Lev Rosen - Depth

“I…” Peter walked around the desk to her side and looked down at her. “Look, I have a boat. A good sturdy one. You can take it. Get out of town for a while.”

“A while?”

“Until this blows over.”

“I’m not doing that.” Simone felt her spine straighten, her hands clench for a moment. “Did someone put you up to this? This Kluren or Linnea?”

“What? No, soldier, just me. Promise. I thought we could go together, if you…”

“Sorry,” Simone interrupted before he could finish. She stood, awkwardly close to him. “But no. I’m not going. Thanks, Peter.” She waved her hand at the door and turned away, but he caught her hand and pulled her back, forcefully. For a moment, she thought he was pulling her into him for a kiss, the way he used to, but he let go before she got close enough.

“Take the boat, Simone.”

Simone turned away again, wanting this conversation to be over. She took a few steps away but could still feel Peter behind her, the way he tensed up when he got upset.

“Damn it,” he said finally, his words half sigh, half explosion. “I’m trying to help you.”

Simone turned back around. “I know,” she said, studying him, the angle of his jaw as it clenched, the deep brown of his eyes. “But I just can’t, Peter. That’s not me.”

“Fine,” he said, his eyes flickering away from hers for a moment. He stepped closer to her and took her hand in his, carefully, and then squeezed it. She couldn’t tell if it was because he was angry or protective or both, but it was a firm squeeze, strong enough she could feel the bones in her fingers pressing together. “But be careful.”

“I always am,” she said. He let her hand drop and left, closing the door behind him. Simone locked it and turned back to the package on the receptionist’s desk. She sliced it open with a knife from the drawer. Inside was a 3D printer cartridge from Belleau Cosmetics—the fall sampler, capable of printing out “any two lipsticks, any two blushes, and any two eye shadows from the entire collection—hundreds of possibilities!” and a note:

Cops have been asking about you and about that meeting you were asking about. You should definitely try the sunset pearl. It’ll really make your mug shot pop. Good luck.

Simone sighed and knocked the package into the trash, then picked it out again and brought it to her office, where she put it on top of her 3D printer. Makeup was good for disguises sometimes. She remembered what Anika had told her—that The Blonde was peddling bullshit. And Anika was a smart woman; Simone trusted her judgment, usually—though she could have been lying, too, to throw Simone off the trail. No one else seemed to think it was bullshit. Not even Caroline.

At least Anika wasn’t holding her responsible for the cops’ questioning her. If Simone made it through all this, she didn’t want to lose a client.

She went to the bathroom and ran a bath. She shouldn’t have snapped at Peter or gotten so suspicious. She wasn’t sure who she could trust right now—not when even Caroline was hiding something.

Maybe Caroline didn’t know, Simone told herself, stepping into the water and sinking beneath it. Maybe she was just friends with a dangerous woman. Maybe she was in danger herself. But Simone couldn’t believe that. Caroline was the best judge of character Simone had ever seen; she saw through people and knew exactly what they were. She knew who she was dealing with. And that meant that she was as dangerous as The Blonde.

Simone held her breath under the water for as long as she could before coming up for air. It was always good to practice holding your breath. You never knew when you might end up going under.

DECOSTAS’ HOTEL WAS ONE of the cheap tourist places, moored with a big, flashy chain to one of the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge. The towers were a few stories over the water, the suspension cables still coming off them, like stage curtains sloping down into the water. At one point, someone had proposed using the bridge towers as the base for a new bridge, but there had been protests that it would ruin the view. Instead there were boats secured all along the side with bridges running between them, usually lined in tourists, taking photos of the headstone-like masonry.

When Simone showed up, deCostas was already on deck staring at the cables, which dripped with rust and seaweed. Simone glanced up at them but quickly looked away. She’d never liked the rusted cords; they reminded her too much of bloody rope. Instead, she let her eyes run down deCostas’ back to his ass and linger there for a moment before tapping him on the shoulder. He turned around, his face surprised for a moment, harder than Simone had seen it, but then it quickly melted into the usual flirtatious smile as he handed her one of the cups of coffee he was holding, still hot.

“You taking the price of that out of my fee?” Simone asked.

“It’s a gift,” deCostas said. “A thank-you for still being my guide after I stuck my nose where it did not belong.”

“Yeah,” Simone said, taking the coffee, “but if you think you can buy me back with a six-dollar coffee, you haven’t been paying attention to my fees.” She wasn’t really angry with him anymore. She’d known he was senseless when she took him along trailing The Blonde; what he’d hired her for had already proven that.

“I know. You saved my life.” He blew on his coffee, more slowly than necessary.

“She wasn’t going to shoot you.”

“How do you know?”

“She was making a point. If she’d shot you, I would have shot her, and maybe she would have dodged it, maybe not, but it wasn’t worth the risk for her.”

deCostas nodded and sipped his coffee. “Can I ask what you were talking about?”

“You can ask, but I won’t answer. Another case. Confidential.”

“I think you like keeping secrets.”

“Only the ones you’re curious about.” Simone smiled as she sipped her coffee. “But we can walk and flirt. We shouldn’t be late.” She turned and walked away, leaving him to catch up.

“What is this place? I thought One Wall Street was just a rental building.”

“It is… of a sort. It’s all run by Mr. Ryan. He rents the space to a lot of people.”

“A lot of people?”

“Yes.” deCostas had caught up to her, so she walked a little faster. “The floors have all been emptied out, nonbearing walls torn down—but historical embellishments preserved, like the marble floors. It’s a beautiful space—clean, open, well lit, totally protected. Mr. Ryan employs some serious muscle to keep it safe.”

“Why?”

“At night, various renters gather there and sell their wares in a… nonjudgmental environment.”

“You mean stolen goods?”

“Stolen, laundered, illegal. It’s a bazaar, a real black market. It’s where everyone goes to sell. People from all over the world come here because Mr. Ryan keeps it safe and organizes auctions for the more… unique items. He auctions them off personally, hiding the owner’s identity, issues invitations to those he knows can afford it and would want it, and he takes only a small cut of the profits. There are a million places in the city to buy illegal whatever. But if you want the good stuff, you go to One Wall Street.”

“And he’s going to let me throw something down the stairwell?”

“Mr. Ryan is powerful enough to be a generally nice guy. No one is going to mess with him, and if someone does, he’ll find out about it before anything bad happens, and then that person… well, he hires people for that. And he knows me. I’ve shown up as a representative for a buyer a few times, and he’s hired me as an extra pair of eyes in the auction room. He trusts me. Or at least, he’s unconcerned by me. And you.” Simone took a long drink of her coffee, but it was cold, so she threw it in the nearest trash can.