She pulled her hair back and wrung out what water was left, then put it in a ponytail so it wouldn’t stick to her. She dried her face on her sleeves. Her trench coat was already dry, her pants and shirt less so, but she didn’t care. She headed for deCostas’ hotel. She hadn’t answered that message from him—hadn’t even read it. She tapped her earpiece and told it to dictate his latest message to her as she walked.
“Simone, I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed our time together tonight, and that I was perfectly prepared to be a gentleman and order us dinner, or take us out for dinner—I’m not sure if my hotel does room service—had you only been there when I woke up. I hope your sudden departure didn’t indicate regret or, worse, disappointment with our activities. It was the most fun I’ve had since coming to this city. I also hope this doesn’t mean our partnership is over. I have many more buildings to inspect, and I look forward to your company—in the buildings or elsewhere. Let me know if you’d like me to send you more addresses.”
Simone smirked at the message. It was careful, she thought with a bit of disdain. But he had been fun, and the money was still good. She’d keep up with him. She might need the money for a lawyer soon, anyway. She hadn’t heard from Peter or Kluren; she didn’t know if they were building a case against her, if they were waiting at her office to arrest her, or if this would just be another mark in her file. They had just as much evidence as she did. Less now. She knew The Blonde’s name. Marina. No surname, though. She could ask Danny to figure it out, check the guest list at the Four Seasons, but she didn’t want to talk to Danny right now. Or anybody else.
The sun was setting when she rounded a building and got a view of deCostas’ hotel. A small car rolled past Simone, making the wooden slats of the bridge she was crossing shudder. Below, the water was getting anxious, splashing up in anticipation of something. Simone studied the horizon. There were some dark clouds, maybe a storm. She couldn’t tell how far away. She could always get a room in the hotel when she was done with deCostas. She didn’t want to spend the night, give him the wrong idea.
deCostas stepped out of his hotel onto the bridge and looked around. Simone rolled her head and stayed where she was. He didn’t see her. He checked his wristpiece and walked off, away from Simone. Simone followed him.
The whole city was dark, and the water was black, except for the bright spots of green beneath the streetlights. Simone wasn’t sure if it was odd that deCostas was wandering without her. Wasn’t she his tour guide? It was a silly thought, of course—he could go wherever he wanted. But it felt strange. Where was he going? She followed him for several blocks, keeping her eyes on the horizon now and then, hanging back so he didn’t see her stalking—no, that was Caroline’s word for it—following him. It felt good to be doing this, to be hanging back and watching, to be analyzing the way his head turned so she could duck out of sight in time.
They ended up in front of the Four Seasons. deCostas stopped to look at his wristpiece again, and, as he did so, The Blonde—Marina—came down the steps and shook hands with him. He said something, and she laughed. She smiled and said something. It was freezing cold, like the bottom of the ocean, but they didn’t seem to mind. As they walked off together, she linked her arm into his. He looked down at this gesture, as if surprised, or curious, but did not unlink it. Simone watched them walk away until they were tiny specks that vanished in the rising fog.
NINE
SHE WAS AN IDIOT. This was a truth which she could no longer call crystal clear, because it had been crystal clear from the start, but over the past few hours of drinking, that crystal had faded, so there was nothing left between Simone and the truth. She didn’t see it, she breathed it. She lived it. She was an idiot.
Trust. That’s not what it was, of course. She hadn’t trusted deCostas. But she’d trusted herself—her judgment of him as ambitious but harmless. She’d even liked him a little—enough that she’d sought him out when she needed distraction, or comfort maybe. And he was just another pawn of The Blonde. Maybe Caroline hadn’t been used in quite the way Simone had thought, but you didn’t have to know you were being used to be someone else’s piece on the board. The Blonde had a web around Simone, had wrapped it up quietly and tight, and Simone hadn’t seen it coming because she’d been too distracted by a nice ass. She wondered if The Blonde had somehow been responsible for sending deCostas to Simone. Perhaps she told him to go to Caroline, knowing she’d send him to Simone. Maybe Caroline was in on the plan from the beginning.
She swayed slightly as she walked down the hall to her home. She’d drunk a lot. The smell of tobacco—real tobacco—hit her like a bullet. A cigarette. That’s what she needed.
Lou Freth was leaning against the wall outside her office, smoking. The smoke hung in the air, thick under the yellow lights. It seemed to form eyes, looking at her.
“What are you doing here?” Simone asked. Lou held out the pack of cigarettes, and Simone took one. She was suspicious but wouldn’t turn down real tobacco.
“I wanted to see you,” Lou said.
“You could’ve waited inside, you know,” Simone said, opening the door to the outer office. She stuck the cigarette in her mouth and fumbled through her pockets for a lighter. She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Lou walked past her into the still-dark office, right up to the windows, and looked out.
“I don’t like invading people’s homes without their permission.”
Simone smirked. “How’d you know my apartment and office were connected?”
“I didn’t. I just assumed you lived in your office.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “I can’t be the first to think so.”
Simone lay down on one of the sofas near Lou, stretching her legs out. “I used to have a separate apartment. It was where I grew up. My dad and I lived there, and my mom, too, before she bailed. But I sold it.” Simone took a deep breath. She must be really drunk if she was talking about her parents, she thought.
“Why?” Lou asked. Simone took a long drag on her cigarette. There was the sound of a motorboat going by outside, the waves it left in its wake rising up and falling in whispers.
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see how the case was going.” Lou turned around and sat down on the sofa diagonal from Simone’s. She tapped her cigarette over the glass ashtray on the table between them.
Simone turned her eyes to Lou, studying her. “Did that blonde woman send you? Marina?”
“That photo you showed me? I don’t know her. I told you that.” Simone studied her but was too drunk to tell if she was lying. She turned back towards the ceiling.
“You’re probably lying. Everyone knows her.” She stuck the cigarette in her mouth and lifted her leg, bending it towards her and gripping it with one hand. With the other hand, she took out her gun and laid it on the table, next to the ashtray.
“Is that supposed to be threatening?”
“Not really.”
“I don’t mind dying, you know.” Lou crossed her legs. She wore knee-high black boots over gray slacks, and the movement was like the wince of a bruised eye. “My husband is dead, and the only thing I have left of him is our home. Henry is dead, and all I have left of him is the business. Did you ever find Linnea?”