Lev Rosen - Depth

People lied, people cheated, people were never what they seemed, never simple, and rarely good. These were things her father had taught her every day. Why had she forgotten when it came to Caroline?

The response came back almost immediately, since Danny was always hooked to his messaging: “Outside the Four Seasons. I was going through the security camera footage from a pho shop across the bridge to check if a certain someone met a certain someone else there, and I stumbled on your girl. I zoomed in for you and cleaned it up. But this is great, right? Now you can just ask Caroline who she is.”

Simone smiled at his innocence.

“No,” she wrote back, “I can’t. And neither can you. I need to find out what her involvement with all this is before I confront her with anything. If she’s part of this in some way, I have to figure out exactly how. Otherwise, it could be a trap. She might want to use me to find my client or some other reason. So don’t you dare mention to her that we’ve seen this photo. I’m serious.”

Another response came back a moment later: “Anyone ever tell you you have trust issues?”

Simone lit a cigarette. She wouldn’t be responding. But now she felt fairly sure that The Blonde was staying at the Four Seasons and, more importantly, that she was meeting people there. Maybe clients? Was Caroline a client? Anika had said she was selling something—peddling bullshit. But what would Anika, Caroline, and Henry all be in the market for? And why would that lead to Henry’s death? He didn’t have whatever The Blonde was selling—not if she was still going around selling it.

Simone clenched her jaw and looked at the photos again, willing them to stop making her body feel creaking and slimy. Willing their significance away. She knew the staff of the Four Seasons well enough to know they were hard to crack. Their only security cameras were in the lobby, and she still didn’t know The Blonde’s name, so the best she could do would be to go to the front desk, present a photo, and ask what room she was in. And Simone knew that she would be shut down right then and asked to leave, and that The Blonde would be warned. Better to be less direct until she was desperate. She would stake the Four Seasons out and, if she was lucky, The Blonde would show up and maybe meet with someone. Then Simone could start getting some information.

She stubbed out what was left of her cigarette, then showered and dressed, bought a newspage and a fresh pack of cigarettes on her way to the Four Seasons, and settled in. There was a café on a small boat just down the bridge from the hotel, so she sat there, and ordered a coffee. She read the news first swipe to last. She used the dicta feature on her earpiece to send out a few messages and listened to others—an automated job offer from a corporate espionage company, Henry St. Michel’s finances from Danny, and then, curiously, a message from Pastor Sorenson: “Dear Miss Pierce, I have the papers I would like your client to sign. If you could stop by in person on Sunday night to retrieve them, without your client, I would be most appreciative.”

Interesting. Simone blew smoke out of her mouth and sipped from her third coffee. deCostas didn’t really need to sign any release forms—he’d already dropped his marble. But Sorenson had said without her client. He wanted something.

She spent the next few hours watching the hotel while going over Henry St. Michel’s finances. The holo-projection from her earpiece could only create a small, flickering screen, so that took a while and gave her very little information. He’d taken out a lot of cash recently, but before then, his accounts were steady. He clearly wasn’t rich, and the business wasn’t thriving, but he was surviving in the city, which was more than a lot of people could say. Linnea’s finances were separate; Danny had tried to access them, but they were behind a heavily encrypted server that would take a while to crack. Simone told him not to bother. There was nothing here.

She’d been watching the hotel, camera at the ready, for nearly four hours. The Blonde hadn’t showed, and she had other things to investigate. And now a private meeting with Sorenson to wonder about. Maybe The Blonde had already checked out, or maybe Simone had been spotted and The Blonde had cancelled her plans to avoid being seen. Waiting and patience were part of a good detective’s job, but so was adaptability. There were other alleys of investigation to go down. Simone stubbed out her cigarette and left the newspage behind.

HENRY AND LOU’S BUSINESS didn’t look different from the outside. Henry’s name hadn’t been removed; there wasn’t a sign that said “Closed due to death of a partner.” Simone knocked and went in without waiting for an answer.

Inside didn’t show the signs of a hasty exodus that Simone had half-expected. No frantic Lou packing up goods in messy balls of plastic wrap and cardboard. It was the same as before. Lou sat at the same desk, a cigarette drooping from her mouth. It smelled good—real tobacco. Simone wondered how she could afford it. Wondered if she’d share. She looked up when Simone came in.

“Oh, it’s you.”

Simone walked closer to Lou.

“The cops said I shouldn’t talk to you,” Lou said, standing. “Said you weren’t whoever you said, from Canada. Said you’re a shamus and you helped Henry take his last drink.”

“That last one is a lie,” Simone said. “I want to find out who killed Henry.”

“That’s nice.” Lou took the cigarette from her mouth. She blew smoke out through her nose.

“You don’t seem too broken up over the death of your partner.” Simone sat down in the chair across from Lou.

“That’s a dumb line,” Lou leaned back in her chair. Simone stared until she looked away and started talking again. “Henry was a good guy. He worked for my husband, before he died. I liked the kid, but he wasn’t family. He was always closer with my husband.” She didn’t talk about Henry as though he were her son, Simone thought. More like he was a family pet.

“So who would have killed him? Was he working on anything big?”

“I told you the cops told me not to talk to you.”

“If you really cared what the cops thought you would have called them the moment I came in.”

Lou barked a laugh. “Fair enough.”

“So was he working on anything?”

“Nothing abnormal. You can look at his desk calendar if you want. The cops took his touchdesk server, but he kept everything on paper, too—people get old-fashioned in our business.” She gestured with her cigarette towards Henry’s desk. “Why are you even on this, anyway?”

“Linnea hired me,” Simone said, standing and walking over to Henry’s desk. “She thought he was cheating.”

Lou laughed again. “Cheating? They may not have cared much for each other anymore, but he wasn’t fool enough to cheat. Linnea was the one with the money.”

“What makes you think they didn’t care for each other?” Simone flipped through the calendar, finding the night he was shot. Usual business stuff was written down, but at the bottom of the page was the name Misty and “7 p.m.” No address. No last name. Simone took out her camera and shot a photo.

“Oh, nothing specific. He didn’t talk about her much; sometimes he sounded tense on the phone with her. But he didn’t confide in me. You should ask his mother.”

“His mother?”

“Trixie. She’s uptown, on the Paradise —you know, the cruise ship they made into an old-age home? Tasteless name. When I was younger I thought it was so tasteless it was funny. Now, just tasteless.”

“I know it.”

“It’s like a prison for people like me. I wouldn’t be caught dead on one of those. I’m still in the same apartment my husband and I bought before the water started rising.”