She stared at some images of his art: eerie human forms bending backwards or laying down, arms stretched out as though they were reaching for something. Their outlines rippled because of the coral, so they seemed like they were underwater, drowning. Simone wasn’t an art collector, but she could tell they were good—just not good enough to kill for. And certainly not valuable enough to kill for, judging by recent recorded sales. He was just a sculptor who sold some work and taught college art classes. He wasn’t even dead that long. Simone shook her head. She had fucked up things with Caroline getting Reinel’s name, and still hadn’t learned anything new about the case.
She could try to fix it at least, she thought. She went online and found a place that sold straws—neon, bendy ones, Caroline’s favorite kind. Simone smiled thinking about Caroline and her straws. Simone had asked her once about it, and Caroline had said she thought it made life a little more fun. Simone shipped a carton of them—enough for a small restaurant—to Caroline’s address. No note. She didn’t know what to say.
The touchdesk beeped, and a reminder popped up. She had a meeting with Pastor Sorenson tonight. Simone leaned back and folded her hands together. That was for the deCostas case—except it wasn’t, really. Sorenson had told her to come alone. It was an excuse to meet with her privately, to talk to her about something else, which is why she decided to go. If it had just been about deCostas… Simone wasn’t sure what to do about that. She still hadn’t responded to the message from him. But he’d met with Marina. That meant everything he’d told her could have been a lie, that that little routine where she pointed a gun at him was staged. deCostas didn’t seem like the type to try to play her. Didn’t seem smart enough. Was he that good an actor?
Simone rolled her head. She’d meet with Sorenson, find out what she could about Marina, figure out where the fuck Linnea was, solve this case, and make good with Caroline somehow. After that, she was taking a nice long vacation—and only working cases involving missing pets.
She’d stop by the West Side to ask the junkies about Linnea on her way to the Hearst Building, where Sorenson would be waiting. But before that, she needed to walk, to breathe in the brine of the ocean, and think. She got up, made herself eat some toast, then threw on her trench and hat and headed out.
The day was a damp one, the sea beneath her particularly active, the sky gray, the fog thick. She lit a cigarette as she walked and took a long drag. So that art Trixie had mentioned—this Reinel—was somehow valuable, even though valuable Reinels didn’t exist. The package she had seen Henry pass Marina must have been payment for her services as a broker. And Marina was going around offering up the Reinel sculpture to various people who could afford it—the Khans, Anika, Sorenson. Was deCostas on that list? He was only a student, but he had some funding.
But what coral sculpture could catch the fancy of all of them? The sculpture couldn’t even be that old—no more than a century, which wasn’t much these days. And Reinel wasn’t much more than a footnote in an art history class.
Simone thought of heading to Undertow, but her head still felt soft from the drinking last night. Instead, she turned uptown and walked towards the ferry docks near City Hall. She used to go there when she was little, with her mom. Mom would talk about the mainland, where she’d grown up, and about going back some day. Simone never realized it would be without her. The docks were made of solid wood and stretched out for the mainland so far that if you stood on the end you might think you could see the shoreline. The ferry had already left that morning, so the platform was deserted. Simone sat down on a bench and looked at the water. White froth swirled around the dock legs, all white lines and bubbles, like excited children around a clown. They kept the water clean there, the bridges and buildings, too. When the tourists got off the ferry, they saw a dream of New York, not the real thing. If they were lucky, that’s all they ever saw. The air felt cool on her face as she leaned back, squinting into the sunlight. She took her hat off and put it on her lap, letting the wind blow out her hair. Salt singed her scalp, burning away the toxins from last night, boiling her bad choices out of her.
It felt like she had all the pieces to the puzzle, but they just weren’t fitting together. Why didn’t Linnea just resurface, sell the sculpture, and leave? Maybe Marina had double-crossed her—had murdered Henry, and Linnea had gone into hiding, fearing she’d be next. But then Marina wouldn’t still be shopping the Reinel around. And who had hired Dash? She reached into her pocket and felt for the tracker she’d taken from her hat. She hoped he’d been following her around. At least then she wouldn’t have been the only one wasting her time. But now she knew something, and she didn’t know what she might stumble on next, and didn’t want him to follow her to that, so it was time to return the thing. She stood up and put her hat back on, looking out at the clean water one more time. Then she threw what was left of her cigarette into it and walked away.
DASH’S OFFICE WAS IN one of the newer buildings in East Midtown, all sleek, black lines and open expanses of glass daring the ocean to puncture it like a balloon. He kept his apartment and office in the same building, like she did, but his office was downstairs, connected to the apartment by a glass spiral staircase suspended by wires.
It wasn’t very early—she’d gotten a late start—so she was surprised to find the door still locked. Dash sometimes had a secretary; more often, though, one had just quit after he’d slept with her, then her best friend. Or so Simone had heard. She’d only been to his office once before, when they’d been asked to bid on some security work. Dash had probably thought home-court advantage would help him, but Simone had won the job anyway.
It was a plain door with a simple gold plaque on it announcing “The Ormond Agency.” The lock was more complex, with an electronic keypad. Luckily, it was a screen, so Simone leaned over and breathed on it. The 2, 3, 4, and 7 keys all bore fingerprints. Simone rolled her eyes, typed in the numerical equivalent of DASH, and went inside.
It looked like it had last time she was here: black leather sofa in the waiting area, black desk for the receptionist, white walls with chrome detailing. Light poured in through the huge picture windows. The floor was a pale wood. The spiral staircase was the focal point, ethereal and arresting. Simone had never been up it. She knew she shouldn’t snoop too much—Dash hadn’t done that much, he’d only bugged her, and there was a code among private investigators. It was a murky, nebulous code, but rifling through his files would have been a violation. Still, she could poke around.
The staircase made low, hollow notes that sounded like sighs as she walked up. Upstairs was a small balcony with three doors. One was probably his private office, the others his living space and maybe a bathroom. Simone opened the door on the left to find black-and-white tile, a black sink, and a black toilet. She rolled her eyes again and closed the door. The next room was his office, in which there was a black-and-chrome touchdesk—the latest model. She stared at the office a moment. Dash seemed to know why people were after Linnea, and while the code was foggy, she felt she could probably get away with looking through his things, provided she was only looking for something that would help her on her case. Besides, she would gladly trade in the relationship she had with Dash to get back the one she had with Caroline.