Depth (12 page)

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
o
ff
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:

Cops have been asking about you and about that meeting you were asking about. You should definitely try the sunset pearl. It’ll really make your mug shot pop. Good luck.