“Why the rush?”
“Other cases.” He looked over to where she was staring. The Blonde had put on a pair of sunglasses and was walking away.
“Can I come?”
“What?” Simone glanced down at deCostas for a moment, annoyed. “No.”
“I’m not even sure where we are. I need you to show me how to get home. It’s what I’m paying for, isn’t it?” Simone pursed her lips. The Blonde was hurrying out of sight. She grabbed some cash from her wallet and put it down on the table.
“Fine, stay behind me, do exactly what I say. This shouldn’t be dangerous, but…” she started walking quickly after The Blonde. Behind her, she heard deCostas scramble up from his chair and follow her.
“Can you tell me what the case is about?” he asked.
“No. And shut up.”
She darted quickly through the crowds. The sun was getting lower, and the sunset fog was starting to rise, giving the city a gauzy orange look. She was impressed by how deCostas managed to weave behind her, but she still had to put her arm up to block him once or twice. She didn’t like where this was going. Bringing deCostas was bad, of course, but she didn’t want to lose the client. She also didn’t want to lose this lead she’d gained by luck. This was why she didn’t like working two cases at once.
The Blonde was heading along the far-western reaches of the city, edging along the bad areas if not quite entering them. It was less populated here, with too many empty buildings and worn-out bridges. Simone didn’t like it. The Blonde walked around a corner and into a large, crumbling building that Simone knew to be abandoned. After sunset, it was a spot to score drugs, but now, with the sun still setting, it would just be an abandoned room with a door to another bridge.
“Stay here,” she whispered to deCostas.
“Why?”
“Just stay here.” Simone walked ahead and into the building. It had been an office once. Three fluorescent lights flickered on the ceiling; the others had burned out. The carpet was torn and moldy, and whatever color it had been was now gray. Discarded newspages stuck to the floor here and there, old and peeling like dry skin. There were a few cubicles scattered around and shoulder-high, white walls lined with trash, but there was a path through them to the other side of the building where another window had been made into a door like the one she’d just come through. Between her and that door stood The Blonde, waiting. She was backlit by the sun, and the little light from the ceiling that shone on her face flickered, as if afraid to rest there. She held her hands in front of her, clutching a small strapless purse, relaxed. Amused maybe.
“Hello,” she said to Simone. “Oh, and you brought a friend.” Simone looked behind her. DeCostas had followed her. Shit. Simone reached for the gun in her boot and pulled it out slowly. “Oh, we don’t need to do that, do we?” The Blonde raised an eyebrow. Simone looked her up and down. The Blonde had a gun, too. Simone could feel it—an instinct for firearms honed over the years. Maybe she was holding it behind her clutch and could shoot her through it. Probably. She’d had time to prepare. The pose with the one hand clasping the clutch, the other hand just behind it, looking like it was clasping the purse, too. It was too staged.
“Why were you meeting with Henry St. Michel the other night?” Simone asked. She kept her gun lowered but walked a few steps closer to The Blonde, trying to block deCostas.
“That’s my business. But I do like having my picture taken. Makes me feel famous.”
“I tried to get your good side.”
The Blonde gave Simone a look like she’d tried to tell a joke and no one had laughed. “They’re all good sides.” She tilted her head, her perfect hair swaying with the motion. An earring sparkled.
“I don’t know why you were taking those photos, but whoever hired you, whatever you think you’re on to, you should stop.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it’s not whatever you think it is. I’m not a prostitute or a mistress. Do I look like one?” Simone didn’t answer. “Oh, now you’re just being mean.”
“So why were you meeting St. Michel?”
“Like I said, that’s my business.”
“Did you shoot him last night?”
The Blonde raised an eyebrow at Simone.
“No. I didn’t realize he’d been shot.”
“Maybe,” Simone said. “Maybe he shot someone. Maybe he lived.”
The Blonde shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, you should leave me alone. I have things to do, and they don’t involve you. I don’t need a fangirl right now.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Maybe.” The Blonde smiled, took out the small gun Simone had known she was holding, and pointed it at Simone. She felt the prickle of adrenaline down her spine, and her brain calculated the way she could handle this if it became a gunfight: Which cubicle was the closest to dive behind? Could The Blonde shoot twice before she could fire back? She felt her heart speed up slightly, and blood rushed to her fingertips, which twitched in anticipation. Then she realized the gun wasn’t aimed at her, it was aimed behind her and a little to her right. Fuck. “But it looks like I have lots of people to threaten today.” She half shrugged, half giggled, her hair and earrings shimmering again. “I like options.” Simone couldn’t tackle deCostas before the bullet hit him, and if she was implicated in the death of a foreign student, she wasn’t sure Caroline could clean that up for her.
The Blonde dropped the gun into her purse as though it were lipstick. “But I’ve made my point. Go away.” She flashed Simone a wide grin and then turned her back on her, walking into the setting sun. Simone turned on deCostas, furious. He was pushing hair out of his face but smiling, as though it had been fun.
“What the fuck were you thinking? I told you to stay.”
“I was curious,” he said, turning away slightly, as if unprepared for a scolding.
“You’re an idiot. You could have gotten shot.”
“I didn’t think you cared.” He smiled again, trying to be charming.
“You’re not disturbed by the fact that the little blonde woman just pointed a gun at you?”
He shrugged. “She didn’t shoot.” Simone took a deep breath. She put her gun back in its holster.
“You’re an idiot,” she repeated, walking past him out of the building.
“Can you take me home?” he asked softly. “Or at least to a main bridge?”
“Follow me. Don’t speak.” She led him back to the large bridge people called Broadway because it was supposedly built over the street of the same name. He stayed silent, which she appreciated.
“Here,” she said. “You can get home from here, right?”
“Yes,” he said, looking around. “I think I can. Should I send you more buildings, or are you done with me?”
Simone pursed her lips. It was her own fault for letting him come at all. And the money was good.
“You can send them,” she said. Then she walked away.
At home, the first thing she did was check the recycling site. Sure enough, posted about an hour earlier, blue and bloated from the water, was the face of Henry St. Michel. Simone frowned and put her coat back on. Time to stop by the recycling station.