential.”

“I think you like keeping secrets.”

“Only the ones you’re curious about.” Simone smiled as she sipped her coffee. “But we can walk and flirt. We shouldn’t be late.” She turned and walked away, leaving him to catch up.

“What is this place? I thought One Wall Street was just a rental building.”

“It is… of a sort. It’s all run by Mr. Ryan. He rents the space to a lot of people.”

“A lot of people?”

“Yes.” deCostas had caught up to her, so she walked a little faster. “The floors have all been emptied out, nonbearing walls torn down—but historical embellishments preserved, like the marble floors. It’s a beautiful space—clean, open, well lit, totally protected. Mr. Ryan employs some serious muscle to keep it safe.”

“Why?”

“At night, various renters gather there and sell their wares in a… nonjudgmental environment.”

“You mean stolen goods?”

“Stolen, laundered, illegal. It’s a bazaar, a real black market. It’s where everyone goes to sell. People from all over the world come here because Mr. Ryan keeps it safe and organizes auctions for the more… unique items. He auctions them off personally, hiding the owner’s identity, issues invitations to those he knows can afford it and would want it, and he takes only a small cut of the profits. There are a million places in the city to buy illegal whatever. But if you want the good stuff, you go to One Wall Street.”

“And he’s going to let me throw something down the stairwell?”

“Mr. Ryan is powerful enough to be a generally nice guy. No one is going to mess with him, and if someone does, he’ll find out about it before anything bad happens, and then that person… well, he hires people for that. And he knows me. I’ve shown up as a representative for a buyer a few times, and he’s hired me as an extra pair of eyes in the auction room. He trusts me. Or at least, he’s unconcerned by me. And you.” Simone took a long drink of her coffee, but it was cold, so she threw it in the nearest trash can.

“You know a lot of people.”

“It’s my job. This city is a web of important people and favors and secrets. I need to know those people, be owed those favors, and keep those secrets. Otherwise I’m not worth what you’re paying me.”

“Do you charge more than most detectives in the city?”

“Yeah, but I’m worth it, aren’t I?” She shot him a sidelong glance. He was grinning. Simone did charge more than most, but there weren’t many to compare her to. In the whole city, there were maybe a dozen private detectives. And they were all good. There were always a couple more who opened up shop every other month, but they were gone within a week or two—found by the recycling boats or, if they were lucky, making waves back to the mainland when they realized they were in over their heads. Simone had been around a long time, and she had inherited her father’s business, so she thought she was probably one of the best. Her and Dash. And neither of them could find Linnea. She couldn’t still be in the city, could she?

Mr. Ryan had preserved the outside of One Wall Street like a picture postcard. It was a perfect monolith. Straight angles, evenly spaced windows, rising fifty stories high from the bottom of the ocean, twenty-nine above water. Deco designs framed every window, gold lines against the gray stone. It could have been an incredibly elegant tomb. No one went in or out during the day, and there was just one narrow steel bridge to the small doorway. It was almost invisible in the shadow of the Freedom Tower complex, with its condos and fancy barge-parks where the wealthy walked their dogs.

Simone walked down the bridge, motioning deCostas to stay behind her. There was a small buzzer next to the closed door, surrounded by more gold lines. Simone rang it once. The door opened to a woman who filled the frame completely. She was tall, broad, and not smiling.

“We don’t open until after sunset,” she said.

“My name is Simone Pierce, this is Alejandro deCostas. Mr. Ryan is expecting us.”

The woman nodded, apparently unsurprised, and stepped aside to let them pass. Inside was a wide hallway. The whole area was tiled in pink-and-black marble. She closed the door behind them.

“You’re ten minutes early,” she said.

“I know how Mr. Ryan hates people to be late,” Simone said. “We’ll wait for him.” The woman didn’t say anything but stepped in front of the closed door. Motioning deCostas to follow her, Simone walked down the hallway, which led to a large room. It was spotlight-bright, sun pouring in through huge windows, reflecting off marble tiles and bouncing everywhere like an insect trapped in a jar. Simone could hear the soft patter of the waves against the windows. The room was entirely empty except for the elevators and two stairwell doors. A single painting hung opposite the elevators. Simone walked over to get a closer look. She had never been in One Wall Street during the day. Usually it was so crowded with people, she’d never even noticed the painting.

“I thought there would be stalls or shops or something,” deCostas said.

“Everyone brings their own setup. They clean up their own problems that way,” Simone said, looking at the painting. It wasn’t particularly large—perhaps three-and-a-half feet tall and four-and-a-half wide—and was framed in the same gilded color as the window adornments. It was a subtle sort of painting. Simone understood why she had passed over it before, but now it drew her in.

It was yellow, golden really, and showed an ancient port at sunset. There were ships coming in, moored right next to the stone docks that cropped out of great columns. Not really docks, actually. Just… a courtyard. Framed by the sea on one side. Across from that were more columns, like the walls of a building emerging from the ocean. People were everywhere, not minding the ships parked around them.

“Claude Lorrain,” came a voice, echoing across the empty room. Simone turned. Mr. Ryan was a narrow, elegantly dressed man, with a shaved head and a thin line of a mustache. She had never seen him wearing anything besides a tailored suit, complete with pocket square, and today was no different. He had a faint accent—something European, maybe, or pretending to be European. He smiled at Simone. “Please, keep admiring it. That is what it is there for. But I am afraid people get so caught up in the goings-on that they never even notice.”

Simone turned around again, staring at the painting. Mr. Ryan stepped up next to her, and they looked at it together. She could feel herself looking to where his eyes looked, trying to take in what he was seeing. “It was painted in the 1630s or ’40s. Lorrain was a landscape painter—very influential. Painters copied his style for generations. He painted many seaports, but this one is my favorite, so I took pains to acquire it. I love the light, the liveliness of it. It’s like a city on water. Perhaps it makes me happy to know that we are not the first.” He sighed happily as though this were a private joke between Simone and him. “It has two titles. Some call it The Return of Odysseus, and some call it Odysseus Returns Chryseis to Her Father. In the former case, it would be after the Trojan War, at the end of The Odyssey, when Odysseus finally returns home to his ever-faithful wife, Penelope, strings his bow, and slays her suitors…. In the case of the latter, it would be one of the first acts of contrition during the Trojan War, as Agamemnon has Odysseus deliver the captured Chryseis to her father to end a plague. But it just makes the war longer and bloodier. It could be about a man giving in to the gods, or it could be about one returning home after triumphing over them. I like that about it, too.”

“I’m sorry I never noticed it before,” Simone said. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you’ve noticed it now.”

“It looks like New York would, if things were simpler.”

“It is either the beginning or end of a war, Ms. Pierce. Surely that is just as complex as now?”

“In war, you’re given orders,” Simone said. “Here, you just make them up for yourself.”

Mr. Ryan ran his thumb over his chin, considering. “Maybe so, but we are not here for art history lessons or philosophical debates. This is your Mr. deCostas?” deCostas had been standing back and away from them, as if wary.

“It is. He just wants to see the stairwell and drop one of his devices down it. Show Mr. Ryan the device.”

deCostas pulled one of the small marble devices from his jacket pocket and held it up. Mr. Ryan approached and examined it without taking it.

“How do I know it isn’t a bomb?”

“Because I’m sure one of your detectors in the hallway would have told you if it was. How many do you have now? Twenty-six?” Mr. Ryan smiled but waved a finger at her.

“It would be foolish for me to tell you that. But you are correct. I know the device has a wireless signal, but it does not convert audio or visual data, so I see no reason to keep it from the bottom of the ocean. Come!” He clapped his hands. “Let me show you the stairs.” He walked them over to the stairwell and opened the door. It wasn’t even locked. Mr. Ryan probably never had to worry about anyone getting as far as the stairs. The stairwell itself was like the rest of the building—pristine and cleanly ornate. Even the water lapping against the stairs seemed cleaner somehow. deCostas stepped forward and knelt down to examine the water while Simone and Mr. Ryan hung back in the doorway.

“Was there something else you wanted, Ms. Pierce?” Mr. Ryan asked, sotto voce. Simone shook her head. “I have heard that you are Linnea St. Michel’s assistant these days.”

“Some people seem to think so,” Simone answered carefully. What did the St. Michel case have to do with Mr. Ryan?

“And are you?”

“Do you think I’d answer that?”

Mr. Ryan murmured a small laugh. “A good point. Well, if you happen to run into her, please let Ms. St. Michel know that if she is in need of funds and is willing to sell the object she once approached me about, I could put an auction together within a day. It would fetch a hefty price.”

Simone watched deCostas carefully take a water sample.

“Would it?”

“Yes, it would. But I’m not giving you another art history lesson, Ms. Pierce. Either you know the object’s worth or you don’t. I begin to suspect you don’t.”

deCostas dropped the small marble into the water and watched it fall away. Then he took out his notebook and began making notes.

“Linnea doesn’t tell me everything. I didn’t know she had approached you about the object at all.”

“Once. But then she changed her mind. Very disappointing. But if you should run into her…”

“I’ll give her the message. Thank you, Mr. Ryan.”

deCostas put the notebook away and stood back up, turning around to face them.

“All done,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I am a friend of education and archeology, Mr. deCostas. I hope you will remember me if you uncover anything.”

“Of course,” deCostas said. “Thank you again.”

Mr. Ryan nodded and gestured that they should go out of the stairwell ahead of him. He followed them and closed the door. This time he locked it.

“It has been a pleasure as always, Ms. Pierce. And charming meeting you, Mr. deCostas. I hope your expedition to our City on the Sea is fruitful.” He bowed slightly, but did not shake hands. “Ms. Antiphates will show you out.”

The large woman who had opened the door for them appeared and gestured that they should follow her.

“I’m hoping for another art history lesson sometime soon, Mr. Ryan,” Simone said as she followed the woman.

“As am I, Ms. Pierce,” Mr. Ryan said. Simone turned around and flashed him a grin. He was standing exactly where they had left him, watching them walk down the hallway. Simone imagined him staying there, watching, until they were out the door and Ms. Antiphates locked it behind him again.

“That was pretty easy,” deCostas said.

“Yeah. The next one is easier. 590 Madison is residential, no doorman. We should be able to walk in and check out the stairwell. Clinton Tower is the same as the Broecker Building, just not as fancy. I have an appointment for four p.m. We’ll take the elevator, cancel, hop into the stairwell, and then run.”

“I didn’t think I’d be skirting so many security guards. I thought this was a lawless city on the water, with no authority.”

“There’s plenty of authority: security guards, personal enforcers, and the police do an all right job because they have an arrangement with all the private security in town to turn criminals over to them. No one enforces the mainland laws—we’re supposed to, but no one does. But the big stuff? Murder, big robberies? The cops will try to hook anyone who pulls that. The truth is, there’s authority because of who we are. New York is a combination of self-selection and natural selection. People have to be brave, stupid, or some combination of the two to come here. They have to be dangerous—whether with a gun, or money or something else—to survive. And those of us who were born here… we have a special sort of education. You try to mug someone, there’s a good chance you’ll be the one who ends up in the water. Criminals are careful. And it’s easier to get a gun here than almost anywhere else in the world.” She shrugged. “In case you want a souvenir.”

“I don’t think I’d know how to use it.”

“Just point and pull the trigger. Easy as anything.”

AT 4:16 P.M., THEY were running out of the Clinton Tower; 590 Madison had gone off without a hitch, and the Clinton Tower seemed to be going fine until an unexpected pair of security men stepped into the stairwell and walked down to the bottom floor, lighting cigarettes for a quick smoke break. All four of them had frozen for a moment, security men on the stairs, Simone and deCostas standing by the water’s edge. Then one of the guards had remembered his job and shouted, “Hey!” which sent Simone and deCostas running out the door, into the crowded lobby. The guards chased after them but quickly gave up and Simone and deCostas were soon out of the building. They stopped running a few bridges away and Simone raised her eyebrows at deCostas, who was bent over, catching his breath.

“You drop your marble?” Simone asked.

“Yeah,” deCostas said, taking a deep breath.

“We didn’t run that far. You shouldn’t be so out of breath. Or is your stamina lacking?”

“My stamina is legendary,” he said, standing up and grinning at her. He pushed some hair out of his face. “I was scared, perhaps. After Mr. Ryan thinking it was a bomb, I didn’t want to be locked away for terrorism or something.”

“Aw, I could have protected you from that.”

“My hero.”

“Don’t mock it, I’ve got a rep as an excellent hero.”

“Oh? Rescuing fair lads such as myself, holding us in your strong arms?”

“Legs, more often.” Simone smirked. They looked at each other in silence for a moment.

“So, is this where we part ways?” he asked. “Have that other case to worry about?”

“Unless you had something else in mind,” Simone smiled.

“We could always go back to my hotel,” deCostas suggested with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Simone stared at him for long enough to watch a new sheen of sweat develop at his hairline. “Okay.”

SIMONE STRETCHED NAKED IN the foggy light from the window. The room smelled like smoke and salt. deCostas was asleep, face down on the bed naked, the sheets all on the floor. He held his pillow to his face and curved his body around the imprint where Simone’s body had been. His ass was nice to stare at, but Simone only gazed at it a minute. That had been exactly what she needed. She felt looser again, as though whatever had been stifling her brain and body had melted away. His stamina was almost as legendary as he’d promised.

But now she was ready to get back to the case. She pulled on her clothes and left without waking deCostas. He’d call. Outside it was dark already, just a bare sliver of sun peeking out over the horizon, blocked by buildings, diffused by fog, neon red. Algae generators glowed green under the water’s surface, and the city smelled like salt and mold. Simone loved the nighttime. The world was black and red and green and wet. All these trips with deCostas had had her out during the day; she felt better now, prowling the fog and shadows.

First, she stopped by the Four Seasons. She waltzed by the doorman as if she belonged there and headed to the reception desk. She still looked rough from her tumble with deCostas and did her best to look worried, too.

“I’m supposed to meet my cousin here,” she told the receptionist at the desk. “Short, blonde, really pretty? I’m totally late, though.”

“Is she a guest here?”

“I think so,” Simone said, trying to sound young and innocent.

“And her name?”

Simone pursed her lips, then forced her face to stay cheerful.

“Misty,” she tried. The receptionist blinked, then looked down at his touchdesk and typed on it.

“No one named Misty is staying with us.”

“She checks in under fake names, usually,” Simone said, trying to keep her voice sweet and naïve, “but… oh, here, I have a photo!” Simone took out the photo of The Blonde. She doubted this would work, but it was worth the risk. She had to get to The Blonde—had to figure this case out. The receptionist looked her up and down, an oily smile on his face.

“I don’t think I can help you,” he said. Simone gave up the act. She wasn’t getting any information without a name.

“Not even if I give you a nice tip?” she asked. The man lifted his nose and turned away from her slightly. She sighed. “Can you at least tell me if I should stake this place out or if she’s in for the night?” she asked in her normal voice.

“I don’t think loitering would be a very good use of your time, do you?” The receptionist continued to smile. He was almost unreadable, but Simone could tell he was one question away from calling security.

“Thanks,” she said, and left. That was a bust.

Next she headed a few blocks east to the Khan townhouse. It was dark now. The ocean was calm the way it was just after sunset. The fog was so heavy she couldn’t see clear outlines more than five feet ahead of her. Neon lights diffused in the mist, their advertisements unreadable, the color like the last moments of a dying fireworks display, mingling with the light from the algae and the darkness of the water. Simone took out a cigarette and lit it, pausing far enough away from the townhouse that she could see the light through the windows as inverted inkblots against the night. She smoked and leaned on a railing, staring at the mix of dark and light. The water below her was like a black mirror, reflecting back bits of her: a slice of face, a cutting of hair, the corner of a trench coat.

What the fuck was Caroline into? She’d met with The Blonde, who’d also met with the now-dead Henry, with Anika, and maybe with Pastor Sorenson. She’d pointed a gun at Simone. Linnea had vanished. Linnea and Henry had been about to make a score, were trying to auction off a piece, but then changed their minds. Maybe it was a sales deal; instead of auctioning it with Mr. Ryan, they had The Blonde act as seller. That made sense. She was meeting with rich, connected people. So it must be valuable art. Although Anika had said it wasn’t.

And Henry and Linnea had enough Foam to last an addict a good year. Was the art a cover for drugs? Was everyone just saying art when they meant the Foam? Mr. Ryan wouldn’t be that interested if it were just drugs, though. She knew he found drugs distasteful. So did Anika. And Caroline never touched the stuff. Simone couldn’t figure out what the connections were. And it bothered her that one of the few people she trusted was somehow involved. Bothered wasn’t a strong enough word. It disturbed her. She tried to tell herself it was just a minor meeting, two people bumping into each other on the street, but she’d seen those photos of Caroline and The Blonde. It was more than that. They were friendly, they were involved. It made her wonder who Caroline was, and if Simone didn’t know that, then who was she? The detective who had always prided herself on knowing a person’s character ten seconds into a conversation—had Caroline been laughing at her this whole time, playing the role of privileged but brilliant, ambitious but careful, lawful but… ? Simone didn’t know. She turned away from her broken reflection on the water and leaned back on the railing.

Simone acknowledged that, objectively, she was a cold person. Not cruel, but distant from her emotions. Her father had taught her that. Simone had refused to speak to him or anyone else for a week after her mother left. Her father had tucked her in every night and told her to think about why she was angry, or sad, about what she missed. One night, Simone had finally opened her mouth and told him she had figured it out: She was upset because she had never expected her mother to leave.

“Well, from now on, don’t try to expect or not expect anything,” her father had told her. “Then there won’t be any surprises, and you’ll never be sad.”

Simone had tried to follow that advice, but as a detective, she had to make guesses, assumptions, figure people out—what they would do and why. He had taught her that, too, but he told her that making a guess and expecting to be right were two different things. It was a clear distinction: mind and heart. Your heart wanted to believe a guess would be right. The mind just wondered if it would be. A mind was never disappointed, always curious. It was what made a good detective: no expectations, no surprises, the ability to guess without getting so caught up in one guess that she didn’t see any other options. Open mind, closed everything else.

It’s why she’d never had many friends, it’s why she tended to stop seeing a guy after they’d had sex, it’s why she’d left Peter after he’d told her he thought maybe they should get married. She thought she had been doing a good job. She hadn’t realized how she’d come to assume so much about Caroline—that she would always have Simone’s back, that she kept her nose clean, and that her hands were only dirty from cleaning up other people’s messes.

Simone let the cigarette fall into the water. Her earpiece buzzed, telling her there was an incoming call from deCostas. She ignored it. Instead she walked closer to the Khan townhouse. She walked slowly, her hands in her pockets, not quite creeping. The fog was a little thinner here, and she could see farther. All the lights on the top floor were on, and she could see someone’s shadow walking back and forth. After a moment, the figure stopped and leaned out the window. Simone stared up at her, at Caroline, wearing only a white bra, her hair streaming around her like shadows. She looked out the window at the city, not below at Simone. She took a deep breath. Was she worried? Satisfied?

Simone walked farther away, out of earshot but where she could still see Caroline, leaning out the window. She told her phone to call Caroline. It rang twice, and Caroline left the window, then came back to it and touched her ear.

“Hey,” Caroline said. “It has been a long week.”

“Yeah. Look, Caroline—”

“You’re not going to cancel on me for tomorrow, are you? ’Cause I really need to blow off some steam.” In the window, Caroline rolled her shoulders, and her hair shimmered with the motion. She sounded tired.

“No,” Simone said. “Still on. I told you I invited Danny too, right?”

“Oh? Okay. I gotta grill him about what he’s been telling the mayor’s wife, anyway.”

“No ambushes,” Simone said, forcing a chuckle. “He’s airtight.” She marveled at how easy it was to talk to Caroline as though everything were normal, at how quickly she forgot and trusted her again.

“Fine, fine. But I can make sly insinuations that make him nervous, can’t I?”

“I would never take that away from you.”

Caroline laughed, then took a deep breath. In the window, Simone saw her stretch.

“Everything okay by you? I’ve been reading some stuff in the police reports that have me a little worried.”

“I can handle it. Just the usual nonsense, plus Kluren and all the delights that come with her.”

“Okay. But if you feel a drop, I’m your umbrella, right?”

“Right.” Simone smiled.

“Good. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow. And be prepared to lose, ’cause I am going to strike those motherfucking pins every time.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Don’t need to remind myself of something I know is true. ’Night. Sweet dreams.”

“Good night.”

Simone clicked her phone off and watched Caroline stare out the window a moment longer, then relax her body over the windowsill, head down, hair pouring off her like water. Then she straightened up and went back into the house. The lights went out. Simone stayed, watching the house for a while longer. The water under her got choppier as the moon rose, and soon there was the feeling of spray hitting her in the face and the sound of waves crashing around her.