She stepped into the room. It was unseasonably warm with all the light coming in through the window. She tried turning on the touchdesk, but it asked for fingerprint validation. Simone pursed her lips. She thought of taking some tape and removing a fingerprint from the keypad, but she didn’t have tape on her and Dash didn’t seem to have any in his office. No filing cabinets either. Everything seemed to be on the touchdesk.
Simone stepped back out onto the balcony and opened the last door, which led to his bedroom. Clothing and rumpled white silk sheets at the foot of the bed. No underwear, Simone noticed.
She headed back downstairs to check the receptionist’s desk for tape. She sat behind it, opening drawers and closing them again, until she heard the click of the lock in the front door. She quickly sat up, leaning back in the chair, her feet up on the desk, as though she’d been waiting.
When Dash opened the door and spotted her, Simone was pleased to see a look of shock on his face before he covered it with a mask of humor and an arched eyebrow.
“Hello, Simone,” he oozed, closing the door behind him. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Well, you said you’d be naked, so I thought I’d take a peek.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” Dash said, walking closer to her. “But I am happy to oblige, if you’ll just let me wash up first.” Simone cocked her head as if considering.
“I have some time,” she said.
“Lucky for both of us.” He went upstairs and into the bathroom, where Simone could hear the water running, then came back down, his hat, gloves, overcoat, and jacket all gone. He wore a patterned button-down shirt—gray check on white—a red tie, and black slacks. He loosened, then undid the tie as he walked back towards the desk. He slipped the tie off his collar like a whip crack and put it down on the desk in front of Simone, then smiled at her. Then he began to undo the buttons of his shirt, keeping eye contact with Simone the whole time, a perpetual smirk on his face that she mirrored. He finished unbuttoning his shirt entirely and let it hang open as he took off his belt. His bronze stomach muscles looked somehow polished. When he undid the first button of his fly, Simone put up her hand to stop him.
“As much fun as this show is,” she said, “I’m really here to return this.” She reached into her pocket and took out the bug she’d found in her hat. “I think you must have dropped it at my place.”
“Ah,” Dash said, not rebuttoning anything and taking the tracker. “Thank you. These things are expensive.”
“You don’t use the dissolving kind?” Simone asked.
“Not in cases when it’s just a hunch and I don’t know how long I’ll need to follow. It was really just a backup plan. I always have a backup plan.”
“I don’t know where Linnea is,” Simone said.
“I gathered that,” Dash said. “I’ve been watching your movements. You seem as confused as I am.”
“I am,” Simone said. It came out as more of a threat than a confession. “So what do you know?” She didn’t want to team up, exactly, but she didn’t mind sharing a little information, as long as it was on her terms.
“Linnea was selling something. My client wants it.”
“The Reinel,” Simone replied. “And I’m assuming your client, having hired you, is the sort who would prefer to get the Reinel for under the asking price?”
“Au contraire,” Dash said, walking over towards the windows. “My client just wants to be sure that they get what’s coming to them.” Dash slipped off his shirt. His back was to Simone, but Simone was appreciating the view. He threw himself onto the sofa, stretching out on it, face to the ceiling.
“You mean because The Blonde—Marina—is auctioning it off? Your client is afraid of being outbid?”
“Precisely. Or of the goods not being delivered. Or of the Reinel not being what everyone seems to think it is.”
Simone stood and walked over to the sofa, looming over Dash. “And what does everyone seem to think it is?”
Dash looked up at her, appraising. His body was damp with the first pinpricks of sweat, his muscles highlighted, his skin honey gold. “That they haven’t told me. Just that it’s not about the art, but what’s in the art. I keep picturing a chocolate egg with a prize inside. I was hoping you’d know.”
“Nope,” Simone said. “All I know is there shouldn’t be any piece by Reinel that’s worth this much trouble.”
“Everything is trouble to somebody,” Dash said, reaching out and taking her wrist. “I was hoping we might cause a little trouble for each other.” Simone considered it, could feel Dash tugging her onto him, and could imagine that it would be fun to just fall. To forget for a while. Even with Dash. But she didn’t trust him—didn’t even think he was a good person. But she could get around that, she thought, looking at the curves of muscle on his stomach, his shoulders, his hips. But there was too much happening. She needed to stay afloat right now. Solve the thing. Then she could relax.
“Tempting,” Simone said, pulling her hand away. “But let’s wait till the case is closed. Then we’ll celebrate.”
“Tease,” Dash said. Simone smiled and started walking for the door. “So where did you plant your tracker?” he called after her. “Tit for tat, right? One of my belts?” Simone turned and waved over her shoulder, then walked out the door.
Outside, Simone stretched and let her body cool down in the open air. She didn’t know everything yet. But she finally felt like she knew enough to start putting the pieces together. She needed to know more about the Reinel, and what could be hidden inside. There was only one other person she knew who had seen it. She hoped he’d see her without an appointment. She told her earpiece to call Mr. Ryan’s line. He picked up after four rings.
“Ms. Pierce,” he said. He sounded primped and prepared as always, as though her calling was no surprise at all. “What can I do for you today?”
“I was hoping for another art history lesson. On Paul Reinel.”
On the other end of the line, Mr. Ryan paused. Simone could hear the sound of a glass being clinked down on marble. “And when were you hoping for this lesson?” he asked, his tone exactly the same.
“Today,” Simone said. “If you’re available.”
“Come by at five.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ryan.”
“And, Ms. Pierce, let me be frank: I don’t give away anything for free except art history lessons. Are we clear?”
“Absolutely.”
“Excellent. I look forward to our meeting, then. See you at five.” He hung up without waiting for a reply. Simone checked the time on her earpiece holoscreen. She still had a few hours, and there were a few more places where she could fish for information.
First she headed west, to where the junkies and bums lived. The buildings there, the high rises of what was once Chelsea and Hell’s Kitchen, had been some of the first coated in Glassteel, before the formula was perfected, and so they stood, but they were crumbling faster than everywhere else. They were also usually the first to get hit by storms. The buildings had probably been nice once—large buildings filled with spacious family condos—but now they were rotting and always smelled like mold. People who were down on their luck, who were still determined to rise up and live as good a life as New York could offer, had the old penthouses. There it didn’t smell so bad, and no one else bothered them. They just had to deal with walking up dozens of flights of stairs and the knowledge that when a storm hit, they were the most likely to get blown away.