Simone stared at Circe. “I want both, Mr. Ryan. That’s the truth. But I need to solve the case first. Can you tell me what Linnea’s Reinel was a map to?”
“Are you willing to pick up the object next month?”
Simone shook her head. “But I’ll work security for you—free.”
“It’s my job to know the value of a thing,” Mr. Ryan said, shaking his head. “This information is worth more.”
“It is,” Simone agreed. She needed to know what the map led to. She felt suddenly so close, as though there was merely one more wall to be scaled. “Can I get back to you?”
“You’re going to go try to figure it out yourself, you mean, and if you can’t, then you’ll come back to me?”
“Yes.” Simone saw no point in lying to him.
“I’ll allow that, but you’re giving me that free security no matter what. Five nights’ worth.”
“Two,” Simone said.
“Let’s just say three then,” Mr. Ryan said. “And you will come back for a real art history lesson. I miss having people to share my collection with. I miss seeing that look. That look used to be like home for me.”
“I promise,” Simone said. She reached out and shook Mr. Ryan’s hand. “And thank you.”
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I won’t wish you luck. In fact, I hope you have to come back to me. I would very much like that object, and Mr. Ormond’s rates keep going up. Besides, he’s so much less pleasant than you.”
“Everyone is less pleasant than me,” Simone said, downing the last of her wine in one gulp. She put the glass down on the bar.
“There are degrees, though.” Mr. Ryan opened his mouth as if to say something else but closed it again, then extended his arm for Simone to take. “Let’s take the elevator down together, shall we?”
Simone was silent as they walked through the hallway, reminded again of her father.
“You thought my father was scared, the time we came to see you?” Simone asked as they got in the elevator.
“Oh yes. Terrified. I’m familiar with the look.”
“I never thought he was afraid of anything.” The elevator plummeted downward.
“That’s probably how it should be with fathers and daughters,” Mr. Ryan said. Simone remembered the flash of red on her father’s temple when she found him, like a button oddly sewn onto the leather of his remaining skin.
“Probably,” she said. The doors opened on the lobby, which was now fully alive. The people who had been waiting furtively outside prowled the hall, going from stall to stall—the empty frames now plush, silk-lined tents, like some sort of ancient bazaar. It smelled of gunpowder and spice, bitter and acidic and dusty all at once. People spoke softly, but there were enough of them so that it was like a cool murmur blending with the waves outside. When customers wanted to buy something—an antique pistol or a pound of un–genetically modified peanuts—they flashed their wristpieces and transferred money directly into the seller’s account. Money was moved around, but nothing was bought on paper, so no taxes applied. The system had been put into place by the mainland to help the very wealthy manage their finances, but it worked well for the black market as well. This sort of thing couldn’t exist on the mainland. All it would take was one loyal citizen calling it in, and everyone would go to prison. Too risky, there. In New York, no one cared. It was part of doing business.
“I don’t suppose you’re looking to buy anything tonight?” Mr. Ryan asked, dropping his arm. “We have a few art dealers in.”
“I can’t afford any of this, and you know it,” Simone said. “And besides, I’m late. I need to get to church.”
Mr. Ryan clutched at his chest as though having a heart attack. Simone almost leapt to help him before she realized he was joking.
“A pastor wants to see me. Don’t worry, if he tries to reform me, it won’t take.”
“I should hope not.”
“Thanks again, Mr. Ryan. I’ll be back for the next lesson.”
“And for that free security you promised. I’ll send you the dates.”
“Sure,” Simone said, shaking his hand before taking off for the door. The crowd was getting thicker as she walked, and people pressed up against her in a surge before she could get outside.
THE SUN WAS HALFWAY into the ocean, a gold semicircle burning through the layers of gray fog. Simone still had some time. It was a good thing Sorenson had wanted this meeting at night—although that meant he wanted it after most of his parishioners and staff had cleared out. Simone walked to the end of the bridge leading away from the black market, weaving her way through the people heading in the opposite direction.
She wanted to call Caroline, to talk the case over with her while they ate at someplace awful and greasy that Caroline had chosen. She stopped at a hot-dog vendor—one of those small boats that bobbed just off a low bridge, cooking and selling all day—and bought one. It was salty, and she ate it too quickly, leaving her chest feeling burnt out. She took a taxi to City Hall, knowing Caroline would still be at work.
When the waters had risen, the old City Hall had been covered pretty quickly, and the politicians had had to find a new spot. They chose two adjacent buildings in midtown—once called the MetLife Tower and the MetLife North Building. Their Art Deco exteriors had been carefully coated in Glassteel, so each angle shone in the fading light. A large dock surrounded them and filled the space between, acting like a wooden plaza. Streetlights thrust up through the plaza on the perimeter and then again in a circle around the center. From above, Simone imagined it looked like a shooting target in bright white, the green of their algae generators winking up between the wooden slats of the platform. There were potted plants and even a small sea-water fountain that someone had rigged to pump stuff up from the ocean and shower it back down again. It was lit from underneath, so when the sun began its descent, the fountain seemed to spray liquid light. The entire area was called City Hall Plaza and was often featured on brochures put out by the city’s plucky travel bureau, with the Chrysler Building glowing behind it. This was probably because it looked, in many ways, how New York used to look—that is, if you cropped out the ocean waves rising up angrily just beneath the plaza.
The mayor’s offices were at the top of the tower, above the other municipal offices. That’s where the balconies were, and the mayor reportedly enjoyed a nice lie-down on a hammock he had set up outside. Caroline’s office was right next to the mayor’s, but anyone who knew the city knew to get an appointment first. Simone sat down on one of the benches and stared up at Caroline’s office. It was too far up to see anything specific, like a person moving around, but the light was on. It glowed a lonely pearl color, the only one on the floor.
Simone tapped her earpiece, said the word “call,” and almost said “Caroline,” but waited long enough that her earpiece told her in soft metallic tones to repeat the command. She wondered why she was always looking up at Caroline’s window. Stalker. She could almost hear Caroline whisper the word in her ear. Then the light went out in Caroline’s office. Simone sat down at the end of the plaza farthest from the door. She wasn’t in shadow—there was no shadow in the plaza, not with the streetlights and the fountain—but she thought she’d be hidden by the water bubbling up between her and the door.
So she knew that the Reinel was a map. But what could it lead to? If it were just deCostas, she’d assume it had something to do with underwater air pockets—maybe the location of a particularly well-coated building or something, but for Sorenson to be interested, or the Khans? They were too smart for all that. She knew Caroline didn’t believe in that pearl-diving nonsense. Then again, Anika had called it bullshit—so that lined up. But how could the painting show the location of an airtight building? Did he paint a large sign in the background that read, “Future site of Underwater Living”? Simone shook her head. The revelation that Reinel painted maps had seemed so significant, but now that she was thinking about it, she felt just as lost as before.