It was yellow, golden really, and showed an ancient port at sunset. There were ships coming in, moored right next to the stone docks that cropped out of great columns. Not really docks, actually. Just… a courtyard. Framed by the sea on one side. Across from that were more columns, like the walls of a building emerging from the ocean. People were everywhere, not minding the ships parked around them.
“Claude Lorrain,” came a voice, echoing across the empty room. Simone turned. Mr. Ryan was a narrow, elegantly dressed man, with a shaved head and a thin line of a mustache. She had never seen him wearing anything besides a tailored suit, complete with pocket square, and today was no different. He had a faint accent—something European, maybe, or pretending to be European. He smiled at Simone. “Please, keep admiring it. That is what it is there for. But I am afraid people get so caught up in the goings-on that they never even notice.”
Simone turned around again, staring at the painting. Mr. Ryan stepped up next to her, and they looked at it together. She could feel herself looking to where his eyes looked, trying to take in what he was seeing. “It was painted in the 1630s or ’40s. Lorrain was a landscape painter—very influential. Painters copied his style for generations. He painted many seaports, but this one is my favorite, so I took pains to acquire it. I love the light, the liveliness of it. It’s like a city on water. Perhaps it makes me happy to know that we are not the first.” He sighed happily as though this were a private joke between Simone and him. “It has two titles. Some call it The Return of Odysseus, and some call it Odysseus Returns Chryseis to Her Father. In the former case, it would be after the Trojan War, at the end of The Odyssey, when Odysseus finally returns home to his ever-faithful wife, Penelope, strings his bow, and slays her suitors…. In the case of the latter, it would be one of the first acts of contrition during the Trojan War, as Agamemnon has Odysseus deliver the captured Chryseis to her father to end a plague. But it just makes the war longer and bloodier. It could be about a man giving in to the gods, or it could be about one returning home after triumphing over them. I like that about it, too.”
“I’m sorry I never noticed it before,” Simone said. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you’ve noticed it now.”
“It looks like New York would, if things were simpler.”
“It is either the beginning or end of a war, Ms. Pierce. Surely that is just as complex as now?”
“In war, you’re given orders,” Simone said. “Here, you just make them up for yourself.”
Mr. Ryan ran his thumb over his chin, considering. “Maybe so, but we are not here for art history lessons or philosophical debates. This is your Mr. deCostas?” deCostas had been standing back and away from them, as if wary.
“It is. He just wants to see the stairwell and drop one of his devices down it. Show Mr. Ryan the device.”
deCostas pulled one of the small marble devices from his jacket pocket and held it up. Mr. Ryan approached and examined it without taking it.
“How do I know it isn’t a bomb?”
“Because I’m sure one of your detectors in the hallway would have told you if it was. How many do you have now? Twenty-six?” Mr. Ryan smiled but waved a finger at her.
“It would be foolish for me to tell you that. But you are correct. I know the device has a wireless signal, but it does not convert audio or visual data, so I see no reason to keep it from the bottom of the ocean. Come!” He clapped his hands. “Let me show you the stairs.” He walked them over to the stairwell and opened the door. It wasn’t even locked. Mr. Ryan probably never had to worry about anyone getting as far as the stairs. The stairwell itself was like the rest of the building—pristine and cleanly ornate. Even the water lapping against the stairs seemed cleaner somehow. deCostas stepped forward and knelt down to examine the water while Simone and Mr. Ryan hung back in the doorway.
“Was there something else you wanted, Ms. Pierce?” Mr. Ryan asked, sotto voce. Simone shook her head. “I have heard that you are Linnea St. Michel’s assistant these days.”
“Some people seem to think so,” Simone answered carefully. What did the St. Michel case have to do with Mr. Ryan?
“And are you?”
“Do you think I’d answer that?”
Mr. Ryan murmured a small laugh. “A good point. Well, if you happen to run into her, please let Ms. St. Michel know that if she is in need of funds and is willing to sell the object she once approached me about, I could put an auction together within a day. It would fetch a hefty price.”
Simone watched deCostas carefully take a water sample.
“Would it?”
“Yes, it would. But I’m not giving you another art history lesson, Ms. Pierce. Either you know the object’s worth or you don’t. I begin to suspect you don’t.”
deCostas dropped the small marble into the water and watched it fall away. Then he took out his notebook and began making notes.
“Linnea doesn’t tell me everything. I didn’t know she had approached you about the object at all.”
“Once. But then she changed her mind. Very disappointing. But if you should run into her…”
“I’ll give her the message. Thank you, Mr. Ryan.”
deCostas put the notebook away and stood back up, turning around to face them.
“All done,” he said. “Thank you.”
“I am a friend of education and archeology, Mr. deCostas. I hope you will remember me if you uncover anything.”
“Of course,” deCostas said. “Thank you again.”
Mr. Ryan nodded and gestured that they should go out of the stairwell ahead of him. He followed them and closed the door. This time he locked it.
“It has been a pleasure as always, Ms. Pierce. And charming meeting you, Mr. deCostas. I hope your expedition to our City on the Sea is fruitful.” He bowed slightly, but did not shake hands. “Ms. Antiphates will show you out.”
The large woman who had opened the door for them appeared and gestured that they should follow her.
“I’m hoping for another art history lesson sometime soon, Mr. Ryan,” Simone said as she followed the woman.
“As am I, Ms. Pierce,” Mr. Ryan said. Simone turned around and flashed him a grin. He was standing exactly where they had left him, watching them walk down the hallway. Simone imagined him staying there, watching, until they were out the door and Ms. Antiphates locked it behind him again.
“That was pretty easy,” deCostas said.
“Yeah. The next one is easier. 590 Madison is residential, no doorman. We should be able to walk in and check out the stairwell. Clinton Tower is the same as the Broecker Building, just not as fancy. I have an appointment for four p.m. We’ll take the elevator, cancel, hop into the stairwell, and then run.”
“I didn’t think I’d be skirting so many security guards. I thought this was a lawless city on the water, with no authority.”
“There’s plenty of authority: security guards, personal enforcers, and the police do an all right job because they have an arrangement with all the private security in town to turn criminals over to them. No one enforces the mainland laws—we’re supposed to, but no one does. But the big stuff? Murder, big robberies? The cops will try to hook anyone who pulls that. The truth is, there’s authority because of who we are. New York is a combination of self-selection and natural selection. People have to be brave, stupid, or some combination of the two to come here. They have to be dangerous—whether with a gun, or money or something else—to survive. And those of us who were born here… we have a special sort of education. You try to mug someone, there’s a good chance you’ll be the one who ends up in the water. Criminals are careful. And it’s easier to get a gun here than almost anywhere else in the world.” She shrugged. “In case you want a souvenir.”