Depth

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.

“So you want a tour guide,” she said, appraising him.

“No.” He tilted his head slightly, as if considering, and blew on his coffee. His lips were damp and shone pale pink like the inside of a strawberry. “Tour guide makes it sound, ah, pedestrian. I am not touring. I am researching. I need an escort. Someone who knows the city and also can deal with any… trouble that may arise during my research.”

“Do you anticipate a lot of trouble?”

“I try to be prepared for anything.” He pushed his shoulders back, possibly in an attempt to look prepared, but the effect was of a teenager trying to look older.

“Then you’d be able to handle the trouble yourself,” Simone said.

“A fair point,” deCostas said with a curved smile. “Let’s say then that hiring you would be part of my preparations. You look like you’re capable of handling trouble.” He let his eyes look her over slowly. She met his gaze and locked it.

“I suppose I’m used to it. I don’t know if that makes me capable.”

“Asumiria.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean that’s ideal.”

“So if I feel a drop, I get us out of wherever we are—that’s what you’re looking for?”

“If a drop means trouble, yes.”

Simone nodded. “That I can do. Now, explain to me exactly what you’re looking to find,” Simone said, sipping her coffee. He had black eyes, mirrorlike. Seeing her drink apparently reminded deCostas that he also had coffee. He took a sip of his, then frowned.

“Used to the good stuff?”

“Used to the weak stuff.” Simone raised an eyebrow. “I’m a student, Ms. Pierce, I can only afford weak coffee.” He pursed his lips in a way that was probably supposed to suggest this was his lot, and he was used to it, but which Simone found incredibly sexual. “I am looking to find areas where the architectural strength of the buildings kept them watertight, so the buildings themselves are still inhabitable to street level. No water.”

“I know New York, Mr. deCostas. That’s all driftwood.” He looked confused, so she explained: “Nonsense.”

“I’ve done extensive research on architectural techniques used in New York over the past hundred years. Some buildings—and I have a list where we can begin—some buildings should have been strong enough, and used technology advanced enough, to keep out the floods.”

“Even all these years later?”

“Yes.” deCostas frowned. “Maybe. I think so. And it does not really matter if you don’t think so. I just need you to help me locate these buildings and take me there. If I am wrong, you’ve been paid for what will most likely be an easy job. If I am right, you get to see a secret side of the city you claim to know so well. You get to be part of a great discovery.” He raised his eyebrows slightly.

“If these buildings did exist, don’t you think someone would know?”

“Maybe. But they might want to keep it a secret.”

“Ah, and now we come to the trouble you predicted.”

“Yes. Some inhabitants of these possibly watertight buildings might not take well to having what they consider their private spaces invaded.”

Simone swung her legs off the desk and opened the drawer in a cabinet to her left.

“I’m not some exterminator, Mr. deCostas. If you find some place you want to move in, you need to take care of current occupants some other way.” She took out a business card for Dash Ormond, another private detective in the city whom Simone sometimes sent business to. He had what Simone would call a different set of ethics, but he’d been around as long as she had, and he sometimes sent her stuff that he didn’t want. “This guy can probably do the job better.” She handed him the card. He stared at it but didn’t take it.

“No, I think you misunderstand,” he said. “I don’t mean for you to harm anyone who does not pose a threat.” Simone stared at him. She was fairly certain that that was exactly what he had meant. He stared back, a small smile forming. “Please, Ms. Pierce. The mayor’s office said you were the best in the city. Said you knew every inch of it, because you’d grown up here.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’m a thousand a day, in advance, on my schedule, and I’m no tour guide; you find out which buildings fit your structural integrity criteria, tell me what they are, and I’ll take you there, and get you in, if getting in isn’t as easy as walking in the front door. I still think you’re not going to find anything, but I’ll take your money just the same.”

deCostas stood and nodded, then drank the last of his coffee.

“When do we begin?”

“Tomorrow,” Simone said, “if you can get me your credit information and the names of some buildings today. At least two buildings ASAP. I’ll handle the rest.”

“You won’t just take me to the nearby buildings and say they’re the ones I asked for?” he asked, smiling.

“You’ll have to trust me, angel,” she said, smiling coyly.

“Then I will do so. Until tomorrow, then. Thank you for the coffee.”

They shook hands and he turned and walked out. Simone caught herself staring at his ass. She would have to think of reasons to walk behind him. Easy money and eye candy. She did owe Caroline.

Trying not to linger on deCostas’ curves, Simone decided on the rest of her day. She needed a way of hearing what Mr. St. Michel was talking about with The Blonde, which meant a bug, which meant meeting him, which meant a cover, which meant Danny. That was fine. She hadn’t seen Danny in a while. She brought up the photo of The Blonde again and printed it out. She could send it to Danny, but if she was going to him anyway, a hard copy seemed safer. She had another cup of coffee, locked the office up, and headed out.

Danny’s office, if it could be called that, was only a few bridges from the Rialto, the old freighter moored where Union Square used to be, filled with shops and street performers who docked motorboats around the bridges and played guitar in neon-piped scuba suits or juggled. It was a good location for his business—the top floor of a twenty-two-story building, just barely above the water, accessible by the old fire escape that led up to the window he used as a door. He had painted over the sliding glass door with images of crystal balls and pentagrams and had hung velvet curtains behind it. A neon sign proclaiming “Psychic” flickered in the window, and above that another sign: “The Great Yanai, Seer of the Future, Teller of Fortunes.” It looked like crap, but Danny did a decent business. Simone climbed the steps and walked into the shop. The waiting room up front smelled of sandalwood and had old gray carpeting and glass cases displaying various occult accouterments. The curtain leading to Danny’s “reading chamber” was closed, so Simone sat down in one of the old chairs and picked up a digital magazine called Horoscope Weekly.

Simone was an Aries, born March 29. “Now is a great time for love,” her horoscope read. “You’re letting out a seductive energy no one can resist. Use it wisely, but beware of fair-haired women.” Simone raised an eyebrow. Those were words to live by. She put down the magazine, a thin sheet of white polymer that scrolled through pages as you brushed a finger on the bottom. Originally, people had had entire libraries on small screens like that, subscriptions to magazines downloaded every day or week, but then advertisers and publishers had realized they could make more money by selling each magazine and book individually. Simone’s bookshelves were lined with the thin, folded white sheets, their titles and authors stamped across the front in black.

The curtains to the back parted and a well-dressed, wealthy-looking woman stepped out. She was pale, and her eyes were red. Behind her, Danny stepped out, wearing a ridiculous feathered turban and cape over what were probably black pajamas. His eyes met with Simone’s for a moment, and Simone winked. Danny raised his eyebrows, then turned back to the woman, clasped his hands together, and bowed slightly. The feather on his turban bobbed.

“Thank you again, Mrs. Seward,” he said. “The spirits appreciate your business.”

“Thank you, Yanai,” Mrs. Seward said, tapping something out on her wristpiece—her payment, Simone assumed. “I’ll be back again next week.”

“Of course,” he said, flourishing his cape to disguise his surreptitiously checking his own wristpiece to confirm payment. Mrs. Seward sniffed and walked out the door, her heels making metallic clicks on the fire escape outside. Danny looked at Simone and wiggled his eyebrows.

“The mayor’s wife,” Simone said, impressed.

“Shall we consult the spirits in my private chambers?” Danny asked in an overwrought imitation of a vampire from an old movie. Simone rolled her eyes, stood, and followed him into the back room.

The back room was much like the front, but smaller, and even more ridiculous. A circular table had a heavy black cloth over it with a crystal ball in the center, and various crystals hung from the low ceiling. In the back were a few steps leading up to an old-looking wooden door. Simone walked through the room and opened the door. Beyond that was Danny’s real office. Metal walls and an old sofa and coffee table. A desk covered in gadgets. Printers, screens, and other large electronics Simone couldn’t place lined the walls. Danny took off his turban, set it on the desk, and flung his cape over the sofa arm before sitting down.

“So what are you in the market for today?” he asked.

“I need a fake IRID. Canadian importer. Net-backing to go with it. And…” Sitting next to him on the sofa, Simone took the photo of The Blonde out of her jacket and asked, “Know her?” Danny stared at it, his eyes narrowing.

“No…. Do you think they found me?” He looked up at her, worried. Simone smiled.

“Nothing to do with you; just a case.”

Danny took a deep breath and nodded. “Want me to keep my eyes open, or a full-on search?”

“Just keep your eyes open.”

“No problem.” Danny grinned, pushing his shaggy brown hair back, revealing a metal plate just over the ear. Danny was somewhere in his early twenties, and had come to New York five years ago, running from the mainland. The US was no longer the world’s superpower. China had taken on that role ages ago, and with the various laws in the US forbidding most scientific research, all the experiments the US military did had to be kept secret. Danny was one of those.

Raised with nineteen others, he was genetically created in an underground lab near Chicago. As a child, he’d had various electronics implanted in his head. He was supposed to be the perfect spy—a hacker who didn’t even need access to a computer, because he was a computer. Danny was trained from birth to use the computer in his mind, as well as the wireless signals that were constantly swimming around him. At thirteen, he and the others could all sit quietly in a corner and surf the net to their hearts’ content, bashing down encryptions and security systems as fast as they could blink. They were always kept in small white rooms and never interacted with anyone besides each other and a woman they called “Mother,” who gave them their assignments and took their reports. At fourteen, they could hack into most classified government sites—any government. At fifteen, they were taken on field trips to the South China Sea, where they logged onto local signals and hacked into Chinese military clouds and databases.

Also at fifteen, during a routine check of what Danny (then called Odin 17) had been looking at online, his supervisors found that Danny was gay, or at least looking at gay pornography. In the US, under normal circumstances, they would have sent him to a re-education camp, but with Danny that would be a problem. The camps were outside, in the real world, where they wouldn’t be able to control his movements as easily, and where the metal plate on his head would get some attention. If the Odin Program, with its genetic modification and hacking, were to go public, it would be a disaster, both internationally and at home. And besides, they had nineteen others. They decided killing him would be easiest. But Danny beat them to the punch, hacking onto the facility servers and finding the orders for his termination.

Simone was never exactly sure what Danny had done to escape, or how he had gotten to New York, but he had shown up one night in her waiting room—wet and miserable, begging her to hide him. She had done it, without payment. She’d showed him how to create the new identity of Danny Fray and how he could easily forge his own IRID, helped him find a place to work and live under the radar, taught him how to use his skills for more petty criminal enterprises than those he’d been instructed in. Mainland troops had only come looking once, and Simone had gotten them off his back by making it look like he had gone to South America.

Simone and Danny had been close since. The mass of cloud networks over New York allowed him to access the web without being found by anyone looking for his particular ISP. He changed networks and ran through other servers in the blink of an eye. He could set up a web page and download secure information all while taking a deep breath. It looked like magic. Which is why he had become a successful psychic, telling people what they already knew: that his spouse had booked a room at a hotel a few nights ago (hotel databases were very easy to access); that her father was living in Canada. He did a lot of what Simone could do, but much faster. And he owed her. So she used him. But she didn’t kid herself; if it had been Dash Ormond’s or some other PI’s doorstep Danny had shown up on that night, he’d be here instead of Simone, using him like the mainlanders had hoped to.

“Any particular importing?” he asked, leaning back into the sofa. His eyes had the slightly glazed look they got when he was working on the Internet in his head.

“Art. Antiques. Furniture. Keep it vague.”

“Done and done,” he said, smiling, “You want the IRID?”

“It would help.”

He opened a drawer in a cabinet and took out a small thumbprint scanner and an infrared chip, which he then put into a nearby 3D printer. It began to print, oozing plastic over the infrared chip and sensor to create the infrared identification card—the IRID. It was a slow process, so he turned back to the photo of The Blonde.

“Who is she?”

“Possible mistress, possible business partner, possible pro siren.”

“Sounds sexy.”

“Could be. Hey… can you check something else out, actually?”

“Anything for you.”

“Alejandro deCostas.”

He nodded.

“Alejandro deCostas,” he read from a screen only he could see, “PhD in archeology, master’s in physics, up until a month ago worked for StableCorp in the EU. Oh, and there’s a picture. Nice. I don’t suppose this is a blind date you want to set me up on…”

“Sorry, no such luck. Just wanted to make sure he was legit before I took him on as a client.”

“If you get him naked, take photos. And if you don’t get him naked, bring him around sometime for me to seduce.”

Simone laughed. “Of course.” As long as she’d known him, Danny had never been on a date, had never had a boyfriend. For all she knew, he was a virgin. She probably would be, too, if every man she met could be a mainland agent sent to kill her.

“He looks legit. Everything checks out.”

“Good.”

Danny stood and walked over to the printer. “What’re you doing for him?”

“He wants to explore the city, looking for places where the buildings have held so that you can go down below the twenty-first floor,” Simone said with a grin.

“A tunnel hunter?” Danny said, sounding excited.

Simone arched an eyebrow. “Don’t get enthusiastic about the idiot stuff, Danny.”

“So I should be like you and save my enthusiasm for cigarettes and silly hats?” he asked with a smirk. He looked down at the printer and tapped it idly with his finger as it oozed plastic into a neat white sheet. Simone folded her arms. Danny was terrible at keeping anything to himself, you just had to wait. He looked up again suddenly. “But it’s not so stupid, you know.”

“Yes it is,” Simone fired back before the last syllable had left his mouth.

“There were all these companies when the waters first started rising,” Danny said, waving his hands—a gesture that looked particularly absurd as he was still in costume. “Aquatube, C-Rail, the Waide Corporation—they were all working on building tunnels so they could control trade between here and the mainland. I read all about them when I was coming here. They knew that—”

“I grew up in the city, Danny,” Simone interrupted. “If there were some underground pipeline to the mainland, I’d know about it. No one could keep that secret.” Danny shrugged and looked back at the printer. It was nearly done, the card baking in a red light. “OK, then, you’re the one who literally has information on any server or cloud. Can you genuinely tell me that, with all that information, you believe there is a working pipeline?”

Danny turned one corner of his mouth up as if both amused and sad. “No, of course not. It doesn’t exist. But it would be cool, though, wouldn’t it? An underwater train?”

“It would make our connection to the mainland much stronger; they’d have more control, could enforce all those federal decency laws no one obeys out here, and find you a lot more easily. Be happy there’s no pipeline. And I’ll be happy there are people dumb enough to pay me to help them find it anyway.”

“Yeah,” Danny said, his shoulders slumping. “Still. It would be cool to ride an underwater train. I wonder if it would have windows.”

Simone patted him lightly on the back. “I’ll take to you the Carnival Ship sometime. They have a little train ride for kids that goes through a tunnel that’s also an aquarium—water all around. I rode it once. It was pretty cool.”

“How is Peter these days?” Danny asked with a sudden smile. Simone narrowed her eyes. She had, in fact, been on the Carnival Ship with Peter.

“Is that ready yet?” Simone asked, pointing at the IRID in the printer. Danny took it out and fanned it in the air to dry.

“What, we can talk about my stupid excitement over a train, but not your stupid decisions with men?” Simone stayed silent, her arms refolding in fluid motions. “Fine, fine,” he said, grinning. He held out the IRID to her. “Here, press down with your thumb so it can get the initial scan.” She did so, placing her thumb on the small square next to her face on the card. The scanner on the card lit up for a moment and then buzzed gently. “All done. Here you are, Alexis Foyle, of Maple Leaf Importing. All your data is in order.”

“Fantastic,” Simone said, standing and taking them.

“What does tunnel hunting have to do with Canadian importing, anyway?” he asked.

“Nothing. Different cases.”

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Are you still using your infrared-blocking wallet?” he asked.

“Sure, of course.”

“I can feel your real IRID’s signature. It must have a hole. You should get a new one if you’re going to carry two IRIDs around.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that when I have a moment. You want to come out with Caroline and me this weekend? I think we’re finally trying that VR bowling thing.”

“Sure, I’m in. Now scram, I have another client in ten minutes, and I have to check what year her dear departed Grandma Elsie died. I always forget. Hard to pretend to be a dead woman if you don’t know when she died.”

Simone smirked. “Some business you got.”

“Same as yours, just different wrapping,” Danny said with an amused look. “It’s why we work so well together.”

“Is that why?” Simone asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought it was because you didn’t charge me.”

“I’m sure that helps. As do my phenomenally good looks. Keep you coming back for another glance. Got anything else? I don’t wanna have to do any work for you in front of Caroline. It weirds her out; she always thinks we’re doing something damp and dirty.”

“Just keep an eye out for The Blonde, if she pops up anywhere.” Simone put her finger to her lips, deciding. “Yeah, and if you could check out the finances of Henry St. Michel and send them to me when you get a second, that could be useful.”

Danny put the turban and cape back on as she spoke.

“St. Michel?” he asked.

“Yeah, M-I-C-H-E-L. Saint.”

“Funny name for this city,” Danny said.

“Funny name for anywhere, these days. Thanks again.” They walked back through Danny’s inner sanctum to the waiting room, where a young girl with honey-colored curls was waiting, her eyes already wet. Simone turned back to Danny and clasped his hands.

“Oh, thank you,” Simone said, in a voice wrought with tears. “Thank you so much, Yanai. You are as great as they say you are.”

Danny glared but bowed with a flourish. Simone walked quickly from the room, trying to stifle her snickering.

False IRID in her leaky wallet, Simone strolled the bridges of New York towards St. Michel’s place of business. The day was blue, but the clear skies from early morning were clouding over, and the wind was picking up. Still, it was a nice day, and Simone enjoyed the walk, even stopping at one of the cart vendors on the decommissioned tanker Guandong for a quick lunch of warm noodles. Guandong and the neighboring cruise ship, Fu, were what was left of Chinatown. Fu was mostly residential, but Guandong was filled with carts that sold cheap electronics or fresh noodles or fish caught that morning from the deck. It was hung with red lanterns and streamers and was often crowded. Simone liked that. She ate her noodles on a stool by the cart, surrounded by throngs of strangers, feeling like calm water—invisible and safe.

When she got to Above Water Exports/Imports, it was nearly two, and the skies were steel and chilly. St. Michel’s business was operated out of an old masonry building, nearly twenty stories above sea level. He was on the thirty-fourth floor, but thankfully, they had put in a new algae-powered elevator in the building, so Simone didn’t have to hike. The offices were marked only by a small plaque. Simone knocked once and went in without an answer. The room was barren: concrete walls, metal desks, one large touchtable in the center of the room, and a few cheap chairs lining the walls. The room was empty except for an older woman leaning over the touchtable, apparently tracking something on a map.

“Yes?” she asked, without looking up. Simone walked up to her.

“My name is Alex Foyle,” Simone said, “From Maple Leaf Imports. I was hoping to talk to a Mr. St. Michel?” The woman turned to look at Simone. She was easily eighty and her gray hair was tied back in a tight bun. She was tall and had good posture without looking like a tin soldier. She appraised Simone with the look of someone who hadn’t been impressed by anything a young person had done in several decades.

“I’m Ms. Freth,” she said, “I’m Mr. St. Michel’s partner. What can we do for you?” Her voice was low and rough but had the tone of a woman used to getting what she wanted. She walked to one of the metal desks and opened a drawer to take out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Real tobacco cigarettes, Simone noted. Maybe being in importing made them easier to get. She lit one and began to smoke, waiting for Simone.

“We’re interested in doing business with you,” Simone said carefully. “I was told Mr. St. Michel was the one to talk to about exporting American antiques to Canada.”

“He’s in the john, you’ll have to talk to me.”

“Of course, it’s just that—”

“I handpicked everything in our inventory and know all our dealers,” Ms. Freth interrupted, “so don’t think I’m old and absentminded. I started this company with my husband, and I can still remember everything we’ve ever bought. I have a whole catalogue of our stuff up here,” she said, tapping the side of her head and giving Simone a hard look. Simone nodded, accepting.

Ms. Freth sat down at her desk and motioned for Simone to sit opposite her. Simone did so, her eyes scanning the room for the toilets, hoping St. Michel would show himself before she got in over her head.

“We sell to several major furnishing stores in Canada,” Simone said, “and several chains. American antiques are going to be the next big thing in Canadian interior design. Some of our stores want actual antiques to sell, but several are also looking for archetypal antiques from which to draw inspiration for products they design themselves for the virtual shops.”

“I see,” Ms. Freth said, blowing smoke out her nose. “And what furnishings, specifically, are you looking for?”

“One of our clients is most anxious for table lamps,” Simone said, “but most of the others are looking for basic furniture sets: couches, chairs, tables, and so on.”

From the back of the room came the sound of a door creaking closed and then Henry St. Michel appeared from behind a column, wiping his hands on his pants.

“Henry,” Ms. Freth said, “this is Ms…”

“Foyle,” Simone said, standing.

“She’s looking for antique American furniture.”

“Ah, good to meet you,” Henry said, stepping forward and extending his hand. It was still damp, but Simone shook it anyway, her face a mask of professional friendliness. “Has Lou been helping you?”

“She said she was told to speak to you,” Ms. Freth said, “but I talked to her anyway.”

“Ah, well, anything you would say to me you can say to Lou, here,” Henry said. “She’s my partner.”

“Right,” Simone said. With a flick of her thumb she removed the small bug from her inner sleeve and transferred it to her index finger. “Yours was just the name I was given,” she said, gesturing at Henry, her palm up. “I didn’t mean to cause any offense.” She closed her hands slightly, then opened them again, sending the small bug flying off her finger and landing on Henry’s jacket, where it quickly faded into the fabric. It was a good bug, fairly advanced, a clear circle that faded into fabric and then transferred sound up to fifty miles away for forty-eight hours, after which time it would dissolve.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Henry said, looking at Ms. Freth.

“No, you didn’t,” Ms. Freth said. “Now tell me more about what you’re looking for. What period antique, exactly?”

“Oh,” Simone said, “the 2090s, or thereabouts.”

“The nineties?” Ms. Freth said. “There’s a style I was hoping wouldn’t come back.” Simone smiled politely. “Everyone thought it was so cute, wearing rain boots all the time. My husband had a pair—bright blue with ducks all over them. Ridiculous.”

“Does he still have them?” Simone asked politely.

“He’s dead.” A thin curtain of smoke fell from her lips as she said it.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s been a few years. But thank you. Still don’t know why anyone would want to bring the nineties back. Rubber boots and umbrellas. Chairs made to look like rising waves. It would just be depressing now.” She sighed, as if the idea bored her. “Give us your information, and we’ll send you what we have on hand, and if you’d like, what we think we can get. Tell us what you want to look at and then we can set up a viewing.”

“That would be wonderful,” Simone said, as she took out her false IRID and touched her thumb to the thumb-scanner, releasing the information on the infrared chip into the local network. Lou glanced at the screen of her table briefly, then nodded. “Hope to hear from you soon,” Simone said standing. She gave them another cheerful look, pivoted, and walked out the door, not wanting to shake Henry’s hand again. In the elevator down, she tuned her earpiece to the frequency of the bug she had just planted.

“The nineties?” Lou Freth’s voice came in clearly. “I tell you, every time I think of retiring to Canada, they go and do something to make me want to stay right here.”

“More business for us, Lou,” Henry’s voice said. “Don’t complain.”

A small tone played over the bug’s feed, indicating a message in Simone’s cloud. Simone set the earpiece to record the feed from the bug and pressed another button. A sensually inhuman voice read her new message aloud to her: “To: Simone Pierce. From: Alejandro deCostas. Subject: Buildings. Text: It was a pleasure meeting with you today, Ms. Pierce. I look forward to exploring with you. As requested, here are two buildings I would like to examine: The Broecker Building and the Hearst Tower. See you tomorrow.”

Simone pressed a button, ending the message dictation. The Broecker Building she knew; it had been one of the last built when they still thought they could re-freeze the polar caps with the Mercury ice and lower the sea level again. Some developers had built a whole bunch of buildings like it in Long Island City, hoping to make the area the new business center of the city and partially succeeding. It was an office building, so getting in would be easy. Getting past the lobby would require some finesse. The Hearst Tower sounded older. She’d have to look it up. But not now. Now she wanted a drink.

It was approaching four, and the wind had picked up, the sky gone pewter. The fog would come down soon. She would find a nearby bar where she could listen to the bug feed and wait until Henry was leaving work. Then she’d follow him again.

THE BAR IN THE Icewater Hotel was clever. The building itself was huge, built in 2045 or so with a giant atrium. Twenty-one stories up, the large hole in the middle of the building that once looked down on the lobby now looked down onto the ocean. And not very far down. It was a clever aesthetic, not unlike having a koi pond in the middle of the room, but less tranquil. The management had opened up the rest of the twenty-first floor, so there was a small desk for a concierge and a very large bar. It was decorated in old-style deco, with rusted bronze finishes and statues of angels. On one side of the bar, a holographic rendition of a singer with long pink hair in a white dress sang in low, romantic tones. Over the bar hung a large, classical-looking painting of a woman in a pink dress sitting at a loom, cutting a piece of thread with her teeth while just beyond the stone wall behind her, men tried to get her attention, holding out flowers and gifts. Simone liked the bar and stopped by whenever she was in the area. It was as good a place as any to wait and listen in on Henry and Lou. She ordered a Manhattan and drank slowly, her earpiece tuned back to the bug.

The conversations at Above Water Exports/Imports were generally pretty dull, Simone discovered over the next few hours, and peppered with inside jokes she didn’t understand. Lou seemed to forever play the part of grump, while Henry was her doting, optimistic kid brother. Simone had just begun her second Manhattan when she felt a hand on her back and spun quickly.

“Get your hands off me, you—” She looked up into familiar eyes. “Peter.” Lieutenant Peter Weiss smiled at her.

“Hey soldier,” he said. “No offense meant, just saying hi.” He was handsome, of course, but it was his voice that always sparked the kindling. His mother was Anabel Acevedo, a lounge singer at The Blue Boat—not really famous, but New York famous—and he had her smooth intonations, her lilts and pauses like murmuring waves. His voice was as alluring as the ocean.

“Sorry,” she said, reminding herself she was on a case, and she had no time for distractions. “How are you?”

He shrugged and smiled that half-smile, where only one side of his mouth went up. “I’m all right. How about you?”

She shrugged back and took a sip of her drink. Their families had been close, when her family was still around. Both she and Peter had had fathers who were NYPD, but where Peter had followed in his father’s footsteps, Simone had skipped over actually becoming a cop and had gone straight to taking over her father’s detective agency. They had been childhood friends, then adult friends; then they fell into an inevitable romance that lasted a year and a half. Then she broke his heart—and maybe her own a little, too. She kept doing that for a while, re-breaking them both every few weeks or so, but she hadn’t seen him in over a month now.

“What are you doing here?” Simone asked. “Some dry out-of-towner get held up by a sea rat, and you’re here to take the statement?”

“Apparent suicide in room 3307.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Simone turned back to her drink. The ice fell against her lips, bitter and cold. She put the empty glass down.

“I didn’t know the guy, nothing to apologize for. How about you? Little early to be on your second.”

“You watch me finish my first?”

“Took time to get the nerve up to come over.”

“Since when do you lack for nerve?”

“Since you came into the picture.”

He smiled, then creased his brow, realizing what he had just said. Then he looked down and ran his hand through his brown curls.

“So,” he asked after a beat, as if pretending there hadn’t been a moment of unsaid things, “working on a case?”

“Yeah,” she said, “can’t live off salt.”

“Something interesting?” he asked, sitting on the stool next to her.

“Not at the moment,” she said with a shrug. In her ear, Lou was complaining about how stingy traders from the EU were and asking Henry to close up. The door slammed, leaving Henry alone. Simone shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Anything you can talk about?”

“Usual wife thinks husband is cheating story.”

“And do you think he’s cheating?”

“I try not to think anything until I know for certain.”

He nodded, looking steadily into her eyes. She noticed his chest inflate slightly and knew he was going to start a real conversation. But in her ear, the door slammed again and locked. Henry had left.

“I gotta go,” Simone said before Peter could speak.

“Oh,” he said, exhaling.

“Case,” she said, trying to look disappointed they couldn’t talk. “It’s walking out the door.” Peter turned to the door of the hotel. It was empty. In her ear, Henry was out of the office and walking somewhere already. “Other door,” she said. He looked at her as though she were trying to get rid of him. “Really,” she said, trying to smile.

“Well, be careful, soldier,” he said, standing. “I should get back to the station, anyway. Kluren doesn’t like us taking time off to talk to…” He let his sentence fade.

“Take care,” Simone said, smiling. Peter grinned at her. She didn’t know if they should hug, but she didn’t have time to find out, so she just nodded and put a hand on his shoulder for a moment before heading for the door. She had a flash of memory to their last time in bed together, the cool roundness of his thighs and the soft pressure of his nose against her neck as he kissed her. Then, her sneaking out in the middle of the night and not returning his calls. It could never have worked, of course. She was right to end it when she did. She missed him. But then she missed a lot of people. One more wasn’t going to make much difference.

Outside, the mist had risen up like a soft wall, and the temperature had taken its usual early-evening plummet. The sensors in Simone’s trench coat felt this, and the thin gel that lined her coat began warming up, but the initial shock of the cold scattered the little traces of inebriation that had muddled her head.

Henry was nowhere in sight, and there were a few directions he could have gone. If he was going straight home, he would be taking the bridge that went past the cruise ship Xanadu, but if he wasn’t… Following her gut, she took off down the bridge towards downtown, where he had met The Blonde.

The sun had started to set, and the fog was getting heavier. Rose and gray mixed as darkness overtook the city. The buildings grew harder to see, but you could always hear the water rushing underfoot. She walked quickly, hoping Henry would come into sight through the mist. She should have hit him with a tracker, too, but then she would have needed to actually hide the bug on his jacket and get it back later. Or hit him with two dissolving bugs. She caught sight of a yellow jacket like the one he’d been wearing last night and took off after it. She was only a few steps behind him, but in the fog, no one would notice a tail. To make sure it was him, she coughed loudly. The cough echoed in her ear. She fell back a little, now that she’d found him. He walked down small winding backway bridges, where there were few people around. Some didn’t have banisters, and the waves splashed over them onto her feet. She would be easier to notice now, so she hung back even more, speeding up occasionally to get a look at him, then falling back again.

She couldn’t tell where he was heading. That worried her. They seemed to be moving farther and farther from central downtown, heading west and north. New York was always dangerous, but the more central areas of the city at least played at being civilized. The people who lived out in West Midtown were people who couldn’t pretend anymore: MouthFoamers who would do anything for a fix when they weren’t catatonic on a bridge; people who had given up everything but their own lives, hoping someone else would take them; people who had come to the city looking for an escape but found themselves completely trapped, clawing at anything they thought might offer some form of release. She could handle herself out here, but she didn’t think Henry could, so the ease with which he walked felt wrong. She didn’t think it was a trap—though that was always a possibility—but she sensed something off. She checked the small pistol inside her boot, making sure it was easy to reach.

Henry stopped. She heard his footsteps fall silent on her earpiece. His breathing seemed a little heavier, too. Wherever he was, it was where he was going to stay. She looked ahead. A short building, barely a full story above water, was in front of her. She couldn’t see anywhere else he could be waiting. She quietly walked closer until she got a better read on the building. There was a large hole in the wall leading in and another hole at the other end. The building itself seemed to have been totally cleared out—just bare concrete walls and floor and fluorescent lighting making the place glow. No shadows. Nowhere to hide. A good place to meet someone you didn’t totally trust. A bad place for Simone to eavesdrop.

She looked around for someplace higher, where she could see who came and went. She toyed with the idea of climbing to the top of the building itself, but there was no fire escape, and it would have been a noisy undertaking. She settled for a bridge a little ways away, but higher up. It faced the side of the building. She’d be able to see who came and went but not what happened inside.

She took her camera out again, watched the fog, and listened to Henry’s heavy breathing in her ear. Someone else approached the building. All Simone could make out was a shadow, a hat, and a trench coat. She took some photos anyway, hoping she could enhance them later. Henry’s voice came in clear on her earpiece.

“Why are you here?” he asked. Apparently, this wasn’t the person he was waiting for. There was a long pause; she couldn’t hear the other person’s voice. “Yes,” Henry said, “I did. You didn’t care about it.” Damn. Still nothing but Henry’s voice. “Not yet.” The other person must have been standing far away or talking softly—like he knew he was being observed. “No, I won’t. I need it.”

Then, all at once, the sound of Henry yelling “what?” and a gunshot. Simone ran for the building. Too fast—she slipped on a wet plank of the bridge and went skidding towards the edge. No railings. Once she hit the water, she’d be dead. She’d be sucked under by currents or thrown into underwater debris. She grabbed for the space between the slats, and caught one, but she was already dangling over the water, her toes just touching the surface, her chin and neck just barely higher than the bridge. Splinters dug into her fingers, and she could feel blood making her skin slippery. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t falling anymore—not until her fingers slipped off—but a wrong move and the wood she clung to could snap off. She turned her head towards the building anyway. A shadow was leaving the building from the opposite exit, carrying something large. Carefully, she clawed her way back onto the bridge as quickly as she could, the rough wood gouging into her palms over and over. She pulled slowly, trying to test each moment of pressure so nothing cracked or snapped. It took far longer than she wanted, but soon she was back on the bridge. There was no time to catch her breath, to dwell on her near-death plunge, to pluck the splinters from her bloodied hands. She ran down the bridge and around another, heading for the building. The bug in her ear fizzled out into static. She reached the room, her heart pounding, and stepped slowly inside.

In the center of the room under the bright lights was a pool of blood, slowly creeping out towards the edges of the room.