Depth (10 page)

“I hope to see that in the files Weiss brings me.” Kluren glared, then tapped something on her wristpiece. Her eyes began glowing a bright blue—another ForenSpec feature. She looked around the crime scene. “There are a few blood drops leading out that way,” she said to the techs, pointing out the door opposite where they had come in. “Follow them.” She turned to Simone as though she’d forgotten she was there. “I’m done with you here. Weiss, take her home, please. Get the files. Keep the cuffs on her.”

A few blocks away, Peter took off the cuffs. Simone instinctively put her hands to her wrists to feel them, though they hadn’t chafed.

“Thanks,” she said.

“What the hell kinda waters you swimming in, soldier?”

“You don’t need to keep calling me that.”

“I like calling you that. And you dodged my question.”

“Why did you always let me be the soldier when we were kids?” Simone asked. “The soldier was the best action figure. You always got stuck being artillery guy, hanging back and bringing me guns when I needed them.”

“You liked being the solider.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t care either way.”

Simone smiled as they walked, but looked down so he couldn’t see. “And you dodged my question again.”

“What was the question?”

“What sort of trouble are you in?” Simone felt him close to her, warmth coming off him and touching her shoulder like the early sun. She stepped farther away.

“The usual kind, I guess.”

“You have no idea, do you?”

“I have too many ideas.”

“Well, do me and you a favor and drop them all.” His voice rose in frustration.

“No promises.”

“Of course not,” Peter sighed. They continued downtown in silence, walking an awkward space apart, trying to maintain a buffer of air, but sometimes knocking lightly against each other when the bridge swayed or the wind came on strong. Then they would put their hands out flat as if to apologize for that soft touch, to put more space between them again. The air smelled like salt and sweat.

When Simone unlocked the door, the memories of when she would bring Peter here after a night out washed over her for a moment. She pulled her hands through her hair, tugging at the roots.

“Everything is in the office,” she said. He followed her and handed her a compression card, which she laid down on her touchdesk. She pulled up the file marked 31-42-21, not minding if Peter saw it. If anyone could figure out her file-coding system, it would be him, but he wouldn’t give it up, either. She dragged the file to the compression card and waited as the two linked up and everything copied over onto the card—the photos of The Blonde, Linnea’s information, the recordings from Henry’s office, the video of Anika. She hoped that wouldn’t lose her a client. There really wasn’t much, it turned out. She handed the card back to him.

“Thanks,” Peter said. “Sorry you had to get mixed up in this.”

“It’s my job,” she said, smiling at him. She was sitting behind her desk; he was standing at the door. They looked at each other a while.

“I’ll let myself out,” he said and left. Simone took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She still had all her own copies of the files, but she was nearly content to let the case drop. There wasn’t much left to go on, and chances were Linnea wouldn’t be paying her anytime soon.

Then she checked her messages.

Most of them were junk, but the one that caught her eye was from Danny. The subject was “Found her again.”

There was no text, just a photo attachment. It was clearly yanked from a security camera somewhere in the city and was fuzzy, with poor color quality. Simone recognized both figures in the photo. The first was The Blonde. She was smiling, wearing a trench coat and pushing her hair from her face. The other was Caroline Khan.

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 caf
é
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.