Lev Rosen - Depth

She knocked on the door, which was answered by a short woman, perhaps in her seventies, with small, burgundy curls and a drink in her hand. She smelled strongly of vodka.

“Oh,” the woman said. “The police said you might show up.” She turned around and walked back into her room, leaving the door open. Simone followed. Inside was a simple cabin with a bed, sofa, and side table. A dresser was doubling as a bar, covered in bottles and glasses. On the sofa was some knitting in bright-red yarn.

“Did they?” Simone asked.

“Oh yes,” the words caught in her throat, but Simone wasn’t sure if it was the beginning of a laugh or sob. “They said you were a detective and the prime suspect.”

“Mrs. St. Michel—” Simone began.

“Trixie,” she interrupted. “Call me Trixie. Stupid name. Like you’d give a dog.” She sat down and put her drink on the side table. She picked up the red swath of knitting and began to pick at it.

“If the police told you I’m a prime suspect, why let me in?” Simone asked.

“You didn’t do it,” Trixie said, exasperated as she struggled with the knitting. “I’m trying to take this apart. It was going to be a sweater. For Henry. But now…” She pulled at the yarn, and some of it gave, leaving her holding a long red loop out from the rest of the fabric. She smiled and looped the yarn around her wrist, pulling it and pulling it, trying to unravel the knitting. It snagged. “Do you want something to drink?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” Simone said. Trixie shrugged, plucking at the knitting again. This was sad. Even Simone could feel that. The smell of alcohol was as thick as the salt in the air outside. “So how do you know I didn’t do it?”

“Their theory is stupid. If Linnea wanted Henry dead she would have done it herself. She’s a hands-on type. Maybe she did kill him. I don’t know. Wouldn’t surprise me.” Trixie didn’t look up but kept picking at the knitting, her fingers like pecking birds. “But she wouldn’t have someone else do it. That would be… too messy for her. All that money. She could have hired so many maids and cooks, but she couldn’t stand watching people do things wrong. She never let me help when I came over for dinner. Not even set the table. She’d kill Henry herself. And not until after they’d sold the art, anyway. Henry was going to run off with the money by himself. Wasn’t even going to take me. He said he’d write. Who runs away from his mother?”

“A lot of people,” Simone said. Trixie snorted a laugh, then put down the knitting and picked up her drink again. “What art were they going to sell?”

Trixie took a long drink before answering and put the glass back down on the table. “Some old piece of art Henry dredged up from storage. Linnea said it was worth millions, and she had some idea… Henry didn’t tell me much. He just said it was going to make him a fortune, and he was going to run away with it and leave Linnea. Called it his Mona Lisa . He said he’d send me a message when he was safe, that he’d set up a bank account for me.” She picked up the knitting again and tried pulling out another strand of yarn. With a yank, part of it became unknitted and several bright red lines twisted away from her hands. “But I guess Linnea had the same thing planned, and she was better prepared. Linnea was always well prepared.”

Simone nodded. “Do you recognize this woman?” she asked, showing Trixie a photo of The Blonde. “Maybe her name is Misty?”

Trixie shook her head. “No. Who is she?”

“I saw her with your son, the night before he died.”

“She’s not his type. He likes dark hair. And he never mentioned anyone named Misty. I’d remember. Worse than Trixie.” She finished her drink and got up and poured herself another.

“Is there anything else you can think of?” Simone asked. “Anyone who’d want to hurt him besides Linnea?”

Trixie turned around, her glass refilled, and locked eyes with Simone as she downed the alcohol in one long drink. Simone watched the soft skin of her neck and chin bob as she swallowed. Then she put her glass down and refilled it, and sat down again. She picked up the red yarn and began pulling at it again.

“Well, thank you for your help,” Simone said, and made for the door.

“Are you going to find Linnea?” Trixie asked, still picking at her knitting.

“I hope so.”

“I hope when you do you’ll gut her for me. Gut her from neck to cunt and throw her overboard for the fish to eat.”

OUTSIDE, THE SUN WAS lowering towards the horizon. Simone started walking home. It was a long walk downtown, but she was in the mood for a long walk. The smell of the booze in Trixie’s room clung to her hair, and she kept imagining the red yarn in her hands and her mother’s red hair. Trixie seemed to be right about Linnea’s betrayal, but then why hire Simone? Was Simone just the fall guy? And who was The Blonde?

She had a message from Caroline asking if she wanted to get drinks, but Simone didn’t respond to it. She didn’t want to think about Caroline or about Caroline talking with the woman who had pointed a gun at her. She pushed that to the side and thought about deCostas instead. Much sweeter thoughts to be had there. Back on that case, she sent off a message to Mr. Ryan, who owned the next building on the list, telling him about deCostas and his request to see the stairwell. Mr. Ryan wrote back promptly, as he always did, saying he would be there to greet them at 9 a.m., sharp. You weren’t late when Mr. Ryan was doing you a favor.

When she got home, someone was waiting in her office. She could see the shadow through the glass in the door. Simone sighed. It had been a long day with a lot of questions and not many answers, and all she wanted was to get into the bath. She took out her gun and held it at her side. Just in case.

She found Peter sitting in front of the empty receptionist’s desk, dressed in uniform, his hat in his lap. There was a package on the desk in front of him.

“Oh,” Simone said when she recognized him, and holstered her gun. She turned away and took her hat off to hang on the coatrack.

“Expecting someone else?” Peter asked, standing behind her. Simone looked down at her hat, still holding it. It felt off somehow. Peter was stepping closer to her. She quickly felt around the brim, and tucked inside found a small tracker. Dash . She was annoyed with herself for not noticing it earlier. She pocketed the tracker and hung up her hat and coat, turning just as Peter had gotten in arm’s reach of her.

“You my mailman now?” Simone asked, nodding at the package on the desk.

“No,” Peter said. “Some messenger dropped it off. I just signed for it. I figured that was okay. I’ve done it before.”

Before when he spent most nights here. Before she asked for his key back.

“If you’re here to arrest me, can I take a bath first?” she asked.

“No,” Peter said, looking down. “I just wanted to let you know that Kluren knows you’ve been poking around, interviewing Mrs. Freth and Mrs. St. Michel. She’s not happy. If there were enough evidence, she would lock you up right now.” He looked down at the space between them.

“Lucky me.” Simone stepped to the side and sat behind the nonexistent receptionist’s desk.

“So you must know by now that everything points to murder for hire.”

“And I’m the hire. I know. But I don’t do that, Peter, you know that.”

“Yeah, and so does Kluren, I think. It’s why she’s so angry. She’s a good cop, normally. Even a nice one. But with you… She’ll pin it to you if she can make it stick.”

“Which I knew already.” Simone tucked her hair behind her ears. Her neck hurt, and she wanted to rub it or crack it, but not in front of him. “So why are you here?”