Depth (18 page)

THE SUN WAS HALFWAY
into the ocean, a gold semicircle burning through the layers of gray fog. Simone still had some time. It was a good thing Sorenson had wanted this meeting at night—although that meant he wanted it after most of his parishioners and staff had cleared out. Simone walked to the end of the bridge leading away from the black market, weaving her way through the people heading in the opposite direction.

She wanted to call Caroline, to talk the case over with her while they ate at someplace awful and greasy that Caroline had chosen. She stopped at a hot-dog vendor—one of those small boats that bobbed just off a low bridge, cooking and selling all day—and bought one. It was salty, and she ate it too quickly, leaving her chest feeling burnt out. She took a taxi to City Hall, knowing Caroline would still be at work.

When the waters had risen, the old City Hall had been covered pretty quickly, and the politicians had had to find a new spot. They chose two adjacent buildings in midtown—once called the MetLife Tower and the MetLife North Building. Their Art Deco exteriors had been carefully coated in Glassteel, so each angle shone in the fading light. A large dock surrounded them and filled the space between, acting like a wooden plaza. Streetlights thrust up through the plaza on the perimeter and then again in a circle around the center. From above, Simone imagined it looked like a shooting target in bright white, the green of their algae generators winking up between the wooden slats of the platform. There were potted plants and even a small sea-water fountain that someone had rigged to pump stuff up from the ocean and shower it back down again. It was lit from underneath, so when the sun began its descent, the fountain seemed to spray liquid light. The entire area was called City Hall Plaza and was often featured on brochures put out by the city’s plucky travel bureau, with the Chrysler Building glowing behind it. This was probably because it looked, in many ways, how New York used to look—that is, if you cropped out the ocean waves rising up angrily just beneath the plaza.

The mayor’s offices were at the top of the tower, above the other municipal offices. That’s where the balconies were, and the mayor reportedly enjoyed a nice lie-down on a hammock he had set up outside. Caroline’s office was right next to the mayor’s, but anyone who knew the city knew to get an appointment first. Simone sat down on one of the benches and stared up at Caroline’s office. It was too far up to see anything specific, like a person moving around, but the light was on. It glowed a lonely pearl color, the only one on the floor.

Simone tapped her earpiece, said the word “call,” and almost said “Caroline,” but waited long enough that her earpiece told her in soft metallic tones to repeat the command. She wondered why she was always looking up at Caroline’s window.
Stalker
. She could almost hear Caroline whisper the word in her ear. Then the light went out in Caroline’s office. Simone sat down at the end of the plaza farthest from the door. She wasn’t in shadow—there was no shadow in the plaza, not with the streetlights and the fountain—but she thought she’d be hidden by the water bubbling up between her and the door.

So she knew that the Reinel was a map. But what could it lead to? If it were just deCostas, she’d assume it had something to do with underwater air pockets—maybe the location of a particularly well-coated building or something, but for Sorenson to be interested, or the Khans? They were too smart for all that. She knew Caroline didn’t believe in that pearl-diving nonsense. Then again, Anika had called it bullshit—so that lined up. But how could the painting show the location of an airtight building? Did he paint a large sign in the background that read, “Future site of Underwater Living”? Simone shook her head. The revelation that Reinel painted maps had seemed so significant, but now that she was thinking about it, she felt just as lost as before.

The door across the plaza flashed open, and Caroline walked out. Simone stood, then squatted again, but then stood entirely. Caroline didn’t seem to see her. She walked past the fountain, but Simone stood where she was, then turned to follow Caroline. When she had cleared the fountain and there was nothing between them but space, Caroline stopped. She stayed there a moment before turning to look at Simone. She held a black leather briefcase in both hands. She was wearing black gloves and a dark green coat that fell down to her knees in the shape of a bell, and under that something white and high collared, like a priest.

They stared at each other for a while. Caroline once opened her mouth, as if to speak, but then closed it again. She was too far away for Simone to read her eyes. The air was cold, and the saltwater from the fountain was blowing on her with every gust of the rising wind. The salt felt like small shards of glass biting into her. Simone looked down, took a deep breath, not sure what to say, but knowing she had to speak first. But then she heard Caroline’s footsteps, and when she looked up, Caroline was walking away, dissolving into the mist and darkness.

ELEVEN

SIMONE SMOKED
THE CIGARETTE
down to the very last bit of ash as she walked to her meeting with Sorenson. The night had come in on heavy sheets of gray, and the fog was weaving itself into thick knots, moments of blindness Simone had to walk through on faith. That meant soon there’d probably be rain for a couple days. Hopefully nothing too hard. She didn’t want to be locked up inside her office, unable to go out without getting killed.

A few people were milling around outside the Hearst Tower when she showed up. They were dressed conservatively and speaking in low tones. They all turned to stare at Simone as she pulled open the door of the building. She winked at one of them, and he blushed a bright scarlet. Inside, the receptionist was packing up to go home and told Simone the pastor was waiting for her in his office on the top floor.

Simone took the elevator up. The doors opened onto walnut walls and big open windows that let in the damp air. Large religious paintings hung on the walls. Sorenson sat behind his desk, looking at Simone expectantly. Behind him, staring out one of the windows, was—

“Marina,” Simone said before she could stop herself. The Blonde turned to her and smiled.

“You learned my name,” she said. “You care. That’s sweet, it really is, but we don’t know each other that well. Maybe you should just call me Ms. Beck.”

Simone’s hand was already at the gun in her boot. “Is this some kind of setup?”

Sorenson rose, his hands extended, palms out, reassuring. “No, no, Ms. Pierce, I assure you, this is no setup. Ms. Beck and I just need your help. She told me about your . . . encounter, so I thought perhaps it would be best if I didn’t mention her bein’ at this meeting.”

“I am sorry about that,” Marina said, walking forward from the window to sit on Sorenson’s desk. “You see, I’m used to transporting large sums of money and valuable artwork, so when someone is following me, I assume they’re trying to take it from me. I didn’t know who you were. That you were working for Linnea. Like I am.” She smiled pleasantly, an obvious mask, but a good one, as Simone couldn’t read anything but insincerity in her tone. She couldn’t tell if Marina was lying or not.

“You’re working for Linnea?”

“Well, it was Henry and Linnea. But turns out you were right about Henry being dead.” She raised her eyebrows, as if amused by a titillating scandal of some sort. She was good. Everything about her dripped with false friendliness, but
only
false friendliness. She didn’t have a single tell. Simone had a sudden itch to play poker with her.

“Ms. Beck was hired by the St. Michels,” Sorenson said.

“To sell a Reinel painting, I know,” Simone said.

“I guess I’m not the only one who’s been doing her homework,” Marina said.

“I bought the painting,” Sorenson said. “But with Linnea hidin’ away somewhere, I have yet to receive it.”

Simone narrowed her eyes. “If you bought it, why was she meeting with deCostas last night?”

“Oooh,” Marina said, smiling. “Very good. I’m impressed, really. Keeping tabs on your clients like that. Does he know?” Simone kept staring. “Well, as the painting still hasn’t surfaced, I’m still taking bids on it. Pastor Sorenson here has outbid every competitor so far, but if I can get a higher number out of him, well, he won’t blame me for trying. I work on a retainer
and
a percentage, after all.”

“You can see why I’m anxious to get the paintin’,” Sorenson said. “With Ms. Beck here handling the sale, the price just keeps goin’ up.”

“You haven’t answered my question. Why deCostas? He’s just a student.”

“With some serious investors. When I was finding out about you, I found out about him. He seemed like a potential buyer, so I approached him.”

“He didn’t mind, after you’d pointed a gun at him?”

“Said having the gun pointed at him was the second most exciting thing he’s done since he got here.” Marina paused to let her statement sink in. Her smile was cool as a bullet. “But he couldn’t afford it.”

Simone crossed her arms.

“We just want to know where Linnea is,” Sorenson. “So I can get my paintin’.”

“The thing I don’t get,” Simone said, pausing, considering how much to pretend to know, “is what the fuss over this painting is. Reinel shouldn’t sell for more than ten grand, tops. I imagine you’re paying quite a bit more, Pastor?” Sorenson straightened his back and nodded after a moment.

“You don’t know, then,” Marina said, getting off the desk. “Well, I guess that’s the thing we’ve kept the most secret. It’s a Reinel, sure. But it’s not about the art. You know what he did, right, in his paintings?”

“Maps and photos sprayed with Privilux, yeah.”

“Right. This particular piece is a portrait of a couple, one of the last Reinel did before he got into the whole coral thing.” She waved her hand, as if discounting his entire body of work—Circe included. For a moment, Simone wanted to slap her. “The waters were just rising. People were still thinking it wasn’t going to be a big deal—just lay down those floating plastic platforms, and the city would be fine. But the couple isn’t important. The trucks are. In the background.” She took a step forward and Simone raised an eyebrow. “Big trucks,” Marina continued, “marked with the C-Rail Corporation’s logo. It’s an ugly logo; all yellow and blue. You know it?” Simone shook her head, and Marina looked disappointed in her. “Anyway, there are C-Rail trucks, and they’re unloading huge parts of . . . a tunnel, I guess, or a tube—a big one; large enough for a train to drive through. And they’re unloading them into a building.”

“Seriously?” Simone asked, closing her eyes.

“And,” Marina continued, though she didn’t need to, “the location of the building is marked on the map part of the painting.” Marina stared at Simone. “One would need to compare it to old maps and do some research, of course. But you could figure out where the painting was painted.” Simone held her breath, then expelled it. She was disappointed in them right now, in the entire city. It felt like she was tied to a pole with rough rope while around her everyone jumped into the water and drowned, while she screamed at them to stop. Instead, she forced herself to smile.

“I can’t—” She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to hold back her anger. This was the only theory she’d actually had, but she’d dismissed it as too absurd. And here it was, alive in front of her. “A pipeline? You think this painting shows the location of a pipeline between here and the mainland—a magical, waterproof one that would stand up to any pressure?” Simone relaxed and looked up, made herself chuckle. Marina chuckled with her, which answered that question—Marina didn’t believe, but she had no problem selling fantasies. Sorenson did not look amused.

“It’s real,” Sorenson said forcefully. “Or one of them is. The government tunnel was never finished—they didn’t have the budget, they were too busy airliftin’ monuments from DC to Salt Lake City. But private corporations—several of them—all tried to take advantage of New York’s soon-to-be offshore status. Private companies funded by millionaires and defense contractors, like C-Rail. I’ve seen the records: These tunnels were all built, or at least started. But the waters rose faster than they thought. None of the tunnels were made really ready. But some are just waitin’ under the waves. Almost ready. And the American government ain’t the only one lookin’.” Sorenson took this moment to gesture fiercely at his chest with one hand, as though he were being martyred. “There are more unsavory sorts who would love to get their hands on a passage like that, finish it up, use it for the black market. That Mr. Ryan for one. Can you imagine? Or this deCostas fellow, making it an EU property? Or even the Khans—then it would be a private, family-owned tunnel. You may be friends with Caroline, but do you know her parents?” Simone shrugged. She’d shaken their hands once or twice. Sorenson furrowed his eyebrows. “Vicious, greedy, power-hungry. And others that are worse. We all know each other, and we’re all lookin’ for a workin’ tunnel. There were over a dozen started. I think at least one of them is in near-workin’ condition. We could finish it and connect the drowned city to the mainland. No more day trips to the Appalachian Islands, hopin’ your ship doesn’t snag on a building, and then another day by maglev train to the mainland proper. No more rickety planes that can’t hold cargo. No more storms makin’ shipping unsafe and a bad investment. The mainland could extend its reach—we could get building supplies out here within days. Extra military could be sent to control a crisis and not get here a week too late. We could set up more missionaries, rebuild the city, make it part of the mainland. Think of how good that would be for the city.”

Simone pursed her lips. She and Sorenson had very different ideas of what “good for the city” meant. She didn’t want New York to become like the mainland, with its decency laws and dress codes. And if they were easily connected, that’s exactly what would happen.

“I don’t know if it’s real or not,” Marina said, sounding bored. “But that’s what the painting shows. So if it is real, I could understand its value. We can’t use traditional imaging techniques to just map the ocean floor around the city. Too much debris—cameras, sensors, and even echo-devices all get clogged and useless within moments. But a map? A map is easy.”

Simone shook her head, looking down.

“Someone killed Henry for a fairy tale,” she said.

“Not a fairy tale,” Marina said. “A dream. People are always killing for dreams.”

“Linnea killed Henry,” Sorenson said. “She double-crossed him so she wouldn’t have to split the money.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that,” Simone said.

“You don’t believe it?” Sorenson asked. Simone shrugged.

“Lot of people want this painting, like you said. Even more than I knew about, it sounds like. Why haven’t people been searching for it before now?”

“No one knew it existed,” Marina said, rolling her eyes. “Reinel gave the painting to the couple he painted. That was what he always did. Usually they sold it, or their kids did, but this one was never in a museum. It was in someone’s home, for decades. They probably didn’t realize what they had.” She looked down, splayed out her hand, and glanced over her nails. “You think Henry had the painting and it was stolen. But I don’t think so. It’s not a small painting.”

“He didn’t have it with him,” Simone said. “But maybe a key.”

Marina shrugged and walked back to the window. Sorenson sat down.

“I pray for Henry,” Sorenson said after a moment, “and his murder was an awful thing. But I’m not askin’ you to find out who killed him. I just want you to find Linnea. I’ll pay you well if you can get me my paintin’.”

“You want me to make sure you get the painting and Linnea doesn’t run off with it, you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Sorenson said in a near growl.

“Fine. I’m already looking for her anyway.”

“Good. My receptionist has those release forms for deCostas. You can bring him by again whenever you want. She also has the code for the stairs now. I don’t expect to see you again until you have the paintin’. I’ve wasted enough time and money on this.”

“Fine by me, preacher man,” Simone said, turning to go.

“Nice meeting you, Simone,” Marina called out musically. Simone didn’t turn around, but she could feel Marina waggling her fingers at her in a wave goodbye. She took the elevator down, ignoring the people still gathered outside the Mission. Her mind was elsewhere. There was someone else she wanted to see.

SHE FOUND TRIXIE
OUTSIDE
Paradise
on the bridge in front of the gangplank. She was standing in front of a large metal barrel with a fire in it. She had on an oversized knitted sweater, and her arms were crossed tightly around her chest, like she was cold. Around her, the fog was thick, and she looked alone in the world. Simone walked up to her slowly, respectfully. Trixie looked up at her, then back at the flames.

“They wouldn’t let me burn it on the ship,” she said, half explaining the fire, half complaining. Simone looked closely at the barrel. It was filled with trash, but on top was a heap of bright red yarn, burning down into black, ashy strands. “I thought I should burn it. That seems like the right thing to do, right?” She looked anxiously at Simone. Simone nodded. Trixie looked back at the flames. “Right. We buried him yesterday. Well, we poured what was left of him into the ocean. That’s what burial is here, I guess.”

“You’re not from here?”

“No, I was born on the mainland. I married young. My first husband, he used to hit me. A lot.” Trixie rubbed her hands up and down her shoulders as if trying to warm up. “And then I met Frank. We fell in love, but divorce is illegal, so we just ran off. We stopped here and acted like we were married; no one questioned it. We did pretty good for a while.” Trixie smiled, her eyes on the fire. “Had Henry, had a family. Frank got sick—one of those weird diseases that popped up when the Mercury ice melted. And now Henry is gone, too.” She stopped rubbing her arms to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Then she crossed her arms again, staring at the fire.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for me,” Trixie said, taking a thin glass bottle of liquor from her sweater pocket. She took a long drink from it. “I don’t need pity. I don’t need anything, I guess. Just a fire and a drink.” She pointed her chin at the fire, looked into it, and smiled faintly. “What do
you
need?”

“I know why Henry was killed. It was for a painting. Well, the myth of the painting, really.”

“I don’t care,” Trixie said flatly. Simone nodded. They watched the fire in silence. It popped and made sounds like crinkled cellophane, and it smelled heavy with chemicals and dust. “I wasn’t totally honest, last time we talked. I didn’t tell you something.”

“Oh?”

“Linnea was never really rich. She had fancy things, sure. But she didn’t come from money. She was a grifter. A con artist. Henry knew. He liked that about her. Said it made her exciting. And she was looking to retire, so they settled down together.”

“Why are you telling me now?”

“Because I thought you should know about her past. I just didn’t want you to think Henry was stupid . . . trusting someone like that. He was a good son.”