“I don’t think I’d know how to use it.”
“Just point and pull the trigger. Easy as anything.”
AT 4:16 P.M., THEY were running out of the Clinton Tower; 590 Madison had gone off without a hitch, and the Clinton Tower seemed to be going fine until an unexpected pair of security men stepped into the stairwell and walked down to the bottom floor, lighting cigarettes for a quick smoke break. All four of them had frozen for a moment, security men on the stairs, Simone and deCostas standing by the water’s edge. Then one of the guards had remembered his job and shouted, “Hey!” which sent Simone and deCostas running out the door, into the crowded lobby. The guards chased after them but quickly gave up and Simone and deCostas were soon out of the building. They stopped running a few bridges away and Simone raised her eyebrows at deCostas, who was bent over, catching his breath.
“You drop your marble?” Simone asked.
“Yeah,” deCostas said, taking a deep breath.
“We didn’t run that far. You shouldn’t be so out of breath. Or is your stamina lacking?”
“My stamina is legendary,” he said, standing up and grinning at her. He pushed some hair out of his face. “I was scared, perhaps. After Mr. Ryan thinking it was a bomb, I didn’t want to be locked away for terrorism or something.”
“Aw, I could have protected you from that.”
“My hero.”
“Don’t mock it, I’ve got a rep as an excellent hero.”
“Oh? Rescuing fair lads such as myself, holding us in your strong arms?”
“Legs, more often.” Simone smirked. They looked at each other in silence for a moment.
“So, is this where we part ways?” he asked. “Have that other case to worry about?”
“Unless you had something else in mind,” Simone smiled.
“We could always go back to my hotel,” deCostas suggested with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
Simone stared at him for long enough to watch a new sheen of sweat develop at his hairline. “Okay.”
SIMONE STRETCHED NAKED IN the foggy light from the window. The room smelled like smoke and salt. deCostas was asleep, face down on the bed naked, the sheets all on the floor. He held his pillow to his face and curved his body around the imprint where Simone’s body had been. His ass was nice to stare at, but Simone only gazed at it a minute. That had been exactly what she needed. She felt looser again, as though whatever had been stifling her brain and body had melted away. His stamina was almost as legendary as he’d promised.
But now she was ready to get back to the case. She pulled on her clothes and left without waking deCostas. He’d call. Outside it was dark already, just a bare sliver of sun peeking out over the horizon, blocked by buildings, diffused by fog, neon red. Algae generators glowed green under the water’s surface, and the city smelled like salt and mold. Simone loved the nighttime. The world was black and red and green and wet. All these trips with deCostas had had her out during the day; she felt better now, prowling the fog and shadows.
First, she stopped by the Four Seasons. She waltzed by the doorman as if she belonged there and headed to the reception desk. She still looked rough from her tumble with deCostas and did her best to look worried, too.
“I’m supposed to meet my cousin here,” she told the receptionist at the desk. “Short, blonde, really pretty? I’m totally late, though.”
“Is she a guest here?”
“I think so,” Simone said, trying to sound young and innocent.
“And her name?”
Simone pursed her lips, then forced her face to stay cheerful.
“Misty,” she tried. The receptionist blinked, then looked down at his touchdesk and typed on it.
“No one named Misty is staying with us.”
“She checks in under fake names, usually,” Simone said, trying to keep her voice sweet and naïve, “but… oh, here, I have a photo!” Simone took out the photo of The Blonde. She doubted this would work, but it was worth the risk. She had to get to The Blonde—had to figure this case out. The receptionist looked her up and down, an oily smile on his face.
“I don’t think I can help you,” he said. Simone gave up the act. She wasn’t getting any information without a name.
“Not even if I give you a nice tip?” she asked. The man lifted his nose and turned away from her slightly. She sighed. “Can you at least tell me if I should stake this place out or if she’s in for the night?” she asked in her normal voice.
“I don’t think loitering would be a very good use of your time, do you?” The receptionist continued to smile. He was almost unreadable, but Simone could tell he was one question away from calling security.
“Thanks,” she said, and left. That was a bust.
Next she headed a few blocks east to the Khan townhouse. It was dark now. The ocean was calm the way it was just after sunset. The fog was so heavy she couldn’t see clear outlines more than five feet ahead of her. Neon lights diffused in the mist, their advertisements unreadable, the color like the last moments of a dying fireworks display, mingling with the light from the algae and the darkness of the water. Simone took out a cigarette and lit it, pausing far enough away from the townhouse that she could see the light through the windows as inverted inkblots against the night. She smoked and leaned on a railing, staring at the mix of dark and light. The water below her was like a black mirror, reflecting back bits of her: a slice of face, a cutting of hair, the corner of a trench coat.
What the fuck was Caroline into? She’d met with The Blonde, who’d also met with the now-dead Henry, with Anika, and maybe with Pastor Sorenson. She’d pointed a gun at Simone. Linnea had vanished. Linnea and Henry had been about to make a score, were trying to auction off a piece, but then changed their minds. Maybe it was a sales deal; instead of auctioning it with Mr. Ryan, they had The Blonde act as seller. That made sense. She was meeting with rich, connected people. So it must be valuable art. Although Anika had said it wasn’t.
And Henry and Linnea had enough Foam to last an addict a good year. Was the art a cover for drugs? Was everyone just saying art when they meant the Foam? Mr. Ryan wouldn’t be that interested if it were just drugs, though. She knew he found drugs distasteful. So did Anika. And Caroline never touched the stuff. Simone couldn’t figure out what the connections were. And it bothered her that one of the few people she trusted was somehow involved. Bothered wasn’t a strong enough word. It disturbed her. She tried to tell herself it was just a minor meeting, two people bumping into each other on the street, but she’d seen those photos of Caroline and The Blonde. It was more than that. They were friendly, they were involved. It made her wonder who Caroline was, and if Simone didn’t know that, then who was she? The detective who had always prided herself on knowing a person’s character ten seconds into a conversation—had Caroline been laughing at her this whole time, playing the role of privileged but brilliant, ambitious but careful, lawful but… ? Simone didn’t know. She turned away from her broken reflection on the water and leaned back on the railing.
Simone acknowledged that, objectively, she was a cold person. Not cruel, but distant from her emotions. Her father had taught her that. Simone had refused to speak to him or anyone else for a week after her mother left. Her father had tucked her in every night and told her to think about why she was angry, or sad, about what she missed. One night, Simone had finally opened her mouth and told him she had figured it out: She was upset because she had never expected her mother to leave.