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 off 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.
Simone sighed and knocked the package into the trash, then picked it out again and brought it to her office, where she put it on top of her 3D printer. Makeup was good for disguises sometimes. She remembered what Anika had told her—that The Blonde was peddling bullshit. And Anika was a smart woman; Simone trusted her judgment, usually—though she could have been lying, too, to throw Simone off the trail. No one else seemed to think it was bullshit. Not even Caroline.
At least Anika wasn’t holding her responsible for the cops’ questioning her. If Simone made it through all this, she didn’t want to lose a client.
She went to the bathroom and ran a bath. She shouldn’t have snapped at Peter or gotten so suspicious. She wasn’t sure who she could trust right now—not when even Caroline was hiding something.
Maybe Caroline didn’t know, Simone told herself, stepping into the water and sinking beneath it. Maybe she was just friends with a dangerous woman. Maybe she was in danger herself. But Simone couldn’t believe that. Caroline was the best judge of character Simone had ever seen; she saw through people and knew exactly what they were. She knew who she was dealing with. And that meant that she was as dangerous as The Blonde.