“Linnea,” Simone said, motioning for her to take a seat on the other side of the desk. Linnea did so and crossed her legs. She was wearing high heels—ridiculous to even own in the city, unless you never had to walk anywhere.
“I’m a bit nervous, Ms. Pierce,” Linnea said, clasping her hands in her lap. “I have been wondering what you meant when you said you did not think it was an affair.”
Simone nodded. She got up again and went to the coatrack to take her camera out of her coat sleeve, then turned it on and put it on her desk. The desk automatically started downloading the photos she had taken, displaying them as small images on the desk. Simone tapped them once so they grew, then slid them around so they were facing Linnea.
“You see, I’ve done plenty of cheating spouse cases. There’s nothing romantic here. It looks more like a business deal. That’s why I wanted to ask you if you knew the woman.” Simone tapped a shot of The Blonde’s face, enlarging the photo even more. “Have you ever seen her before?”
Linnea shook her head. “No… but they are at a restaurant together. Isn’t that like a date?”
“I don’t think so,” Simone said. “They didn’t touch, and they didn’t go back to a hotel together or anything like that. Henry went right home to you after dinner.”
“Did you hear their conversation?”
“No—but I can plant a bug next time, if you’d like.” Simone scratched her chin.
Linnea nodded slowly. “So what does this mean?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping she was just a business associate, and then I would tail him again tomorrow, but if you don’t know her…”
“I want you to follow him again anyway,” Linnea said resolutely. “He is not himself lately. A wife knows. Something is amiss. Even if it doesn’t seem like an affair… perhaps it is something else. Perhaps the envelope had a payment for a girl for another time. The girl could be a, what do you call them, a dock mistress, who keeps a boat of sirens.”
Simone shrugged.
“If you want me to, I’ll keep tailing him.”
“Please. I want to know what he’s doing with… her,” Linnea said with some distaste, tapping at The Blonde’s photo, accidentally causing it to enlarge so that it took up almost the entire desk, her forehead and chin cut off by the edges.
“I can do that,” Simone said.
“Thank you,” Linnea said, standing up. “That is all, I assume?”
“Yes,” Simone said. “I should mention, Linnea, that the longer I follow your husband the more expensive—”
“Money is of no concern,” Linnea said with a wave, as she took her coat off the rack and slipped it on. She turned to look at Simone. “As I said, a wife knows when something is amiss,” she said, her voice low, the dim lights of a boat outside the window running over her face. Raindrops began to hit the window with light thudding noises.
“Will you be all right to get home?” Simone asked.
“Yes. I have a yacht and a driver,” she said. Simone nodded. Safest way to travel.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything else,” Simone said.
“And I will call you if I discover anything on my own,” Linnea said. She looked Simone square in the eyes for a moment. The rain became heavier all at once, moving from light drops to a heavy drumming, thick rivers of water streaming down the windows. Thunder clapped. Linnea adjusted her veil and smiled at Simone, then nodded. “Good night,” she said. She left the office and the waiting room, the clicking of her heels blending into the sound of the rain. Simone looked at her desk again. The giant face of The Blonde stared back at her. Simone lay her palm flat on the desk to turn it off. Then she turned off all the lights and went to her bedroom.
Her bedroom was in the corner of the building, with windows on two sides, looking out on New York and the heavy storm that had descended on it. It was almost completely black outside, except when lightning struck—for brief moments illuminating the city skyline and the surging waves devouring it. In one flash, Simone saw a yacht motoring swiftly away, like a white arrow in the darkness, pointing at the horizon. When the waves surged so high that the wind could carry the spray up to her window, blurring it with flecks of salt and algae, Simone closed the drapes, stripped, and got into bed. A large mirror hung opposite her bed, but when Simone tapped a screen on her nightstand, it turned into a video feed. Simone absent-mindedly flipped through the shows, news programs, and old movies they sometimes ran. She sighed. Nothing interested her. She turned the video feed off and the screen turned back into a mirror. She shut off the light and rolled over on her pillow, falling asleep to the sound of waves, and rain, and the occasional shudder of thunder through her drapes.
THREE
THE MORNINGS AFTER STORMS were often bright and clear, the storm having somehow cancelled out the usual morning fog. The light, only slightly dampened by the closed shades, fell hard on Simone, waking her earlier than usual. She took a deep breath, pushing away the usual flickering remnants of her dreams—the red hole of an exit wound, ashes pouring into the sea. They faded away until she’d forgotten them, the edge between dream and reality becoming sharp again. She hit the button on her nightstand to lift the shades. Gulls soared above the city, cutting the air and looking for scraps that had churned to the water’s surface. She got out of bed and showered, then dressed in a gray collared shirt and black pants, with her knee-high boots pulled over them. In her office, she turned on the touchdesk, checked her messages, and scanned the headlines: the European Union was condemning the US’s “homosexual re-education” camps, lawsuits over the failed Mercury Imported Polar Ice Project were stalled again, Canada’s virtual reality city had repaired the damage done by a hacker last month, and the United Nations Space Station seemed to be having a record number of health issues and was trying to hire top doctors from Earth. Nothing that concerned Simone. She went to the kitchen, turned her coffee maker on, and lit a cigarette, then went out into the waiting room and unlocked the door. She hadn’t even crossed back to the hall when it opened behind her.
“Ah, hello?” came a voice behind her. She turned. Apparently, he had been waiting. Caroline had been right about the handsome. He had warm tan skin, roguish black hair, and full lips, and his clothes clung to him well enough to show that he had the sort of body that could inspire spontaneous sculpting in marble. He didn’t look older than thirty. “I’m supposed to meet a Ms. Pierce,” he said with a very faint accent.
“You’ve met her, then,” Simone said. “You’re Mr. deCostas?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Ms. Khan told me you were the best.”
“It depends on what she meant I was the best at,” Simone said. She turned back to the hall. “Come into my office. Would you like some coffee? It’s not the fancy, genetically perfected stuff, but it’s coffee.”
“Thank you,” he said, following her. She pointed him into the office, then went back to the kitchen to get the coffee. When she got back to her office, holding two mugs, he was sitting, staring at her desk. The Blonde’s oversized face still stared back out of it. Simone walked back to her chair and tapped The Blonde’s face so it shrank down again, then slid all the photos to one side and spun her finger around to gray them out. She handed deCostas his coffee and swung her legs up onto her desk.