The door across the plaza flashed open, and Caroline walked out. Simone stood, then squatted again, but then stood entirely. Caroline didn’t seem to see her. She walked past the fountain, but Simone stood where she was, then turned to follow Caroline. When she had cleared the fountain and there was nothing between them but space, Caroline stopped. She stayed there a moment before turning to look at Simone. She held a black leather briefcase in both hands. She was wearing black gloves and a dark green coat that fell down to her knees in the shape of a bell, and under that something white and high collared, like a priest.
They stared at each other for a while. Caroline once opened her mouth, as if to speak, but then closed it again. She was too far away for Simone to read her eyes. The air was cold, and the saltwater from the fountain was blowing on her with every gust of the rising wind. The salt felt like small shards of glass biting into her. Simone looked down, took a deep breath, not sure what to say, but knowing she had to speak first. But then she heard Caroline’s footsteps, and when she looked up, Caroline was walking away, dissolving into the mist and darkness.
ELEVEN
SIMONE SMOKED THE CIGARETTE down to the very last bit of ash as she walked to her meeting with Sorenson. The night had come in on heavy sheets of gray, and the fog was weaving itself into thick knots, moments of blindness Simone had to walk through on faith. That meant soon there’d probably be rain for a couple days. Hopefully nothing too hard. She didn’t want to be locked up inside her office, unable to go out without getting killed.
A few people were milling around outside the Hearst Tower when she showed up. They were dressed conservatively and speaking in low tones. They all turned to stare at Simone as she pulled open the door of the building. She winked at one of them, and he blushed a bright scarlet. Inside, the receptionist was packing up to go home and told Simone the pastor was waiting for her in his office on the top floor.
Simone took the elevator up. The doors opened onto walnut walls and big open windows that let in the damp air. Large religious paintings hung on the walls. Sorenson sat behind his desk, looking at Simone expectantly. Behind him, staring out one of the windows, was—
“Marina,” Simone said before she could stop herself. The Blonde turned to her and smiled.
“You learned my name,” she said. “You care. That’s sweet, it really is, but we don’t know each other that well. Maybe you should just call me Ms. Beck.”
Simone’s hand was already at the gun in her boot. “Is this some kind of setup?”
Sorenson rose, his hands extended, palms out, reassuring. “No, no, Ms. Pierce, I assure you, this is no setup. Ms. Beck and I just need your help. She told me about your… encounter, so I thought perhaps it would be best if I didn’t mention her bein’ at this meeting.”
“I am sorry about that,” Marina said, walking forward from the window to sit on Sorenson’s desk. “You see, I’m used to transporting large sums of money and valuable artwork, so when someone is following me, I assume they’re trying to take it from me. I didn’t know who you were. That you were working for Linnea. Like I am.” She smiled pleasantly, an obvious mask, but a good one, as Simone couldn’t read anything but insincerity in her tone. She couldn’t tell if Marina was lying or not.
“You’re working for Linnea?”
“Well, it was Henry and Linnea. But turns out you were right about Henry being dead.” She raised her eyebrows, as if amused by a titillating scandal of some sort. She was good. Everything about her dripped with false friendliness, but only false friendliness. She didn’t have a single tell. Simone had a sudden itch to play poker with her.
“Ms. Beck was hired by the St. Michels,” Sorenson said.
“To sell a Reinel painting, I know,” Simone said.
“I guess I’m not the only one who’s been doing her homework,” Marina said.
“I bought the painting,” Sorenson said. “But with Linnea hidin’ away somewhere, I have yet to receive it.”
Simone narrowed her eyes. “If you bought it, why was she meeting with deCostas last night?”
“Oooh,” Marina said, smiling. “Very good. I’m impressed, really. Keeping tabs on your clients like that. Does he know?” Simone kept staring. “Well, as the painting still hasn’t surfaced, I’m still taking bids on it. Pastor Sorenson here has outbid every competitor so far, but if I can get a higher number out of him, well, he won’t blame me for trying. I work on a retainer and a percentage, after all.”
“You can see why I’m anxious to get the paintin’,” Sorenson said. “With Ms. Beck here handling the sale, the price just keeps goin’ up.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Why deCostas? He’s just a student.”
“With some serious investors. When I was finding out about you, I found out about him. He seemed like a potential buyer, so I approached him.”
“He didn’t mind, after you’d pointed a gun at him?”
“Said having the gun pointed at him was the second most exciting thing he’s done since he got here.” Marina paused to let her statement sink in. Her smile was cool as a bullet. “But he couldn’t afford it.”
Simone crossed her arms.
“We just want to know where Linnea is,” Sorenson. “So I can get my paintin’.”
“The thing I don’t get,” Simone said, pausing, considering how much to pretend to know, “is what the fuss over this painting is. Reinel shouldn’t sell for more than ten grand, tops. I imagine you’re paying quite a bit more, Pastor?” Sorenson straightened his back and nodded after a moment.
“You don’t know, then,” Marina said, getting off the desk. “Well, I guess that’s the thing we’ve kept the most secret. It’s a Reinel, sure. But it’s not about the art. You know what he did, right, in his paintings?”
“Maps and photos sprayed with Privilux, yeah.”
“Right. This particular piece is a portrait of a couple, one of the last Reinel did before he got into the whole coral thing.” She waved her hand, as if discounting his entire body of work—Circe included. For a moment, Simone wanted to slap her. “The waters were just rising. People were still thinking it wasn’t going to be a big deal—just lay down those floating plastic platforms, and the city would be fine. But the couple isn’t important. The trucks are. In the background.” She took a step forward and Simone raised an eyebrow. “Big trucks,” Marina continued, “marked with the C-Rail Corporation’s logo. It’s an ugly logo; all yellow and blue. You know it?” Simone shook her head, and Marina looked disappointed in her. “Anyway, there are C-Rail trucks, and they’re unloading huge parts of… a tunnel, I guess, or a tube—a big one; large enough for a train to drive through. And they’re unloading them into a building.”
“Seriously?” Simone asked, closing her eyes.
“And,” Marina continued, though she didn’t need to, “the location of the building is marked on the map part of the painting.” Marina stared at Simone. “One would need to compare it to old maps and do some research, of course. But you could figure out where the painting was painted.” Simone held her breath, then expelled it. She was disappointed in them right now, in the entire city. It felt like she was tied to a pole with rough rope while around her everyone jumped into the water and drowned, while she screamed at them to stop. Instead, she forced herself to smile.