Depth

FOUR

WHERE WAS THE BODY? Was there a body? Simone went out the opposite exit, careful not to step in the blood. No one in sight. She checked the water. It was dark now, and the fog was heavy, making it hard to tell, but she couldn’t see anything besides a single plastic bag, a few feet below her like a boil on the water’s skin. Gunshot, blood, no body.

Simone saw two possibilities: Someone was injured, but everyone had escaped, or someone was dead, and his body was bobbing somewhere just out of sight. She could hear her father’s voice in her head, his old lessons drilled into her, telling her she couldn’t be certain of anything.

She stared at the pool of blood as the light outside disappeared completely and the waves grew louder, angry. She could call the police, but she wasn’t sure what to tell them, and they would definitely screw up her investigation. Kluren would see to that. She could call Peter. But he was a Boy Scout, he’d call it in. Instead, she called Linnea. Voicemail.

“Linnea, it’s Simone Pierce. Please call me back as soon as you get this. Thanks.”

Simone crouched down in front of the blood and took out a small piece of cotton from her pocket. She dabbed it in the blood until it was nearly red all over, then took out a metal vial and stuffed the cotton inside. She locked the vial and looked down at the top. The screen there was blank for a long moment. She felt the wind pick up and shivered. The vial finally beeped and Simone read, “O positive, male.” Simone couldn’t remember Henry’s blood type, but O positive was common, and unhelpful. Making a mental note of the location, she headed out the way she’d come, winding slowly east over bridges, towards home. The wind blew her coat up around her, spraying her damp in the darkness.

At home she changed out of her wet things and toweled off her skin. She sent out Henry’s photo to Danny and other contacts, asking them to keep an eye out. She had no other moves until Linnea called her back to say her husband was alive, or Henry’s face showed up on the recycling website. She confirmed Henry’s blood type was O positive. It didn’t tell her anything. And the photos she’d taken of the shadow approaching the building were just blurs, even enhanced with the night filter.

Simone had seen many deaths in her years as a PI and had long ago learned to compartmentalize. The death of her client’s husband was a mystery to be solved, not a loss to be mourned. She leaned back in her chair, put her feet on the desk, and tried calling Linnea again. Voicemail. Simone left another message. She stretched her arms out behind her head. A message from Danny came in on her touchdesk. It was a video with a note attached: “Is this her on the right?”

The video was taken off a security cam, but high quality, a clear image panning back and forth. It was the interior of Delmonico’s, all dark-green carpets, brown leather, and dim chandeliers. Caroline had taken Simone there after the first big case she’d done for her. It was out of Simone’s price range to even stop in there for a drink unless someone else was picking up the tab.

On the right side of the image, panning in and out of view, was a woman with blonde hair to just above her shoulders sitting alone at a table. But it was just the back of her head. Simone wasn’t sure it was The Blonde, instead of a blonde. But she trusted Danny and kept her eyes on her and, sure enough, when she next panned into view, she stood and shook hands with another woman who had just walked over to the table. In profile, it was clearly The Blonde. She was shaking hands with a tall black woman in a sapphire-blue cape coat and a skirt to just below the knee. Simone couldn’t make out her face before the camera panned away, though she had a guess. When the camera panned back, her guess was confirmed: Anika Bainbridge was sitting at the table.

She sent a thank-you back to Danny and then dialed up Anika. Straight to voicemail. Not unexpected. As a vice-president of Belleau, the second largest commercial cosmetics company in the world, she was a busy woman. Technically she oversaw foreign sales (which were most sales), but the city was considered outside the mainland, and Anika was a native New Yorker, so she’d set up her offices here. She’d once told Simone she went to the mainland only as long as she needed to. She didn’t intend to live anywhere else again. But she was always flying around—the mainland, the EU, Africa—doing whatever it was that she did. Simone wasn’t totally sure. But she had hired Simone for some corporate espionage on several occasions and paid well. Simone liked her. She was cold but sensible, and Simone liked to think that if she’d been more ambitious, she might have ended up like Anika. She wasn’t sure Anika felt the same way—they’d never clicked, gone out for drinks or anything—but Simone thought maybe that was just because she had never asked.

Simone had never read Anika as the violent type, though. She’d always seemed to find violence distasteful; if she couldn’t achieve what she wanted through scheming alone, she’d just walk away. But maybe Simone was wrong about that.

“Hi, Anika,” Simone said into the voicemail. “It’s Simone Pierce. I was hoping you could give me a call sometime soon. I have something I’d like to ask you. Thanks.” Keep it vague. Hopefully Anika would call back. She was the closest thing Simone had to a lead on any of this.

There wasn’t anything to do now, unless she wanted to call the cops. And she didn’t. So she lit a cigarette and smoked it near the window, looking out at the darkness punctuated only by the sickly green of algae generators and their paler reflections, rippling as the water breathed. Then she turned to her other case: babysitting.

Two buildings: The Broecker Building and the Hearst Tower. Simone brought up all the intel she had on her touchdesk about each of them. The Broecker Building was finished just before the water reached the streets, built with the city’s flooding in mind. An adjustable system with separated frames meant it was one of the few buildings with an elevator that never flooded or stalled, and the Glassteel and titanium carbon alloy frame had held, showing few signs of corrosion. It was a huge glass column of a thing, bulletproof and wave-proof, with a special repair team on-site daily, and it housed several of the more important businesses in the city, mostly ad agencies. They loved the city, as it was the one place left where ads could be suggestive or even lewd. There were a lot of accounting firms, too, because people still paid taxes, if they wanted to collect benefits. Companies with branches on the mainland paid because the mainland would use any excuse to shut them down, if they saw money in it.

So the Broecker was suits and probably fairly easy to break into. Make an appointment somewhere. Duck down a stairwell instead.

The Hearst Tower posed a larger problem. A much older building in midtown, retrofitted well enough to survive the water, it was privately owned. Sold a year before the water hit street level (and so at a low price), it had traded hands over the years and was now in the possession of Ned Sorenson, a Boro-Baptist minister and the church’s head missionary to New York. The mainland had several large branches of Christianity, but Boro-Baptism was the largest. Their ministers weren’t just religious figures, but also political ones. The current president, and the past several before him, were all Boro-Baptists. The sect had been founded by a Baptist minister who felt the rest of the conservative branches of Christianity weren’t responding to the rising waters seriously enough and started preaching against them from his pulpit in the town of Boro, North Dakota. It painted itself a religion of values and protection in this, the time of the second flood. The religion that could get people through. And people believed it, or pretended to. Simone, like most New Yorkers, thought all religions were crap, and Boro-Baptism was just the latest name for a generations-old addiction to fear and an overwhelming hope that someone else could save you. But Boro-Baptism had stalked further ahead than its antediluvian predecessors, and the chaos of the flood and the loss of life that followed had fed it like a fat toad. Pastor Sorenson was like the emissary from the mainland: ambassador, spy, maybe even fist. Whatever you wanted to call him, he was someone with lots of powerful connections. Someone you did not want to get mixed up with. Getting into his building would be much harder.

Simone glanced at the clock. Barely eight. She told the touchdesk to call Caroline.

“Do you want to get something to eat?” Caroline asked after a ring.

“Sure,” Simone said.

“I’m still at work, if you’d believe it.”

“Well, I’m calling with a work-related question, so that’s fine by me.” Simone stared down at the grayed-out photos of The Blonde, still a small digital pile in the corner of the touchdesk.

“When I saw it was you calling, I picked up. I could have ignored it. If I knew it was work-related, I would have.”

“I’ll let you pick the restaurant.”

“Deal. Question?”

“One of the buildings deCostas wants to get into is the Hearst Tower.”

“Why does that sound familiar?” Simone could hear Caroline’s fingers tapping on her own desk, writing something else as she spoke.

“Owned by one Ned Sorenson.”

“Oh, that’s where Sorenson keeps his cult!” The sound of Caroline’s typing stopped for a moment, then restarted.

“I don’t think it’s a cult if it’s the majority.”

“It’s New York. He’s not the majority. We heathens are the majority.”

“Heathens?”

“Sorenson’s favorite word. He’s not a bad guy, aside from the religion.”

“So, any thoughts on getting into the Tower? I was thinking we could go as curious potential converts—”

“No. Just ask him.”

Simone stretched her legs out and put them up on the desk. “Really?”

“Tell him you’re deCostas’ personal assistant trying to set up an inspection to see the stairwell, see that the water is there. Drop my name, if you’d like. Don’t mention the detective thing. There isn’t going to be a dry stairwell, so Sorenson won’t mind you seeing it.”

“That easy?”

“He’s really an okay guy. You’ll probably get preached at a little. Tell him you’re an occasional churchgoer. He knows that’s the best they can hope for out here. Pick a church, though, he’ll ask you which one.”

“Great. I thought this one would be hard.”

“Not with me on your side.”

“Just don’t tell deCostas. I don’t want him figuring out he didn’t need me for this.”

“Fair deal. I’m putting on my jacket now. Meet me at Rosie’s in twenty?” Simone sighed. Rosie’s was a greasy diner Caroline loved and Simone tolerated. “I believe my information has earned me the right to a bloodstained meal of my choosing.”

“Fair enough. I could do with a burger.”

“See you in twenty.”

She went back to the front office and began getting her coat on as she called deCostas.

“Hello, Ms. Pierce,” deCostas purred.

“I got your message. I think I should be able to get us into the buildings tomorrow. I need to make some appointments for both of them, though, so I’ll send you the exact time once I’ve made them. Don’t be late.”

“Thank you, that’s very good news.”

“They’re both fairly conservative, so dress appropriately.”

“What is appropriately?”

There was a pause as Simone finished shrugging her coat on and considered his question.

“Don’t show too much cleavage,” she said and hung up.

ONCE A LARGE YACHT, probably of serious luxury, Rosie’s had been transformed into something approximating a nostalgic diner. The yacht was painted in green-and-white checks, which matched the plastic tablecloths inside, and a large neon sign hung over the sliding glass doors that worked as an entrance. On deck, there were some tables and chairs, but it was cool out, and most people were eating inside. It was a wide open space, with booths and servers who wore sailor hats. One of them recognized Simone and pointed her towards Caroline, already at a booth and halfway done with her mug of beer, sipping the rest through a straw.

Simone sat down, and Caroline regarded her with tired eyes.

“Rough day?” Simone asked with a half-smile.

“It started when some mainland yokel who’d won a decommissioned cruise ship in some auction sailed it into the city at about four this morning,” she said. She finished the rest of her beer, the straw sucking dryly at the bottom of her glass. The server, with perfect timing, put down another in front of her, plus one for Simone, and a pair of menus. Simone glanced at hers but let Caroline continue. “He figured he was just going to anchor it in the city and start renting out rooms, like we’re a city of flotsam. Who does that?” Caroline put her mug down hard on the table, in emphasis, then immediately picked it up again and took a long drink. Simone smirked. Mainlanders tried setting up shop once every other month or so, as if they didn’t think New York was still a city, and they could just set up a boat, charge rent, and make a fortune. They didn’t realize they needed an anchor permit, leasing contracts, inspections, and all the stuff that went along with owning real estate in any other city.

“Four a.m.,” Caroline repeated. “I was paged to the office at ten after, got there at four thirty. After we dealt with him, and getting his boat back outside city limits where it belonged, and talking with all the residents whose homes his boat had rammed into, it was already six thirty, so I stayed. Then I had to deal with your boy, who I thought I was done with.” Caroline glared at Simone over the beer.

“My boy?”

“deCostas. He’s not being backed by just his university—apparently the EU, private investors, and some companies are funding part of it as well. He didn’t mention that. But he headed over to the City Archives when they opened at eight and tried to look at all the city building records. From forever.”

“And Tharp didn’t bond with him as one of his own?” The head archivist, Martin Tharp, was a knot of conspiracy theories, hometown pride, and xenophobia, all in a shape and demeanor most closely resembling a deflated balloon. He was the president of several organizations, including the New York Society of Underwater Cartographers—essentially a club of pearl divers like deCostas. He’d written papers on the plausibility of the pipeline in the society newsletter. He was, in Simone’s opinion, King of the Pearl Divers—a title only earned by a steadfast ability to speak so loudly that he could hear no one else. Which is probably why Caroline liked to keep him in the archives, where his combination of inflated ego and paranoia were kept at bay by the rows and rows of old papers and lack of people.

“No, the hatred of outsiders won. I’d sent him a message saying deCostas was legit, but good ol’ Tharp has decided that deCostas, being a foreigner and with backing from a foreign government, is probably doing research to sell information to evangelical terrorists back on the mainland who want to sink the city for good.” Caroline rolled her eyes and shook her head. Simone tried to hold it back but couldn’t help firing off a gunshot of laughter. That sounded about right for Tharp. Caroline sighed. “And I have some crap family stuff to take care of while my folks are out of town, as my father keeps reminding me.” Caroline put her forehead on the table and sighed again. Simone took the opportunity to read the menu and think about what she wanted to eat. “I know you’re reading the menu,” Caroline said into the table. “You should be empathizing with my pain.”

“I am,” Simone said. “But I’m also looking at the menu. I’m a multitasker.”

“If you were a real friend, you’d stroke my hair and tell me that my hard work will not go unappreciated.”

“Your hard work will not go unappreciated, and if I tried to touch your hair, you’d snap my fingers off. How about we order and then you can tell me more about your horrible day?”

Caroline lifted her head and gave a slight nod, and they spent a few minutes in silence considering their menus. They had beef here, but it was cheap, from the farm ships far uptown: big decommissioned ships where the cows would sleep below deck at night and then come up during the day, lowing at each other across the deck. Sometimes Simone liked to go watch the cows, who stared back at her and the city off the side of their boats, chewing their kelp, its long strands falling from their mouths like a MouthFoamer’s saliva. There was something calming about them and their vacant gaze at the city, as if they had accepted their lot, and could accept yours, too. Simone thought they tasted okay but weren’t nearly as good as the imported mainland stuff.

After they’d ordered and Caroline was onto her third beer, she continued with her woes: the water-taxi drivers were threatening a strike, plans for the main bridge over the Upper East Side were not coming together, and a reporter had called asking if it was true that the mayor’s wife regularly consulted a psychic to check on her husband’s extramarital affairs. By the time she finished, the food arrived, and Simone was picking at her fries.

“How about your day?” Caroline asked. Simone held her face carefully blank. She liked Caroline, considered her her best friend, if such a thing existed after age eleven, but Simone dealt in secrets, and Caroline was still deputy mayor, and she’d have to report something if Simone mentioned gunshots and blood. That might mean Linnea would hear from the police, instead of Simone, and that might mean Simone wouldn’t get paid. She repressed the urge to tap her earpiece to see if she had any messages, but Caroline would see, and her phone had been with her since she called Linnea. She just needed Linnea to call her back. So in answer to Caroline she just shrugged and let out a long sigh.

“The usual,” she said.

“Well, thanks for letting me rant, anyway. And of course, tell anyone any of this and no one will find you till you bob to the surface.”

“Of course,” Simone said. “I did bump into Peter today. But it was for five minutes.”

“Fun,” Caroline said dryly. “He get that puppy dog look?”

“Little bit. Had to brush him off to tail a guy, though.”

“Feel bad about it?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, don’t bother. You ended it for a good reason, and you’ve finally stopped having those nights where you forgot that. Besides, now you’re escorting deCostas around. That seems like more fun.”

“Could be,” Simone said, eating another fry and thinking of deCostas’ ass.

“Should be,” Caroline said. She bit into her burger. “So what is the usual with you these days, anyway? Are you still working cases like the ones I used to hire you for?”

“Like the Meers case?” Simone asked. “Yeah, this could be like the Meers case, I guess—though I doubt I can get a confession right now.”

Caroline sighed and took a long drink through her straw. Then she looked up and frowned. “Now, before I say this,” she said, “you need to understand something.”

“Mm?” Simone raised her eyebrows.

“I’m not just a pretty face,” Caroline said in a low monotone.

“No?” Simone bit into another fry.

“No. I speak Korean, Mandarin, and every language used in the EU. I have a PhD in political science. From Oxford.”

“I’ve seen the diploma,” Simone nodded.

“So you understand, I’m very smart.”

“OK,” Simone said, smirking.

“Brilliant, some would say.”

“I believe you.”

“You’ve seen the evidence. So I need you to remember that when I tell you this…”

Simone nodded, but Caroline stopped speaking and took another strawful of beer. Then she looked back up at Simone, the closest thing to ashamed Simone had ever seen her. “I still don’t understand the Meers case.”

Simone stared at Caroline for a long while, then took a long drink and stared again.

“It was the first case you hired me on,” she said, finally.

“Yeah.”

“You were there when I got Meers to confess.”

“Oh yeah, I understand he did it. I just don’t know how you knew he would confess so quickly. I’d expected us to need mountains of evidence and copies of documents and all that. You just accused him, and he caved. How did you do that? Was there a trick I didn’t understand? And more importantly, can you teach it to me so I can use it on the various people I have to deal with all day? I’d have so much more free time if people would just admit they’re idiots.”

Simone smiled. The Meers case had been a few years back, right after she and Caroline had settled into a friendship. Dustin Meers had been sent by the mainland government to retrieve “lost American treasures” for the mainland museums. “American treasures” meant art and artifacts that had been saved or taken during the looting. The problem was, most of this art was already in the city’s remaining museums—and there were a few: The American Museum of Natural History was a huge freighter, the giant Apatosaurus skeleton crowning the bow; the Met operated out of four stories of an old, seashell-colored building; and the Guggenheim was on a decommissioned oil tanker, completely altered with strips of metal curved around in an attempt to recreate the original building’s shape, but which had ended up becoming a rusted shadow of its former glory, forever crusting over with moss and barnacles no matter how often it was cleaned.

But the mainland hadn’t shown much interest in the museums before Dustin Meers. Caroline theorized at the time that their interest developed because the world had stabilized and people had become used to living on the water. The decades since the flood had been all about learning to live again, about making technology that worked in the wet and salt, and the world had done that. Now, the mainland wanted to get back to restoring America’s glory, and that apparently meant art. And New York was where they’d kept the good stuff. So they dispatched Meers to find some of that good stuff from the flooded city, buy it, and send it home where it would be appreciated by “true” American citizens.

Simone had gotten the call from Caroline minutes after Meers had left the mayor’s office the first time. She didn’t trust him, she told Simone, and since she knew Simone and trusted her, hiring her to find out if Meers was on the level seemed like a good investment. It wasn’t that Caroline doubted he was official; she’d seen the paperwork and gotten messages and calls confirming he was there for what he said he was there for. But Caroline had good instincts, and she didn’t like him.

It had been a fairly long case. Simone had gotten herself hired as part of Meers’ small staff, working as a secretary to one of his “scouts”—the three people he’d hired to find art and confirm it was pre-flood. It wasn’t as close as she would have liked, but it gave her access to the small office he’d set up. Once everyone had gone home, she’d call Caroline over, and together they’d dig through files. Caroline had insisted on being part of the investigation, which Simone hadn’t minded. She understood the bureaucracy in the papers better than Simone did. But for the first month, they found nothing incriminating. True, Meers hadn’t bought any art to send back to the mainland yet, but he hadn’t been stealing art, or embezzling, either. He just didn’t seem to be very good at his job.

“Okay,” Simone said. “So a month and a half in, he bought his first painting, something the Guggenheim had but wasn’t displaying. And he sent out a press release showing how the mainland was taking back lost treasures and what a boon it was for Boro-Baptism and everything.”

“I remember. He used the phrase ‘momentous undertaking’ six times on one page.”

“But the shipping crate that he sent back to the mainland was ten times larger than the piece itself. I filled out the manifest.”

“Well, sure, it needed to be packed.”

“Not that much. Even with all the packaging and foam and whatever, it was too big and too heavy.”

“That’s how you knew he was smuggling. I get that.”

“That and the amount of porn on his touchdesk.”

Caroline barked a laugh. “What did that have to do with anything? I mean, it was funny. What was that one site he loved… GMILFs and their Doggy Boys?”

“GrandmasNaughtyDogTraining.com,” Simone said, laughing with Caroline and remembering their mutual horror and amusement at finding the site on Meers’ touchdesk.

“It was disgusting,” Caroline said, the laughter dying down. “But what did that have to do with the smuggling?”

“It was a specific fetish. People with fetishes that specific often seek out others with similar fetishes—especially on the mainland, where all pornography is strictly illegal. If you want to find something, you have to find the person who has it. That, combined with the budget for ink that the foundation was running up…”

“He was printing out Internet porn and shipping it back home to friends on the mainland?” Caroline asked. “I thought he was smuggling other art, or maybe documents he’d compiled on the mayor.”

“No,” Simone said, “porn. Weird porn. That’s why he was so quick to confess. Remember how I phrased it when I asked him if he was smuggling?”

“You called the art ‘media,’ ” Caroline said, nodding.

“I said, ‘You’re using the art shipments to smuggle additional media to the mainland. What that media is, we won’t pry into if you confess now.’ ”

“He was embarrassed.”

“You’d be amazed how many criminals are. It’s the shameless ones you have to look out for.”

Caroline shook her head. “So, do you think he found himself a grandma to punish him?” she asked after a moment, and the two of them burst out laughing again. The laughter faded into more stories and talk until it was late. They paid the bill and left, Caroline catching a taxi and wishing Simone good luck with Sorenson the next day.

At home, Henry’s face still hadn’t shown up on the recycling web page. Simone tapped her fingers on her desk and pursed her lips. Maybe it wasn’t a murder. Maybe it wasn’t Henry’s blood. She stood, looking forward to sleep, but her earpiece buzzed. The ID said it was a call from Belleau Cosmetics. Probably Anika, though Simone couldn’t be sure. Could be her secretary. Anika probably made her secretary stay as late as she did.

“Hello,” Simone answered.

“Are you at home?” Anika asked. She had a deep voice that was smooth but unvaried. A concrete slab wrapped in velvet.

“Yeah,” Simone said.

“Put me on vid,” Anika said. Simone put her earpiece on the desk, and an image of Anika at her desk popped up. Anika always wanted to talk on vid, though Simone was never sure why. Her eyes always wandered from one document to another, and she was constantly rearranging things. She only sometimes looked up at the screen. Maybe she just wanted to advertise her company’s products, which, Simone granted, were beautifully displayed on Anika’s face.

“So,” Anika said, “I think I have something I could use you for. A few experimental samples went missing from one of the labs here in the city. I was going to just ask security to handle it, but then you called, and I think I can justify that expense.”

“What are you talking about?” Simone asked, leaning back in her chair. She put her feet up, away from the camera so it wouldn’t block Anika’s view.

Anika looked up from something she was reading off her desk and furrowed her brow at Simone.

“You called me,” she said. “For work, I assume.”

“Oh,” Simone said. “No. Thank you, but that’s not why I called.”

Anika raised an eyebrow and folded her arms over her desk. She was wearing a blouse buttoned to the top button. Her wardrobe always followed mainland decency laws, but somehow, it always looked illegal on her.

“So what did you call about?”

“You came up in the course of an investigation. I was hoping you could help me.”

Anika leaned back, studying Simone. “What do you need?”

“You met with a blonde woman at Delmonico’s recently. I was hoping you could tell me why.”

“That?” Anika shook her head. “That was total nonsense.” She unfolded her arms and started reading something off her desk again. “If your case has anything to do with that, it’s a dud.” The thing about Anika’s wandering eyes was that it made it hard for Simone to tell if she was lying.

“Humor me,” Simone said.

“I really can’t,” Anika said. She glanced up. “Have you tried our new fall line, by the way? We have this new lipstick that would look great on you.”

“The Blonde?” Simone asked, taking her feet down from the desk.

“I only took the meeting because Darren Keep asked me to,” Anika said. Darren Keep was the president of Belleau. “He wanted me to take the meeting, give him my thoughts. My thoughts were that that woman was peddling bullshit. I told him as much. That was it.”

“What exactly was she peddling?” Simone asked.

“I can’t tell you that,” Anika said, as though it were obvious.

“Why not?”

“It’s a company meeting—therefore, it’s a company secret.”

“I’ll sign a nondisclosure form, if you want,” Simone said, but she slumped her shoulders back. Anika was all business all the time. She could see where this was going.

“I appreciate it, but still no. I’d have to have lawyers draw up the form, which means Darren would see it and ask why and I’d have to tell him it was because a private investigator was asking questions and I thought it would be okay to answer them. Sorry, Simone.”

“C’mon, Anika. I’ve done some work for you. You know you can trust me.”

“You’ve done great work for us,” Anika said, looking right at Simone. “But right now, you’re doing work for someone else.”

“Can you at least tell me her name?”

“Honestly?” Anika said with a shrug. “I don’t remember it. I’m telling you, Simone—she’s not worth it. If she doesn’t know she’s peddling pure bullshit, then she’s either an idiot or insane. It’s not worth your time.”

“Do you know Henry St. Michel?” Simone asked.

“No—should I?” Anika asked.

“No. Just… maybe he was buying this bullshit.”

“Then I don’t want to know him. I don’t have time for stupid people, Simone. And you shouldn’t waste yours on them, either. Anyway, I’m going to send you our fall sampler. Just pop the pack in your 3D printer and pick the sunset pearl lipstick. Trust me, you’ll love it.” She glanced up and away. “I have to go. Think about the lab job? Get back to me.”

The screen went dark before Simone could answer. Simone leaned back, putting her hands behind her head. So The Blonde was selling something. Probably not women, if she thought Anika would buy. But what would you try to sell to both an export/import guy and a makeup VP? And why would it be worth firing bullets over to Henry, but not to Anika? Simone rubbed the back of her neck and shook her head. She didn’t know enough yet.

SHE MET DECOSTAS AT the Broecker Building the next morning. As the building had been in Queens, the walk was across several ships floating over what was once the East River. Those ships now made up Little India, and the smell of frying pakoras and samosas from the food carts wafted on the early wind towards her. It smelled like smoke and spice.

She was wearing a suit and tie under her trench coat and carried her father’s briefcase. She had made a ten-thirty appointment with a bank manager, saying she wanted to offer him corporate espionage services, but she had no intention of keeping it. When deCostas showed up, he was in a shabby brown suit, with a loose tie. Simone tightened his tie without saying anything, then walked into the building. Security men were posted at the elevator banks and behind the desks. Most of the businesses in the Broecker Building had branches on the mainland or the EU, but a New York branch was still important because of its lax enforcement of inconvenient laws, like the Tithe Rule or the Modesty Codes. When the water had first hit the streets, big business had started to flee the city, but seeing how many people stayed, they had come back. The Broecker Building welcomed them. The twenty-first floor had been expeditiously repurposed into a lobby after the waters rose, with working elevators, chic leather sofas, and a fully 3D directory server: a glowing woman made of holographic crystal who told you what floor each company was on.

Simone marched ahead of deCostas to the security desk and smiled, pushing her hair behind her ear so her face was clear. She told the security guard whom she had an appointment with, then showed her IRID and thumbscanned it to confirm her identity and motioned deCostas to do likewise. She was rewarded with two visitor’s badges, one of which she handed to deCostas before leading him through the guard posts to the elevator banks. She waited until there was an empty elevator before boarding, then exited at the twenty-second floor. She smiled at deCostas, who still had said nothing, just followed her. She nodded down one of the hallways, and while they were walking, dialed the corporate account on her earpiece and spoke in a frantic tone when the secretary picked up.

“I’m so sorry,” she told the secretary, “we were coming up in the elevator when we received a message that there’s an emergency back at HQ. We’re leaving now, but I’ll reschedule when I’m back at the office.”

She found the door to the stairwell as she hung up.

“Now it’s your game,” she told deCostas.

“I was wondering if I would be allowed to speak.”

“I never said you couldn’t speak.”

“You didn’t give me a chance,” he said, walking downstairs. “I had plans to be charming.”

“I had plans to get the job done. That’s what you’re paying me for, isn’t it? And,” she said, motioning down at where the water lapped at the stairs, “I’ve done it.”

“Yes you have,” he said, grinning at her. “But think of the fun we could have had in the elevator if I had thought I was allowed to talk.”

Simone raised an eyebrow at him but grinned when he turned away towards the water. It was a large white stairwell, and the water seemed clearer here, a deep blue, swaying against the stairs and walls. DeCostas took a small metal marble out of his jacket pocket and dropped it into the water. It sank silently down the stairs. Then he turned on his wristpiece and began taking notes.

“What was that?” Simone asked.

“Depth measurement,” he said, still looking at the water. “I have the monitor back at the hotel. It keeps track of the water pressure on the device so I know how deep it went. Stairwells are more free from debris, so they may be able to get clear readings.”

“Think there are secret air pockets?” She was leaning back against the wall, her arms crossed. He turned around and shrugged.

“I didn’t think that would be so fast. Are we ready for the next one yet?”

“Next one knows we’re coming. He’s given us special permission to see the stairwell, but you have to be on your best behavior.”

“I thought I was.”

“You smile too much to be on your best behavior.” Simone headed for the door, deCostas following. No one raised an eyebrow as they handed their passes back and left the building.

“Who is it who runs this building?”

“Pastor Sorenson. It’s the Boro-Baptism missionary. Like a cult and an embassy all rolled into one.”

“He knows we’re coming?” deCostas asked, trailing a little behind her as she walked towards a water-taxi stand. There were a few taxis lined up. It used to be that the taxis would just roam the city, waiting for someone to stick their hand off a bridge or whistle, but people fell off doing that more often than anyone wanted to admit, and half the time the drivers never saw them. So they put in stands—places where the taxis lined up to grab customers and places you could ask to be taken to, if you weren’t quite sure of the address you were going to or didn’t want to say it aloud. Generally, New York was still a walking city, and Simone had the legs to prove it, but the taxis were nice to have around. Especially if you had to get across the city and your client was footing the bill.

“I called this morning, said I was your assistant, asked if we could examine the stairwells as part of a study involving water depth. Didn’t get more specific than that, but they okayed it. Keep in mind this is a church. Also a corporation, but mostly a church. Run by someone with powerful ties to the mainland.”

She stepped into a waiting water-taxi and gave the driver the address of the taxi stand closest to the church. Like most taxis, it was a small solar motorboat with room for about four, plus the driver. It was painted yellow but had faded greenish.

“What does that mean?” deCostas asked. “Should I cross myself when we enter?”

“No,” Simone sighed, “just be respectful.”

“Did I do something to make you think I wouldn’t be?”

The water sprayed them as they cut through it; the boat had a windshield but no roof—it was too small for that. Some fancier new models had little tarps over them, but Simone always thought those smelled like cheap plastic, and, besides, it was New York. Everyone was going to get wet.

“Most New Yorkers aren’t very respectful of Boro-Baptists,” she said to deCostas, leaning back in her seat. “It’s sort of a joke. I doubt we’ll talk to anyone besides a secretary, but if we do meet a pastor or something, just nod politely and pretend you believe in Jesus.”

“I do believe in Jesus.”

Simone gave him a sharp look to see if he was joking. She didn’t think he was. Even the driver turned around for a moment before realizing it was none of his business.

“Well, I guess it’s just as plausible as no water below the twenty-first floor,” Simone said after a moment.

deCostas said nothing to this, and they finished their ride in silence, aside from the toddler wail of the motor and the sound of water being sliced like torn plastic. They stopped a bridge down from their destination, and Simone climbed out, leaving deCostas to pay the driver. She started walking, knowing he could catch up. The Hearst Tower had been retrofitted and painted in Glassteel about twenty years before the water hit the streets. It was a tall, mathematical building, all mirrors and triangles. The doors were once windows in a slightly indented section of the building, and they were spread wide open. A large cross hung over the doors. It was just on the edge of the bad part of town—west, but not too far west. The tall, needle-like buildings just down the bridge were bustling condos, but in the other direction was a trashed-looking yacht. The church was right on the border. Simone frowned to herself, then put on a ruthless smile and stepped forward.

The interior was clearly renovated post-flood. A wide room greeted them, carved from sunlight and heavy paneled wood, giving it a dark but airy feeling. Paintings of Bible stories hung behind a wooden desk, next to another cross. In the far corner was a bench that resembled an old wooden pew. A woman was sitting on the bench, legs crossed, a digital news page in front of her face. The legs seemed oddly familiar, but before Simone had time to give the woman a once-over, a secretary dressed in a modest skirt and long-sleeved jacket stood up, her face all bright hopefulness. “Hello, welcome to the Mission. How can I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Simone Pierce, and this is Alejandro deCostas. I called this morning about stopping by to see the stairwells?”

“Oh, of course!” the woman said, standing up. “It’s exciting. You know, I’ve never seen the stairwells myself. I just use the elevator.” She laughed a little and Simone forced a smile. “Let me just call Pastor Sorenson, and he can take us all over there.”

“Pastor Sorenson?” Simone asked. She knew that he would have to approve their entry into the stairwell, but she didn’t think he’d be showing it to them personally. He was too important for that.

“Oh yes,” the secretary said, “he’s eager to meet you.” She pressed a button on her headset. “Ms. Pierce and Mr. deCostas are here,” she said. “Of course, we’ll wait right here for you.” She pressed her headset again and looked at Simone. “He’ll be right down. Would you like a pamphlet to read in the meanwhile?” She handed Simone a rectangle of blank white paper which shifted the moment Simone touched it, raising embossed letters telling her that now was the best time to accept Jesus. She ran her hand over it, and the embossing scattered under her fingers like ripples. Then it popped up again: new words, same message. It was a nice piece of work, probably from Brazil, or somewhere else in South America. The mainland didn’t make stuff like this; they specialized in cosmetics. Not the genetic stuff, of course—that was outlawed—but the US owned the market on basic items like creams, shampoos, hair dye, and makeup. China did the genetic stuff, the Japanese fleet did robots and augmented reality, South America did smart polymers, Israel did defense, the EU did communications, Canada did VR. Everyone did guns.

Simone ran her hand over the pamphlet and pretended to look at it a moment before turning to deCostas. She took him by the arm and led him away from the secretary and spoke in a low voice.

“Pastor Sorenson is the head of the Mission,” she told him. “Be very polite and very vague about what you’re doing.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain later.” Simone furrowed her brow, wondering what it could mean that Sorenson himself was coming to see them. Did this job have implications she wasn’t aware of? “Trust your instincts, but don’t assume,” her dad always said. Her instincts told her there was something going on here she couldn’t see. The pastor wasn’t just coming to see the stairwell.

The elevator at the end of the room opened, and Ned Sorenson stepped out. Simone had seen him in the papers and on the web but never in person. He was about sixty years old, but only just graying, and only slightly balding. His tight black curls made him look younger, but his face was more worn, as though to make up for it. The wrinkles were deep in his mahogany skin. His eyes had the look of someone used to being in control, and who was often amused. Simone wasn’t sure what to think of him. He wore a plain black shirt and pants with a white pastor’s collar, and walked with his hands behind his back. He smiled when he saw them. It was a kind smile, but Simone wasn’t sure it was a genuine one.

“Hello,” he said. “You must be Ms. Pierce and Mr. deCostas. I’ve been waitin’ excitedly for you since I heard you were comin’.” He spoke in the mainland accent, where words never really ended but just rose and fell into one another.

“Pleased to meet you, Pastor Sorenson,” Simone said, extending her hand in what she hoped was a confident way. He shook it. His hands were rough and dry.

“Thank you for letting us do this,” deCostas said, also shaking his hand.

“I’m always eager to help scientists,” Sorenson said. Simone kept her face still and managed not to laugh. Sorenson was a representative of the mainland, and the mainland policy on science was generally not eager to help. “But I fear you’ll be disappointed. I’ve been in our stairwell many a time. It’s just water.” He opened his arms, gesturing towards a wall. Simone walked towards the wall and noticed the seam in the wood paneling—a secret door.

“Why hide the stairs?” she asked, stopping next to the door.

“Looks nicer,” Sorenson said with a shrug. He pressed his thumb onto a small square of wood, which lit up and scanned the imprint. The wall clicked open. Hidden and locked. Simone was even more curious now. But the stairwell was just as Sorenson said. Water lapped at gray-painted stairs. The walls were a dim yellow, the paint chipped away in many places, and a few pipes, painted bright red, thrust through the landing. The ceiling was rough, and moss grew in the corners. Just like any other stairwell.

“Sorry,” Sorenson said.

deCostas reached into his jacket and took out a marble.

“What’s that?” Sorenson asked. He still had a smile on his face, but his eyes were narrowed, the lines at the sides of them like needles.

“A depth-measurement device,” deCostas said.

“I don’t think we agreed to lettin’ you use that.” Sorenson said. He was still smiling, so much so that it looked painful, but his voice had become chillier.

“It’s just part of Mr. deCostas’ research,” Simone said.

“And I’m sure it’s harmless, but we don’t give out information on our building willy-nilly. It could be used for terrorism.”

“Mr. deCostas is here on an academic study. His funding comes from a major European university,” Simone said, angling her body so that Sorenson was focused on her and not deCostas. Sorenson’s smile finally faded, but only for a moment. He shook his head as though he were dealing with a child and sighed. When he spoke, his voice was warmer again.

“And as soon as I have a signed form sayin’ he won’t share any information about the building with anyone but us, I’ll be happy to let him conduct his experiment.”

“Do you have a form?”

Simone’s back was to deCostas, but she hoped he was taking her cue and dropping his marble while she shielded him from Sorenson’s view.

“No I don’t, as you didn’t fully apprise me of what he’d be doin’. I’ll have our lawyers draft one. It should be ready in a few days. Then I’ll be happy to let Mr. deCostas measure the depth.” Sorenson motioned with his arms again, pointing them back to the lobby. deCostas sighed, and Simone watched him tuck the marble back into his pocket. She glared, wondering why he hadn’t dropped it when she’d given him the chance. “I’ll send you the documents as soon as they’re ready,” Sorenson said in the lobby. “Thank you for your patience.”

“Of course,” deCostas said. Simone nodded. Sorenson turned and got back into the elevator. Simone left the building, deCostas following. Outside, she walked a few bridges away before speaking.

“You should have just dropped it,” Simone said.

“What?”

“Your depth measurer. You were right there. You could have dropped it. Said it was an accident.”

“He wouldn’t have liked that. You said to be polite.”

“Yeah, but you could have gotten away with it. He would have insisted you turn it off, or not check the status until you signed his forms, and you could have agreed and gone home and done whatever you wanted.”

“That wouldn’t have been polite. I think that what I did—which was dropping the marble when you distracted him—thank you for that—and then taking another out and making it look like I was putting it away—I thought that was the polite thing to do.”

Simone was silent for a moment. “Is that what you did?” she asked.

“It was.”

“Well,” Simone said, somewhat impressed. “Nicely done.”

“Thank you. Would you like to get something to eat?”

Simone looked him up and down. He grinned at her, one eyebrow cocked.

“Sure,” she said. There was a little café on the other side of the bridge next to one of the needle buildings where they ordered fish sandwiches and she had coffee and he had tea. They ate outside at a small table, the water a low rumble that stopped just short of making them both vibrate.

“You know this is pearl diving, right?” Simone asked. “I mean, I don’t want to discourage you from paying me, but we’re not going to find anything.”

deCostas was silent for a moment, as if considering what she said. He looked like he was holding his breath. Simone wondered if she’d gone too far and lost the client.

“I know most people think it is a useless quest,” he said finally, his voice even, “but I’ve done the research, and enough people agree with me to fund this expedition.” He gestured firmly, almost violently, slapping his palm down on the table. Simone’s hand involuntarily crept closer to her gun. “If I can find space below the water in New York, then others may ask me to find space below the other sunken cities. We could use what we find to build underwater and try to get life to like it was before the flood.”

“And make your career in the process?” Simone asked, staring at him as she sipped her coffee.

“Well, yes.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “It would make me famous. But I do really believe there must be somewhere the water stops.” He was speaking loudly and jabbed his finger, pointing at her, then realized what he was doing and dropped his hand, but Simone had seen how his eyes had gotten brighter without focusing on anything. She’d seen a touch of rage and maybe something darker.

“I think you’re crazy,” she said. He laughed, and he seemed to shake off whatever it was that had possessed him a moment before. He was charming again, the storm over, the waves calm. He smiled, and Simone relaxed a bit, moving her hand from her pistol, where it had been resting.

“Maybe,” he said. He sipped his tea. “So you have lived in the city your whole life?” Simone nodded. “Have you been to the EU?”

“No. Only left New York once, to visit the Appalachian Islands.”

“The mainland?”

“Yeah, kinda. Eastern islands, connected to the Chicago coast by a giant bridge with a maglev train. Still takes a long time to get there from the mainland, though. So only the really wealthy have homes there. It’s like a vacation spot that’s still part of the mainland. Beaches and mansions and little hotels, but still well policed by the mainland, still safe from ‘corrupt influences.’ My dad took me there when I was little. We stayed at a B&B for a weekend and played on the beach a little. Then we got ticketed for indecency because his bathing suit rode down a little in the back. He didn’t have one of those fancy no-slip kinds. Showed a little crack, and he got charged as much as the vacation cost altogether. That’s mainland life.”

“I’ve never been to the mainland. They say it’s… unwelcoming. Make one social mistake and you’re in prison.”

“That’s about right.”

“So why is it different here?”

“Well, we’re technically still the US, I guess, but everything is decentralized here. We have our own government, and while the mainland decency and morality laws apply to us, no one enforces them. Which makes it a great place for foreign businesses to set up shop. Still America, but with none of the pesky rules.”

“No rules?” One corner of his mouth rose up mischievously.

Simone cocked her head. “Our own rules. Truth is, we don’t get many people moving in or out of New York. You’re born a New Yorker, you stay one. Some people move in, but they tend to leave one way or another after they got what they came for or realize they never will.”

“One way or another?”

“Over the water or under it,” Simone said, using her coffee cup to hide her inadvertent frown.

“And what is it they come for?”

“Money,” Simone shrugged. “Power, fame.” She stared at deCostas over his coffee, and he took a long sip. “But New Yorkers don’t like leaving.”

“You say that with pride.”

“Yeah.” Simone drained her coffee and leaned back in her chair. “So what’s the EU like?”

“Nice. Liberal, obviously, by America’s standards.”

“What isn’t?”

“Not too different from here, socially, but we have more…”

“Buildings?”

He laughed. “Yes, and we have an older culture. A relaxed one. One that knows it is in its golden years and so tries to enjoy the time it has left, with music and art, sunsets and sex. In the north we have great dykes and walls, like the one you have on the Chicago coast, but they feel natural. And in the south we have pumps and canals—more like here, but different somehow. Like old photos of Venice from before it sank. America is still like the adult who just realized he will not live forever and so is trying to hide himself from danger. It has been this way since before the flood… but the flood lengthened it. A very long midlife crisis, decades past its prime, trying to recapture its elusive youth. Europe is past this. We enjoy ourselves and the beauty of the world, even as the waters threaten to cover us.”

“Sunsets and sex?”

“It’s a line from a movie,” deCostas said, pushing his hair back from his face, “but an accurate one. You should visit sometime and see.”

“We have sunsets and sex here.”

“Really? Perhaps I shall find out for myself,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Do these lines work on European women?”

“Some.”

“Now I know you’re lying.” Simone stood, and deCostas squinted up at her. She was enjoying his company, but she wasn’t dumb enough to enjoy it for very long, and it was getting late. She thought about inviting him back with her. She was probably going to fuck him eventually, after all. He was hot and willing, and she didn’t turn down easy sex if she thought the guy wouldn’t try for anything more; and in this case she didn’t think it would interfere with the work she was doing for him. The sun was behind her, and it felt warm on her back. But something distracted her. She was facing the Mission, and the door was opening. Out stepped The Blonde. The legs in the waiting room—no wonder they’d seemed familiar. Simone had tailed them the other night. “I should go,” she said. “Send me some more buildings. I’ll set up some more viewings.”

“Why the rush?”

“Other cases.” He looked over to where she was staring. The Blonde had put on a pair of sunglasses and was walking away.

“Can I come?”

“What?” Simone glanced down at deCostas for a moment, annoyed. “No.”

“I’m not even sure where we are. I need you to show me how to get home. It’s what I’m paying for, isn’t it?” Simone pursed her lips. The Blonde was hurrying out of sight. She grabbed some cash from her wallet and put it down on the table.

“Fine, stay behind me, do exactly what I say. This shouldn’t be dangerous, but…” she started walking quickly after The Blonde. Behind her, she heard deCostas scramble up from his chair and follow her.

“Can you tell me what the case is about?” he asked.

“No. And shut up.”

She darted quickly through the crowds. The sun was getting lower, and the sunset fog was starting to rise, giving the city a gauzy orange look. She was impressed by how deCostas managed to weave behind her, but she still had to put her arm up to block him once or twice. She didn’t like where this was going. Bringing deCostas was bad, of course, but she didn’t want to lose the client. She also didn’t want to lose this lead she’d gained by luck. This was why she didn’t like working two cases at once.

The Blonde was heading along the far-western reaches of the city, edging along the bad areas if not quite entering them. It was less populated here, with too many empty buildings and worn-out bridges. Simone didn’t like it. The Blonde walked around a corner and into a large, crumbling building that Simone knew to be abandoned. After sunset, it was a spot to score drugs, but now, with the sun still setting, it would just be an abandoned room with a door to another bridge.

“Stay here,” she whispered to deCostas.

“Why?”

“Just stay here.” Simone walked ahead and into the building. It had been an office once. Three fluorescent lights flickered on the ceiling; the others had burned out. The carpet was torn and moldy, and whatever color it had been was now gray. Discarded newspages stuck to the floor here and there, old and peeling like dry skin. There were a few cubicles scattered around and shoulder-high, white walls lined with trash, but there was a path through them to the other side of the building where another window had been made into a door like the one she’d just come through. Between her and that door stood The Blonde, waiting. She was backlit by the sun, and the little light from the ceiling that shone on her face flickered, as if afraid to rest there. She held her hands in front of her, clutching a small strapless purse, relaxed. Amused maybe.

“Hello,” she said to Simone. “Oh, and you brought a friend.” Simone looked behind her. DeCostas had followed her. Shit. Simone reached for the gun in her boot and pulled it out slowly. “Oh, we don’t need to do that, do we?” The Blonde raised an eyebrow. Simone looked her up and down. The Blonde had a gun, too. Simone could feel it—an instinct for firearms honed over the years. Maybe she was holding it behind her clutch and could shoot her through it. Probably. She’d had time to prepare. The pose with the one hand clasping the clutch, the other hand just behind it, looking like it was clasping the purse, too. It was too staged.

“Why were you meeting with Henry St. Michel the other night?” Simone asked. She kept her gun lowered but walked a few steps closer to The Blonde, trying to block deCostas.

“That’s my business. But I do like having my picture taken. Makes me feel famous.”

“I tried to get your good side.”

The Blonde gave Simone a look like she’d tried to tell a joke and no one had laughed. “They’re all good sides.” She tilted her head, her perfect hair swaying with the motion. An earring sparkled.

“I don’t know why you were taking those photos, but whoever hired you, whatever you think you’re on to, you should stop.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s not whatever you think it is. I’m not a prostitute or a mistress. Do I look like one?” Simone didn’t answer. “Oh, now you’re just being mean.”

“So why were you meeting St. Michel?”

“Like I said, that’s my business.”

“Did you shoot him last night?”

The Blonde raised an eyebrow at Simone.

“No. I didn’t realize he’d been shot.”

“Maybe,” Simone said. “Maybe he shot someone. Maybe he lived.”

The Blonde shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, you should leave me alone. I have things to do, and they don’t involve you. I don’t need a fangirl right now.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Maybe.” The Blonde smiled, took out the small gun Simone had known she was holding, and pointed it at Simone. She felt the prickle of adrenaline down her spine, and her brain calculated the way she could handle this if it became a gunfight: Which cubicle was the closest to dive behind? Could The Blonde shoot twice before she could fire back? She felt her heart speed up slightly, and blood rushed to her fingertips, which twitched in anticipation. Then she realized the gun wasn’t aimed at her, it was aimed behind her and a little to her right. Fuck. “But it looks like I have lots of people to threaten today.” She half shrugged, half giggled, her hair and earrings shimmering again. “I like options.” Simone couldn’t tackle deCostas before the bullet hit him, and if she was implicated in the death of a foreign student, she wasn’t sure Caroline could clean that up for her.

The Blonde dropped the gun into her purse as though it were lipstick. “But I’ve made my point. Go away.” She flashed Simone a wide grin and then turned her back on her, walking into the setting sun. Simone turned on deCostas, furious. He was pushing hair out of his face but smiling, as though it had been fun.

“What the fuck were you thinking? I told you to stay.”

“I was curious,” he said, turning away slightly, as if unprepared for a scolding.

“You’re an idiot. You could have gotten shot.”

“I didn’t think you cared.” He smiled again, trying to be charming.

“You’re not disturbed by the fact that the little blonde woman just pointed a gun at you?”

He shrugged. “She didn’t shoot.” Simone took a deep breath. She put her gun back in its holster.

“You’re an idiot,” she repeated, walking past him out of the building.

“Can you take me home?” he asked softly. “Or at least to a main bridge?”

“Follow me. Don’t speak.” She led him back to the large bridge people called Broadway because it was supposedly built over the street of the same name. He stayed silent, which she appreciated.

“Here,” she said. “You can get home from here, right?”

“Yes,” he said, looking around. “I think I can. Should I send you more buildings, or are you done with me?”

Simone pursed her lips. It was her own fault for letting him come at all. And the money was good.

“You can send them,” she said. Then she walked away.

At home, the first thing she did was check the recycling site. Sure enough, posted about an hour earlier, blue and bloated from the water, was the face of Henry St. Michel. Simone frowned and put her coat back on. Time to stop by the recycling station.