Simone held her breath under the water for as long as she could before coming up for air. It was always good to practice holding your breath. You never knew when you might end up going under.
SEVEN
DECOSTAS’ HOTEL WAS ONE of the cheap tourist places, moored with a big, flashy chain to one of the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge. The towers were a few stories over the water, the suspension cables still coming off them, like stage curtains sloping down into the water. At one point, someone had proposed using the bridge towers as the base for a new bridge, but there had been protests that it would ruin the view. Instead there were boats secured all along the side with bridges running between them, usually lined in tourists, taking photos of the headstone-like masonry.
When Simone showed up, deCostas was already on deck staring at the cables, which dripped with rust and seaweed. Simone glanced up at them but quickly looked away. She’d never liked the rusted cords; they reminded her too much of bloody rope. Instead, she let her eyes run down deCostas’ back to his ass and linger there for a moment before tapping him on the shoulder. He turned around, his face surprised for a moment, harder than Simone had seen it, but then it quickly melted into the usual flirtatious smile as he handed her one of the cups of coffee he was holding, still hot.
“You taking the price of that out of my fee?” Simone asked.
“It’s a gift,” deCostas said. “A thank-you for still being my guide after I stuck my nose where it did not belong.”
“Yeah,” Simone said, taking the coffee, “but if you think you can buy me back with a six-dollar coffee, you haven’t been paying attention to my fees.” She wasn’t really angry with him anymore. She’d known he was senseless when she took him along trailing The Blonde; what he’d hired her for had already proven that.
“I know. You saved my life.” He blew on his coffee, more slowly than necessary.
“She wasn’t going to shoot you.”
“How do you know?”
“She was making a point. If she’d shot you, I would have shot her, and maybe she would have dodged it, maybe not, but it wasn’t worth the risk for her.”
deCostas nodded and sipped his coffee. “Can I ask what you were talking about?”
“You can ask, but I won’t answer. Another case. Confidential.”
“I think you like keeping secrets.”
“Only the ones you’re curious about.” Simone smiled as she sipped her coffee. “But we can walk and flirt. We shouldn’t be late.” She turned and walked away, leaving him to catch up.
“What is this place? I thought One Wall Street was just a rental building.”
“It is… of a sort. It’s all run by Mr. Ryan. He rents the space to a lot of people.”
“A lot of people?”
“Yes.” deCostas had caught up to her, so she walked a little faster. “The floors have all been emptied out, nonbearing walls torn down—but historical embellishments preserved, like the marble floors. It’s a beautiful space—clean, open, well lit, totally protected. Mr. Ryan employs some serious muscle to keep it safe.”
“Why?”
“At night, various renters gather there and sell their wares in a… nonjudgmental environment.”
“You mean stolen goods?”
“Stolen, laundered, illegal. It’s a bazaar, a real black market. It’s where everyone goes to sell. People from all over the world come here because Mr. Ryan keeps it safe and organizes auctions for the more… unique items. He auctions them off personally, hiding the owner’s identity, issues invitations to those he knows can afford it and would want it, and he takes only a small cut of the profits. There are a million places in the city to buy illegal whatever. But if you want the good stuff, you go to One Wall Street.”
“And he’s going to let me throw something down the stairwell?”
“Mr. Ryan is powerful enough to be a generally nice guy. No one is going to mess with him, and if someone does, he’ll find out about it before anything bad happens, and then that person… well, he hires people for that. And he knows me. I’ve shown up as a representative for a buyer a few times, and he’s hired me as an extra pair of eyes in the auction room. He trusts me. Or at least, he’s unconcerned by me. And you.” Simone took a long drink of her coffee, but it was cold, so she threw it in the nearest trash can.
“You know a lot of people.”
“It’s my job. This city is a web of important people and favors and secrets. I need to know those people, be owed those favors, and keep those secrets. Otherwise I’m not worth what you’re paying me.”
“Do you charge more than most detectives in the city?”
“Yeah, but I’m worth it, aren’t I?” She shot him a sidelong glance. He was grinning. Simone did charge more than most, but there weren’t many to compare her to. In the whole city, there were maybe a dozen private detectives. And they were all good. There were always a couple more who opened up shop every other month, but they were gone within a week or two—found by the recycling boats or, if they were lucky, making waves back to the mainland when they realized they were in over their heads. Simone had been around a long time, and she had inherited her father’s business, so she thought she was probably one of the best. Her and Dash. And neither of them could find Linnea. She couldn’t still be in the city, could she?
Mr. Ryan had preserved the outside of One Wall Street like a picture postcard. It was a perfect monolith. Straight angles, evenly spaced windows, rising fifty stories high from the bottom of the ocean, twenty-nine above water. Deco designs framed every window, gold lines against the gray stone. It could have been an incredibly elegant tomb. No one went in or out during the day, and there was just one narrow steel bridge to the small doorway. It was almost invisible in the shadow of the Freedom Tower complex, with its condos and fancy barge-parks where the wealthy walked their dogs.
Simone walked down the bridge, motioning deCostas to stay behind her. There was a small buzzer next to the closed door, surrounded by more gold lines. Simone rang it once. The door opened to a woman who filled the frame completely. She was tall, broad, and not smiling.
“We don’t open until after sunset,” she said.
“My name is Simone Pierce, this is Alejandro deCostas. Mr. Ryan is expecting us.”
The woman nodded, apparently unsurprised, and stepped aside to let them pass. Inside was a wide hallway. The whole area was tiled in pink-and-black marble. She closed the door behind them.
“You’re ten minutes early,” she said.
“I know how Mr. Ryan hates people to be late,” Simone said. “We’ll wait for him.” The woman didn’t say anything but stepped in front of the closed door. Motioning deCostas to follow her, Simone walked down the hallway, which led to a large room. It was spotlight-bright, sun pouring in through huge windows, reflecting off marble tiles and bouncing everywhere like an insect trapped in a jar. Simone could hear the soft patter of the waves against the windows. The room was entirely empty except for the elevators and two stairwell doors. A single painting hung opposite the elevators. Simone walked over to get a closer look. She had never been in One Wall Street during the day. Usually it was so crowded with people, she’d never even noticed the painting.
“I thought there would be stalls or shops or something,” deCostas said.
“Everyone brings their own setup. They clean up their own problems that way,” Simone said, looking at the painting. It wasn’t particularly large—perhaps three-and-a-half feet tall and four-and-a-half wide—and was framed in the same gilded color as the window adornments. It was a subtle sort of painting. Simone understood why she had passed over it before, but now it drew her in.