Depth (14 page)

“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 na
ï
ve, “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.

EIGHT

DRIFTER’S ALLEY OPERATED OUT
of an old building so far downtown that Simone was pretty sure it had been in Brooklyn, back when there were boroughs. It used to be a product-testing facility and still looked like it; the hallways branched off into small rooms that had once been used for focus groups and now contained private lanes. The lobby was small and worn looking, with walls painted a rough black and a vinyl floor. Besides the desk, the only decoration was a neon sign of a bowling ball knocking down pins, the pins returning upright, and then the ball knocking them down again, over and over. The man behind the desk was tall, scruffy, and tired. He looked up at Simone with undisguised boredom. Simone hesitated. She could walk out, come up with an excuse to cancel. She didn’t want to see Caroline, didn’t want to have to smile to her face while wondering if Caroline was faking her smile, too. But how could she ask if her friend was mixed up in this trouble without making it sound like an accusation?

“I have a lane reservation under the name Pierce,” she said. He looked down at the tablet in his hand, typed in the name Pierce, and nodded.

“Lane twenty-six. Gloves are in the room. You need me to show you how to use it?” He asked this in a way that made it clear he hoped she would say no.

“We’ll be able to figure it out,” she said. He handed her a keycard and looked back at the tablet, done with her.

“My friends will show up soon,” she said. The man didn’t look up, and Simone glanced down the hallway. It was poorly lit and marked with bright yellow signs showing lane numbers. The doors themselves were blank, except for the occasional no-smoking sign. From behind the doors, she could hear the sounds of pins striking and people cheering. Lane twenty-six was a small, windowless black room with a pile of gloves on a shelf next to the door. Simone flipped a switch, thinking it was the lights, and there was a sudden humming as the room changed. One wall zoomed backwards into a long lane, pins all set up, and another wall became an empty scoreboard. A panel next to the switch glowed, asking her to choose from a variety of lane options. She scrolled through them, from “Arctic,” where the pins were penguins that shuffled around and the room became chilly and windy, to “Blackout,” where the room was totally dark and the pins just neon outlines. She settled on “Classic,” which was clean nostalgia with red-and-white pins and Elvis playing from a jukebox that materialized on the far wall.

She was looking for a mute button when Danny came in. He smiled at her, his eyes not quite focused, his head cocked to one side. She waited a few seconds more for his hello.

“Hello to you, too,” Simone said. “This lane okay for you?”

Danny shrugged. “Old, but cute. Sure. Do you know how this works?”

Simone motioned at the row of gloves. “I think we put those on.” She picked one up and pulled it over her right hand, almost to the elbow. It was comfortable, despite being coated in something like white plastic, and her fingers flexed easily. The scoreboard flashed, “Player One.” The glove flashed on the forearm, turning into a screen. She entered her name, and “Pierce” appeared on the scoreboard over the lanes. “Danny-Boy” quickly popped up below it as Danny got the hang of his glove. Next it asked her to choose a ball, and suddenly her hand was so heavy that she let it fall. It actually felt like she was holding a bowling ball. She looked down. It looked like she was holding a bowling ball. The screen on the now downward-facing forearm asked her to adjust her ball’s weight and color. She lightened it slightly but kept it black. Danny’s ball was changing color from neon green to pink to purple to blue and back again. It seemed decidedly out of place in the vintage lane.

“Maybe I should rig my crystal ball to do this,” Danny said, staring at it.

“Are you high?”

“No. I’m just trying to keep my mouth shut unless it’s about the bowling.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise I’ll ask you if you’ve asked Caroline about The Blonde yet.” Simone glared, but Danny just grinned at her. “You really aren’t going to, are you? Come on! She’s your friend. Just ask her. Be like—” he cleared his throat and then began speaking in a low monotone: “Hey, I was tailing this petite and viciously attractive blonde and saw her meeting with you and I was wondering if you’d be willing to tell me her name?”

“Okay . . . ,” Simone said, her free hand on her hip, “then she says, ‘Why would you want to know that? Is she connected to a case?’ ”

“Why, yes she is.” Danny was doing what, Simone now realized with horror, was supposed to be an imitation of her. “But I can’t tell you much about it. Confidentiality and all.”

Simone played along, but didn’t even attempt to imitate Caroline’s voice. “But she’s my best pal, and anything that involves her must involve me. You need to tell me what this is about, or else I can’t trust you.”

“Well, it’s just that I saw a man pay her some money.”

“And she waved a gun at me,” Simone said. Danny raised his eyebrows.

“Then you should definitely ask,” he said, dropping his imitation.

“I’ll figure it out. Maybe I can ask without asking . . .” Simone shook her head. It was an awful idea. “Was that voice supposed to be me?”

“Too femme?”

Before Simone could give him the finger, the door swung open, and Caroline came in, dressed all in black like a coated blade. “I am so ready to kick both your asses,” Caroline told them.

“Long week?” Simone asked.

“Yeah, but that thing for my parents is nearly settled, and the other thing with the guy who sailed into town is done, so I am free and I am on a winning streak and I am going to use said streak to beat both of you into mindless bloody piles. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“You spend too much time around politicians,” Danny said.

“You spend too much time with their wives,” Caroline responded, turning her eyes on Danny for the first time. Danny laughed nervously.

“Business is business,” he said. “Why don’t you put on a glove?”

“I don’t mind you peddling your faux-voyance to Ms. Seward,” Caroline said, gingerly taking a glove and putting it on. “But when it becomes a news item, it lands on my desk, and then I start to get ever so annoyed. You kept me in the office, Danny. Later than I needed to be.”

“Hey, some reporter spotted her coming out of my studio. That’s not my fault.”

“You gave him a comment!” Caroline barked, choosing a bowling ball. She went for blood red. “You said your consultations are confidential, and you’d never betray the confidence of a woman just looking for some answers.”

“So?”

“So you confirmed she was seeing you.”

“Well, yeah. It’s good for business.”

“Not mine. They even have a photo of her waiting in your parlor or whatever you call it—with all the bullshit magic symbols and crap. Not great press. Can’t you invest in some Privilux or something?”

Danny glanced over at Simone. Privilux was a spray made for windows, filled with invisible nanochips that gave off a signal to blur any attempt to digitally record past them; it was the ultimate in privacy screening for a window. Of course, it was insanely expensive, and you could always get mirrored glass, so few people in New York used the stuff. Simone had sprayed every window in her apartment with it, and when Danny visited, he always complained it made the inside of his head itch. Explaining that to Caroline would be difficult, as she didn’t know about Danny’s unique relationship with the wireless world.

“Can we bowl?” Simone asked. She glanced up at the scoreboard. Caroline had entered her name as Genghis. She was clearly feeling punchy; definitely not the time to ask about The Blonde.

“Yeah,” Caroline said, “let’s bowl.”

Simone threw first, the VR ball rolling smoothly from her hand and into the wall, where it continued to travel down the lane. If she hadn’t been there when she’d turned on the room, it would have been believable bowling. A whole lane in a small room. Even the jukebox was operational, as Caroline started tapping it while Danny threw. Elvis was replaced by Peggy Lee singing “Fever.”

The first round went to Caroline, who did a victory dance when she rolled strikes.

“This would be better with beer,” Simone said.

“There’s a vending machine outside,” Danny said. “I saw it when I got lost coming here. Want me to get us something to drink?”

“Make it dark,” Simone said.

“Two each!” Caroline called as Danny left. The door closed behind him, and Simone stepped up for her next turn. The ball appeared in her hand again. “Why did you invite him?” Caroline asked. “Was it just so I could yell at him? That would be very thoughtful of you.”

“He’s a good guy,” Simone said. She bowled a strike. “And he was helping me out on this case.”

“I don’t like his line of work.”

“You don’t mind mine.” Simone threw again, only knocking down half the pins.

“It’s different. Yours is honest. He dresses things up in lies.”

“To make people happy,” Simone said, turning around.

“Screw happy. I want people honest.”

Danny came back in, holding a six-pack of beer.

“The machine sold you that?” Caroline asked.

“Modified,” Danny said with a nod. “Only distributes six-packs.”

“Smart,” Caroline said, taking a beer from Danny. “You’re up.”

Caroline popped open her beer and knocked it back. Simone did likewise as Danny stepped up to the lane. Simone saw Caroline narrowing her eyes at him, shark-like, but bit her lip. Hopefully Danny could handle Caroline’s psych-outs.

“Simone says you helped her with a case,” Caroline said just as Danny swung his arm down to release the ball. He rocked slightly from the question, and the ball went right to the gutter. Caroline snickered.

“Uh, yeah,” Danny said, throwing a questioning look at Simone. She shook her head, signaling him to stay quiet. Danny looked at Caroline, who gave him nothing but a wicked little smile. He turned back, and pulled his arm back to throw the ball again.

“What’s it about?” Caroline asked this time. The ball moved slowly and unevenly, knocking over one pin. Danny watched it the whole time before turning back around.

“I don’t think I can say,” he said. Caroline put down her beer and strode up to the alley, patting him on the head as she walked.

“That’s okay,” she said, and with one fluid movement bowled another strike. Simone took a drink from her beer and handed a fresh one to Danny, who looked confused.

“She’s just trying to psych you out,” Simone explained. Caroline wiggled her eyebrows at them and rolled the ball again, knocking down all but one of the pins. She sighed, putting her hands on her hips.

“It doesn’t work on Simone, usually,” Caroline said, walking back to her beer. “But sometimes . . .” She winked at Simone as Simone approached the lane. Simone raised her arm as if to swing and tensed, waiting for Caroline to say something; she didn’t, so Simone rolled the ball. “What’s the case about?” Caroline asked just as Simone was letting go of the ball. Simone ignored the question as best she could, and the ball rocketed forward, into a seven-ten split. She turned to glare at Caroline, who was just polite enough to not laugh. Simone managed to knock down one of the pins on her next roll. She turned around and walked back over to Caroline while Danny took the lane. He glanced over his shoulder nervously, as if expecting Caroline to leap at him. Simone finished what was left of her beer in one swallow.

“Be nice,” Simone said softly to Caroline, as Danny swung his arm way back, apparently determined to throw the ball so forcefully not even Caroline could disrupt his stride. The ball curved wildly and took out half the pins.

“When am I nice?” Caroline asked. Danny went to take his second turn, seemingly more confident now. “Does it involve guns?” Caroline asked. The ball veered and took out only two pins. Caroline smiled at Danny as he walked back from the lane, and handed him her empty beer bottle. Danny glared but took it. Caroline stepped up to the lane and stretched her arms before the ball appeared in her hand.

“You know what’s funny?” Danny asked in a vaguely aggressive tone that didn’t quite work, like a kitten playing tiger. Simone stared at him. Was he trying to psych Caroline out? He couldn’t be dumb enough to think he could do that. “I’m a brunet, Simone is a redhead, you’re a raven-haired vixen . . .” He stopped to drink his beer. Simone was now staring intently at him. He wasn’t going to do what it sounded like, she hoped. She liked him, he was a good kid, and she didn’t want to have to smack him to keep him from talking. Caroline rolled the ball, and just as she did so, Danny added, “All we need is a blonde.”

The sound effect of crashing pins that Caroline’s strike generated was incredibly loud to Simone. She clenched her hands, resisting the urge to grab his hair and drag him out of the room. He pointedly avoided her gaze.

“I think you’re psyching out the wrong person,” Caroline said, with a look of amusement. Simone realized she must look very angry. “He took my beer,” she lied, trying to relax her face. Caroline shrugged and turned back to the lane. Danny turned to Simone, smiling. He looked happy, as though he’d come up with a good idea. Simone desperately shook her head, but he nodded back just as emphatically. This wasn’t just him getting back at Caroline. He thought he was helping.

“Do you know any blondes?” Danny asked loudly as Caroline swung back her arm. “Maybe you met one at the Four Seasons?” Simone reached out but wasn’t fast enough to clamp his mouth shut. Her hand was heavy from the glove, and she ended up just patting his face. He looked at her confused, but before she could say anything, she realized something else was wrong. There was no sound of a strike. Simone looked over at the lane. Caroline was silhouetted by it, her gutter ball rolling slowly out of sight.

“Met with a blonde at the Four Seasons?” Caroline turned around, looking unhappy. She crossed her arms. “Is this a setup? Am I involved in your case?” She took a step closer to Simone and pointed at her chest. Simone said nothing. Caroline’s eyes widened, and for a brief moment, she had an expression Simone had never seen on her before: She looked hurt. Then her face hardened to a Glassteel sheen. “Am I a suspect?”