Depth

NINE

SHE WAS AN IDIOT. This was a truth which she could no longer call crystal clear, because it had been crystal clear from the start, but over the past few hours of drinking, that crystal had faded, so there was nothing left between Simone and the truth. She didn’t see it, she breathed it. She lived it. She was an idiot.

Trust. That’s not what it was, of course. She hadn’t trusted deCostas. But she’d trusted herself—her judgment of him as ambitious but harmless. She’d even liked him a little—enough that she’d sought him out when she needed distraction, or comfort maybe. And he was just another pawn of The Blonde. Maybe Caroline hadn’t been used in quite the way Simone had thought, but you didn’t have to know you were being used to be someone else’s piece on the board. The Blonde had a web around Simone, had wrapped it up quietly and tight, and Simone hadn’t seen it coming because she’d been too distracted by a nice ass. She wondered if The Blonde had somehow been responsible for sending deCostas to Simone. Perhaps she told him to go to Caroline, knowing she’d send him to Simone. Maybe Caroline was in on the plan from the beginning.

She swayed slightly as she walked down the hall to her home. She’d drunk a lot. The smell of tobacco—real tobacco—hit her like a bullet. A cigarette. That’s what she needed.

Lou Freth was leaning against the wall outside her office, smoking. The smoke hung in the air, thick under the yellow lights. It seemed to form eyes, looking at her.

“What are you doing here?” Simone asked. Lou held out the pack of cigarettes, and Simone took one. She was suspicious but wouldn’t turn down real tobacco.

“I wanted to see you,” Lou said.

“You could’ve waited inside, you know,” Simone said, opening the door to the outer office. She stuck the cigarette in her mouth and fumbled through her pockets for a lighter. She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Lou walked past her into the still-dark office, right up to the windows, and looked out.

“I don’t like invading people’s homes without their permission.”

Simone smirked. “How’d you know my apartment and office were connected?”

“I didn’t. I just assumed you lived in your office.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “I can’t be the first to think so.”

Simone lay down on one of the sofas near Lou, stretching her legs out. “I used to have a separate apartment. It was where I grew up. My dad and I lived there, and my mom, too, before she bailed. But I sold it.” Simone took a deep breath. She must be really drunk if she was talking about her parents, she thought.

“Why?” Lou asked. Simone took a long drag on her cigarette. There was the sound of a motorboat going by outside, the waves it left in its wake rising up and falling in whispers.

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see how the case was going.” Lou turned around and sat down on the sofa diagonal from Simone’s. She tapped her cigarette over the glass ashtray on the table between them.

Simone turned her eyes to Lou, studying her. “Did that blonde woman send you? Marina?”

“That photo you showed me? I don’t know her. I told you that.” Simone studied her but was too drunk to tell if she was lying. She turned back towards the ceiling.

“You’re probably lying. Everyone knows her.” She stuck the cigarette in her mouth and lifted her leg, bending it towards her and gripping it with one hand. With the other hand, she took out her gun and laid it on the table, next to the ashtray.

“Is that supposed to be threatening?”

“Not really.”

“I don’t mind dying, you know.” Lou crossed her legs. She wore knee-high black boots over gray slacks, and the movement was like the wince of a bruised eye. “My husband is dead, and the only thing I have left of him is our home. Henry is dead, and all I have left of him is the business. Did you ever find Linnea?”

“No. But her body hasn’t turned up either.”

“I’ll pay you to find her. I feel like I should do that. No one is paying you anymore, and you’re still investigating. Why?”

“Because people keep telling me not to, I guess. Because there’s a chance the chief of police will try to frame me for Henry’s murder if she gets bored trying to solve it for real. Because I probably just lost my only friend over it, so I better see it through, otherwise what has all this…” Simone gestured at the room, and then let her hand fall. Her cigarette was almost gone. She sucked down the last of it and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Lou was still smoking hers. Simone didn’t know how Lou did it so leisurely, how she could let the inhale linger and not just keep trying to get all of it inside her. “You got another?” Lou wordlessly took the pack out of her pocket and laid it on the table next to the gun. Simone sat up, fished out another and lit it, then lay back again.

Outside, another boat went past—this one quieter, but its light shone directly into the window, through the venetian blinds, lighting Lou from behind, so she was only a dark silhouette, and making lines of shadow over Simone’s face and the smoke that was now circling her. It started to rain, drops tapping on the glass like musical notes.

“How’d you lose your friend?” Lou asked quietly.

“I should’ve just asked her…” Simone started. “I don’t trust people. Or I didn’t, but now I do, but it’s the wrong ones.”

“Most people betray you at some point.” Lou took a drag on her cigarette and let it out slowly, smoke covering her face. “Maybe it’s something stupid, they don’t realize what they’re doing, but they do it, and it hurts because you thought they knew you, thought they knew better and would somehow know that doing whatever it was they did… but no one is a mind reader.” Lou lifted her hand up as if to take another drag of her cigarette, but let it fall back down before it reached her face. Her shoulders slumped backwards like old buildings, worn away and finally falling.

“My dad was,” Simone laughed, then coughed. “He could read guilt on a perp from a mile away.”

“No one ever betrayed him?”

Simone was quiet.

“Everyone gets betrayed at some point,” Lou said. “And we respond… well, we don’t always think. So we ask forgiveness. That’s all we can do.”

“Yeah,” Simone said.

“I didn’t know how these sorts of things were done,” Lou said, reaching into her purse, “so I got cash. It was hard to come by, so I hope it’s something you can use.” She took out and laid a stack of bills on the table. “That should cover it. Find Linnea. Find who killed Henry.” Lou stood up and straightened out her clothes.

“I’ll do what I can,” Simone said, without looking at her.

“Do the best you can,” Lou corrected. She didn’t look at Simone. She looked at the door and, without a goodbye, began to walk towards it, dignified, and Simone was suddenly struck by the memory of an old movie she’d seen with her parents, and a scene where a woman marched to the firing squad, blindfolded, proud, and not afraid.

“It’s raining,” Simone said, sitting up. “I can call you a cab.” But Lou was already gone, the door closed behind her, the room dark.

Simone finished her cigarette in the dark, the only sound her own breath and the rain on the window, like something trying to get in.

“YOU HAVE TO LEARN how to swim, Simone,” her mom said. “Especially out here.” Her mom gestured around them—but they were on a cruise liner with tall railings, and the ocean could be heard, but not seen. She was five and was sitting on the edge of the pool her mother was in, wearing floaties on her arms. Her mom stood in the shallow end, water up to her knees, red hair streaming out in the breeze. She had on a floppy sun hat and huge sunglasses. She’d brought Simone to this public pool to teach her to swim, but Simone didn’t like the look of the water.

“Come on, baby,” her mom said. When she grinned, her nose wrinkled up, and her freckles danced on her face. “Just jump in. I’ll catch you.” Simone hooked a finger into her mouth, sucking on it, and looked at the water her feet were dangling in. It wasn’t like ocean water. It was clear, and the pool was painted blue. Her feet looked bone white. This water wasn’t safe, she knew. No water was safe. Here it seemed like an old dog that couldn’t bite anymore, but it was still water.

Her mom came to the edge of the pool and, in one swoop, lifted Simone up and put her in the water before she could protest. She bobbed there a moment, the floaties keeping her up, the water lukewarm.

“See? See how easy that is?” her mom asked, crouching down so she was eye-level with Simone. Simone paddled her hands so she was up against her mother and clung to her, as best as the floaties would allow. “Nothin’ to be afraid of,” her mom said. “Just water.”

THE SOUND DIDN’T JUST wake her; it made her whole body convulse. Simone used the blanket to cover her ears, but it didn’t help. She knew she had been dreaming, and she remembered the smell of chlorine and feeling safe. That was gone now. Instead, there was the sound, the horrible sound that burrowed into her skull like a drill and wouldn’t go away. She opened her eyes. The room, thankfully, was dim, her blinds down, the lights off. She lay on the sofa, still fully clothed and smelling of stale smoke. And still the horrible sound persisted: her phone. It was on the floor, where it had fallen out of her ear. A weak holoprojection shone out of it, the name too blurry to make out. She hit it. Sensing no ear, it went into speaker mode.

“Hey soldier.”

“What do you want, Peter?” Simone rubbed her temples, and stayed on the sofa, eyes closed. It was an awful hangover, but a survivable one.

“Thought you’d want to know, a snitch fingered Linnea St. Michel sometime last night. I didn’t get the call, or else I would’ve told you.”

“Where was she?”

“Trying to score some Foam over on the West Side.” Simone furrowed her brow. Drugs again. Why would she need more?

“That doesn’t make sense,” she said.

“Snitch swears on his mother it was her. They sent some blues over, but she was long gone. Thing is, I know this snitch. We’re not the only ones he talks to.”

“And there are plenty of people looking for Linnea right now,” Simone said, thinking of Dash.

“Yep.”

“Fuck. Thanks for telling me.” Simone tried opening her eyes again but gasped as the light sliced her eyes, julienning them like soft grapes.

“You sailing smooth, there, soldier?”

“Just need a shower,” Simone said, rubbing her face.

Peter paused. “Guess you better take one, then,” he said.

“Yeah. Thanks again.” She hung up on Peter and made her way to the bathroom, where she shook out a handful of painkillers and took them without bothering to count. She tried Linnea’s number again but hung up when she heard the outgoing message. Then she took a shower. She’d screwed things up with Caroline; Linnea had briefly appeared, but was still missing; deCostas was meeting with Marina—The Blonde—and somehow this was all about drugs and art. Simone didn’t know anything about art.

She toweled herself off, feeling a little better, and drank several glasses of water. Then she got dressed and went to her touchdesk. When she turned it on, a screen was already up. Memories came back to her, hazy, sea-glass-stained from last night. She’d been searching the web for Reinel, the name of the artist Caroline had mentioned. Paul Reinel, born in 2063, died 2170. He went to art school in Chicago, then dabbled in painting for a while. But he was most known as a coral sculptor—one of the early ones. When the waters were rising, one of the bits of technology that was quickly born out of desperation was accelerated coral growing for making reefs to keep particularly nasty tides at bay, like breakers. They worked okay for a little while; New York probably still had some sort of reef somewhere around it, though no doubt dead from pollution by now, just a wall of bone. But the technology also led to a fad in the art world, where artists would grow coral, almost like bonsai, into the shapes of animals, plants, humans, or other, less definable forms. Reinel’s work was noted but not actively sought after or especially valuable.

She stared at some images of his art: eerie human forms bending backwards or laying down, arms stretched out as though they were reaching for something. Their outlines rippled because of the coral, so they seemed like they were underwater, drowning. Simone wasn’t an art collector, but she could tell they were good—just not good enough to kill for. And certainly not valuable enough to kill for, judging by recent recorded sales. He was just a sculptor who sold some work and taught college art classes. He wasn’t even dead that long. Simone shook her head. She had fucked up things with Caroline getting Reinel’s name, and still hadn’t learned anything new about the case.

She could try to fix it at least, she thought. She went online and found a place that sold straws—neon, bendy ones, Caroline’s favorite kind. Simone smiled thinking about Caroline and her straws. Simone had asked her once about it, and Caroline had said she thought it made life a little more fun. Simone shipped a carton of them—enough for a small restaurant—to Caroline’s address. No note. She didn’t know what to say.

The touchdesk beeped, and a reminder popped up. She had a meeting with Pastor Sorenson tonight. Simone leaned back and folded her hands together. That was for the deCostas case—except it wasn’t, really. Sorenson had told her to come alone. It was an excuse to meet with her privately, to talk to her about something else, which is why she decided to go. If it had just been about deCostas… Simone wasn’t sure what to do about that. She still hadn’t responded to the message from him. But he’d met with Marina. That meant everything he’d told her could have been a lie, that that little routine where she pointed a gun at him was staged. deCostas didn’t seem like the type to try to play her. Didn’t seem smart enough. Was he that good an actor?

Simone rolled her head. She’d meet with Sorenson, find out what she could about Marina, figure out where the fuck Linnea was, solve this case, and make good with Caroline somehow. After that, she was taking a nice long vacation—and only working cases involving missing pets.

She’d stop by the West Side to ask the junkies about Linnea on her way to the Hearst Building, where Sorenson would be waiting. But before that, she needed to walk, to breathe in the brine of the ocean, and think. She got up, made herself eat some toast, then threw on her trench and hat and headed out.

The day was a damp one, the sea beneath her particularly active, the sky gray, the fog thick. She lit a cigarette as she walked and took a long drag. So that art Trixie had mentioned—this Reinel—was somehow valuable, even though valuable Reinels didn’t exist. The package she had seen Henry pass Marina must have been payment for her services as a broker. And Marina was going around offering up the Reinel sculpture to various people who could afford it—the Khans, Anika, Sorenson. Was deCostas on that list? He was only a student, but he had some funding.

But what coral sculpture could catch the fancy of all of them? The sculpture couldn’t even be that old—no more than a century, which wasn’t much these days. And Reinel wasn’t much more than a footnote in an art history class.

Simone thought of heading to Undertow, but her head still felt soft from the drinking last night. Instead, she turned uptown and walked towards the ferry docks near City Hall. She used to go there when she was little, with her mom. Mom would talk about the mainland, where she’d grown up, and about going back some day. Simone never realized it would be without her. The docks were made of solid wood and stretched out for the mainland so far that if you stood on the end you might think you could see the shoreline. The ferry had already left that morning, so the platform was deserted. Simone sat down on a bench and looked at the water. White froth swirled around the dock legs, all white lines and bubbles, like excited children around a clown. They kept the water clean there, the bridges and buildings, too. When the tourists got off the ferry, they saw a dream of New York, not the real thing. If they were lucky, that’s all they ever saw. The air felt cool on her face as she leaned back, squinting into the sunlight. She took her hat off and put it on her lap, letting the wind blow out her hair. Salt singed her scalp, burning away the toxins from last night, boiling her bad choices out of her.

It felt like she had all the pieces to the puzzle, but they just weren’t fitting together. Why didn’t Linnea just resurface, sell the sculpture, and leave? Maybe Marina had double-crossed her—had murdered Henry, and Linnea had gone into hiding, fearing she’d be next. But then Marina wouldn’t still be shopping the Reinel around. And who had hired Dash? She reached into her pocket and felt for the tracker she’d taken from her hat. She hoped he’d been following her around. At least then she wouldn’t have been the only one wasting her time. But now she knew something, and she didn’t know what she might stumble on next, and didn’t want him to follow her to that, so it was time to return the thing. She stood up and put her hat back on, looking out at the clean water one more time. Then she threw what was left of her cigarette into it and walked away.

DASH’S OFFICE WAS IN one of the newer buildings in East Midtown, all sleek, black lines and open expanses of glass daring the ocean to puncture it like a balloon. He kept his apartment and office in the same building, like she did, but his office was downstairs, connected to the apartment by a glass spiral staircase suspended by wires.

It wasn’t very early—she’d gotten a late start—so she was surprised to find the door still locked. Dash sometimes had a secretary; more often, though, one had just quit after he’d slept with her, then her best friend. Or so Simone had heard. She’d only been to his office once before, when they’d been asked to bid on some security work. Dash had probably thought home-court advantage would help him, but Simone had won the job anyway.

It was a plain door with a simple gold plaque on it announcing “The Ormond Agency.” The lock was more complex, with an electronic keypad. Luckily, it was a screen, so Simone leaned over and breathed on it. The 2, 3, 4, and 7 keys all bore fingerprints. Simone rolled her eyes, typed in the numerical equivalent of DASH, and went inside.

It looked like it had last time she was here: black leather sofa in the waiting area, black desk for the receptionist, white walls with chrome detailing. Light poured in through the huge picture windows. The floor was a pale wood. The spiral staircase was the focal point, ethereal and arresting. Simone had never been up it. She knew she shouldn’t snoop too much—Dash hadn’t done that much, he’d only bugged her, and there was a code among private investigators. It was a murky, nebulous code, but rifling through his files would have been a violation. Still, she could poke around.

The staircase made low, hollow notes that sounded like sighs as she walked up. Upstairs was a small balcony with three doors. One was probably his private office, the others his living space and maybe a bathroom. Simone opened the door on the left to find black-and-white tile, a black sink, and a black toilet. She rolled her eyes again and closed the door. The next room was his office, in which there was a black-and-chrome touchdesk—the latest model. She stared at the office a moment. Dash seemed to know why people were after Linnea, and while the code was foggy, she felt she could probably get away with looking through his things, provided she was only looking for something that would help her on her case. Besides, she would gladly trade in the relationship she had with Dash to get back the one she had with Caroline.

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.

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.