Everyone else in the area lived on the lower floors, where whole apartments had been cleared out, with cheap plaster walls or curtains for privacy. People shared molding mattresses and threw plastic tarps on the floor to keep it dry. A lot of these people were Foam addicts, and they stuck together, forming dens and packs; the rest had just given up and stared out their windows all day. Their view wasn’t of the city, just of the huge expanse of ocean, and Simone thought that to them it probably looked tempting, like a future they were waiting for because they were too tired or scared to go outside and claim it themselves. Simone understood that. The edges of the city—the flat foreverness of the ocean—appealed to her. These places were quiet and peaceful. When the sun cast long lines of light on them they looked like a good place to die.
Simone knew some junkies and dealers and walked around the neighborhood looking for them. It was chilly, and the water seemed especially black. The bridges here were thin, reedy things that creaked underfoot and groaned like old instruments. The smell was worse than in the rest of the city—from rotten wood and rust, and the damp smell of people who hadn’t bathed. Simone stuffed her hands in her pockets and kept her feet firm.
Her few contacts didn’t have any new information for her. Neither did the junkies she found lying in the corners of bridges, their mouths white, their eyes vacant, almost looking drowned, breathing heavily. Yeah, they said, a woman who looked like Linnea had been around. She’d scored some Foam, pocketed it, and vanished downtown. No one had seen her today, though. That was it. Maybe Linnea was a former MouthFoamer, falling back on old habits because of the stress. But Simone didn’t think so. That stuff left permanent damage—a glazed look, like only being half awake—and Linnea hadn’t shown any signs of that.
Next stop was back downtown, to Above Water Exports/Imports. It was open, despite it being Sunday. Lou was inside, going through some large crates that now filled the room. She had her back to the door and didn’t turn around when Simone shut the door behind her.
“We’re not really open today,” she said, “I just had to be here to accept this shipment.”
“I’m not here to buy, Lou,” Simone said, walking towards her.
“Oh,” Lou said, turning around, “the shamus. Sober by now, I hope?” She raised an eyebrow as Simone sauntered forward, nodding. “You can help me get this lamp out, then.” She jabbed at the crate with her thumb, then stepped away from it, took a cigarette out of her pocket, and lit it. Simone looked over the top of the crate—about the same height as Lou—and saw that the lamp was stuck under a rocking chair. It was a heavy desk lamp, curving around like a spring or an ancient staircase overrun with trees. Simone managed to unhook it and hand it to Lou, who was by now haloed in smoke.
“Thanks,” Lou said, taking the lamp under one arm, cigarette still in hand. She walked over to her desk and put the lamp down, evaluating it. “What are you doing here?”
“I think Henry was killed because of a sculpture he found in your inventory.”
“Why would Linnea kill him for a sculpture?” Lou asked, blowing smoke out her mouth. She folded an arm over her chest, looking unimpressed.
“If it was Linnea, it was because they were trying to sell it. For a lot. The art is by Reinel. You have anything in storage?”
Lou raised her eyebrows, then started to laugh. “Reinel? Who would kill for a Reinel? The man was nobody special.”
Simone shrugged. “I know. But that’s where the evidence is pointing, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe someone thought this art was worth killing for.”
Lou shook her head and went to her touchdesk, where she typed a few things with the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette. The smoke was making Simone want a cigarette, too, so she fished one out of her pocket.
“No smoking in here,” Lou said, glancing up from her table screen. “At least not that crap. Here, take one of mine.” She tossed Simone her pack.
“Thanks,” Simone said. She took one and lit it. It tasted like burnt earth and melting sugar.
“We had a Reinel a few years back, but we sold it to a small museum in Brazil. Nothing since then.”
Simone walked closer and handed the cigarettes back to Lou, still breathing deeply, enjoying the beautiful filth of the tobacco.
“And you don’t know why a Reinel would be valuable?” Simone asked. Lou shook her head.
“They’re nice sculptures, and they’re early coral work, but he never made a big splash. Only an insanely rabid collector would kill for one. Only someone stupid would pay more than… maybe twenty grand for one of his really big pieces, or a bust of someone famous, maybe. But those are all in museums.” She shrugged, rippling the cloud of smoke around her.
“That’s what I thought. This whole thing makes no sense.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
“That’s fine. Thanks for the cigarette. I gotta get to an art history lesson.”
Lou snorted a laugh. “And I was just starting to like you.” Lou headed back towards the crates, not turning back around. Simone looked after her, wanting to bum another cigarette for later, but instead turned around and left. It was almost five.
TEN
ONE WALL STREET HAD an edge of anticipation about it early in the evening, especially on an overcast one like this. The lights were on, glowing an angry yellow through the windows and fog, and people milled around nearby, waiting for the doors to open but trying to look like they weren’t. They cast occasional glances at the door and then at each other. Their faces varied from angry to ashamed, but none of them looked friendly. Simone could feel their stares as she walked down the bridge to the door and pressed the buzzer.
Ms. Antiphates opened the door quickly and, seeing Simone, stepped aside. Once Simone was inside, she slammed the door closed.
“Mr. Ryan is waiting on the twenty-fifth floor,” Ms. Antiphates said, walking down the hall to the main room. Inside, the room was midway transformed: merchants’ stalls, only halfway set up, looked like skeletons, just metal poles suggesting frames. Soon there would be walls made of curtains, draped over and around, and signs listing vendor names and available goods. Most of the merchandise was still in locked trunks, though a few merchants were laying things out in clear cases. Simone saw guns and jewelry, exotic spices and foods, and plenty of alcohol. Some of what was sold there was legal in the mainland but taxed to the point where it was only affordable to the obscenely rich; the jewelry especially—the “vanity tax,” they called it. Women couldn’t wear pants without getting fined, but they were allowed to wear jewelry, if they could afford it.
“This way,” Ms. Antiphates said, summoning an elevator. Simone turned away from the stalls and followed her into the elevator. Simone had only been to the upper floors of One Wall Street once before, for her initial interview with Mr. Ryan when he was deciding if he could hire her for anything. It hadn’t just been her, then. It was her father, too. She was the junior, the apprentice, but Ryan had interviewed them both as though they were partners, and Simone’s dad didn’t correct him. Simone felt tougher after that. Today she didn’t feel tougher. The elevator moved quickly, and for a few seconds she felt seasick.
The doors opened onto a hallway lined in red-and-gold mosaics. Standing in the center of the hall, waiting as though the walls were spreading out from him like fiery wings, was Mr. Ryan, in a navy suit and red tie, holding a walking cane.
“The last time you were here was with your father, wasn’t it?” Mr. Ryan asked before she could even step out.