So the Broecker was suits and probably fairly easy to break into. Make an appointment somewhere. Duck down a stairwell instead.
The Hearst Tower posed a larger problem. A much older building in midtown, retrofitted well enough to survive the water, it was privately owned. Sold a year before the water hit street level (and so at a low price), it had traded hands over the years and was now in the possession of Ned Sorenson, a Boro-Baptist minister and the church’s head missionary to New York. The mainland had several large branches of Christianity, but Boro-Baptism was the largest. Their ministers weren’t just religious figures, but also political ones. The current president, and the past several before him, were all Boro-Baptists. The sect had been founded by a Baptist minister who felt the rest of the conservative branches of Christianity weren’t responding to the rising waters seriously enough and started preaching against them from his pulpit in the town of Boro, North Dakota. It painted itself a religion of values and protection in this, the time of the second flood. The religion that could get people through. And people believed it, or pretended to. Simone, like most New Yorkers, thought all religions were crap, and Boro-Baptism was just the latest name for a generations-old addiction to fear and an overwhelming hope that someone else could save you. But Boro-Baptism had stalked further ahead than its antediluvian predecessors, and the chaos of the flood and the loss of life that followed had fed it like a fat toad. Pastor Sorenson was like the emissary from the mainland: ambassador, spy, maybe even fist. Whatever you wanted to call him, he was someone with lots of powerful connections. Someone you did not want to get mixed up with. Getting into his building would be much harder.
Simone glanced at the clock. Barely eight. She told the touchdesk to call Caroline.
“Do you want to get something to eat?” Caroline asked after a ring.
“Sure,” Simone said.
“I’m still at work, if you’d believe it.”
“Well, I’m calling with a work-related question, so that’s fine by me.” Simone stared down at the grayed-out photos of The Blonde, still a small digital pile in the corner of the touchdesk.
“When I saw it was you calling, I picked up. I could have ignored it. If I knew it was work-related, I would have.”
“I’ll let you pick the restaurant.”
“Deal. Question?”
“One of the buildings deCostas wants to get into is the Hearst Tower.”
“Why does that sound familiar?” Simone could hear Caroline’s fingers tapping on her own desk, writing something else as she spoke.
“Owned by one Ned Sorenson.”
“Oh, that’s where Sorenson keeps his cult!” The sound of Caroline’s typing stopped for a moment, then restarted.
“I don’t think it’s a cult if it’s the majority.”
“It’s New York. He’s not the majority. We heathens are the majority.”
“Heathens?”
“Sorenson’s favorite word. He’s not a bad guy, aside from the religion.”
“So, any thoughts on getting into the Tower? I was thinking we could go as curious potential converts—”
“No. Just ask him.”
Simone stretched her legs out and put them up on the desk. “Really?”
“Tell him you’re deCostas’ personal assistant trying to set up an inspection to see the stairwell, see that the water is there. Drop my name, if you’d like. Don’t mention the detective thing. There isn’t going to be a dry stairwell, so Sorenson won’t mind you seeing it.”
“That easy?”
“He’s really an okay guy. You’ll probably get preached at a little. Tell him you’re an occasional churchgoer. He knows that’s the best they can hope for out here. Pick a church, though, he’ll ask you which one.”
“Great. I thought this one would be hard.”
“Not with me on your side.”
“Just don’t tell deCostas. I don’t want him figuring out he didn’t need me for this.”
“Fair deal. I’m putting on my jacket now. Meet me at Rosie’s in twenty?” Simone sighed. Rosie’s was a greasy diner Caroline loved and Simone tolerated. “I believe my information has earned me the right to a bloodstained meal of my choosing.”
“Fair enough. I could do with a burger.”
“See you in twenty.”
She went back to the front office and began getting her coat on as she called deCostas.
“Hello, Ms. Pierce,” deCostas purred.
“I got your message. I think I should be able to get us into the buildings tomorrow. I need to make some appointments for both of them, though, so I’ll send you the exact time once I’ve made them. Don’t be late.”
“Thank you, that’s very good news.”
“They’re both fairly conservative, so dress appropriately.”
“What is appropriately?”
There was a pause as Simone finished shrugging her coat on and considered his question.
“Don’t show too much cleavage,” she said and hung up.
ONCE A LARGE YACHT, probably of serious luxury, Rosie’s had been transformed into something approximating a nostalgic diner. The yacht was painted in green-and-white checks, which matched the plastic tablecloths inside, and a large neon sign hung over the sliding glass doors that worked as an entrance. On deck, there were some tables and chairs, but it was cool out, and most people were eating inside. It was a wide open space, with booths and servers who wore sailor hats. One of them recognized Simone and pointed her towards Caroline, already at a booth and halfway done with her mug of beer, sipping the rest through a straw.
Simone sat down, and Caroline regarded her with tired eyes.
“Rough day?” Simone asked with a half-smile.
“It started when some mainland yokel who’d won a decommissioned cruise ship in some auction sailed it into the city at about four this morning,” she said. She finished the rest of her beer, the straw sucking dryly at the bottom of her glass. The server, with perfect timing, put down another in front of her, plus one for Simone, and a pair of menus. Simone glanced at hers but let Caroline continue. “He figured he was just going to anchor it in the city and start renting out rooms, like we’re a city of flotsam. Who does that?” Caroline put her mug down hard on the table, in emphasis, then immediately picked it up again and took a long drink. Simone smirked. Mainlanders tried setting up shop once every other month or so, as if they didn’t think New York was still a city, and they could just set up a boat, charge rent, and make a fortune. They didn’t realize they needed an anchor permit, leasing contracts, inspections, and all the stuff that went along with owning real estate in any other city.
“Four a.m.,” Caroline repeated. “I was paged to the office at ten after, got there at four thirty. After we dealt with him, and getting his boat back outside city limits where it belonged, and talking with all the residents whose homes his boat had rammed into, it was already six thirty, so I stayed. Then I had to deal with your boy, who I thought I was done with.” Caroline glared at Simone over the beer.
“My boy?”
“deCostas. He’s not being backed by just his university—apparently the EU, private investors, and some companies are funding part of it as well. He didn’t mention that. But he headed over to the City Archives when they opened at eight and tried to look at all the city building records. From forever.”