Lev Rosen - Depth

“You know a lot of people.”

“It’s my job. This city is a web of important people and favors and secrets. I need to know those people, be owed those favors, and keep those secrets. Otherwise I’m not worth what you’re paying me.”

“Do you charge more than most detectives in the city?”

“Yeah, but I’m worth it, aren’t I?” She shot him a sidelong glance. He was grinning. Simone did charge more than most, but there weren’t many to compare her to. In the whole city, there were maybe a dozen private detectives. And they were all good. There were always a couple more who opened up shop every other month, but they were gone within a week or two—found by the recycling boats or, if they were lucky, making waves back to the mainland when they realized they were in over their heads. Simone had been around a long time, and she had inherited her father’s business, so she thought she was probably one of the best. Her and Dash. And neither of them could find Linnea. She couldn’t still be in the city, could she?

Mr. Ryan had preserved the outside of One Wall Street like a picture postcard. It was a perfect monolith. Straight angles, evenly spaced windows, rising fifty stories high from the bottom of the ocean, twenty-nine above water. Deco designs framed every window, gold lines against the gray stone. It could have been an incredibly elegant tomb. No one went in or out during the day, and there was just one narrow steel bridge to the small doorway. It was almost invisible in the shadow of the Freedom Tower complex, with its condos and fancy barge-parks where the wealthy walked their dogs.

Simone walked down the bridge, motioning deCostas to stay behind her. There was a small buzzer next to the closed door, surrounded by more gold lines. Simone rang it once. The door opened to a woman who filled the frame completely. She was tall, broad, and not smiling.

“We don’t open until after sunset,” she said.

“My name is Simone Pierce, this is Alejandro deCostas. Mr. Ryan is expecting us.”

The woman nodded, apparently unsurprised, and stepped aside to let them pass. Inside was a wide hallway. The whole area was tiled in pink-and-black marble. She closed the door behind them.

“You’re ten minutes early,” she said.

“I know how Mr. Ryan hates people to be late,” Simone said. “We’ll wait for him.” The woman didn’t say anything but stepped in front of the closed door. Motioning deCostas to follow her, Simone walked down the hallway, which led to a large room. It was spotlight-bright, sun pouring in through huge windows, reflecting off marble tiles and bouncing everywhere like an insect trapped in a jar. Simone could hear the soft patter of the waves against the windows. The room was entirely empty except for the elevators and two stairwell doors. A single painting hung opposite the elevators. Simone walked over to get a closer look. She had never been in One Wall Street during the day. Usually it was so crowded with people, she’d never even noticed the painting.

“I thought there would be stalls or shops or something,” deCostas said.

“Everyone brings their own setup. They clean up their own problems that way,” Simone said, looking at the painting. It wasn’t particularly large—perhaps three-and-a-half feet tall and four-and-a-half wide—and was framed in the same gilded color as the window adornments. It was a subtle sort of painting. Simone understood why she had passed over it before, but now it drew her in.

It was yellow, golden really, and showed an ancient port at sunset. There were ships coming in, moored right next to the stone docks that cropped out of great columns. Not really docks, actually. Just… a courtyard. Framed by the sea on one side. Across from that were more columns, like the walls of a building emerging from the ocean. People were everywhere, not minding the ships parked around them.

“Claude Lorrain,” came a voice, echoing across the empty room. Simone turned. Mr. Ryan was a narrow, elegantly dressed man, with a shaved head and a thin line of a mustache. She had never seen him wearing anything besides a tailored suit, complete with pocket square, and today was no different. He had a faint accent—something European, maybe, or pretending to be European. He smiled at Simone. “Please, keep admiring it. That is what it is there for. But I am afraid people get so caught up in the goings-on that they never even notice.”

Simone turned around again, staring at the painting. Mr. Ryan stepped up next to her, and they looked at it together. She could feel herself looking to where his eyes looked, trying to take in what he was seeing. “It was painted in the 1630s or ’40s. Lorrain was a landscape painter—very influential. Painters copied his style for generations. He painted many seaports, but this one is my favorite, so I took pains to acquire it. I love the light, the liveliness of it. It’s like a city on water. Perhaps it makes me happy to know that we are not the first.” He sighed happily as though this were a private joke between Simone and him. “It has two titles. Some call it The Return of Odysseus , and some call it Odysseus Returns Chryseis to Her Father . In the former case, it would be after the Trojan War, at the end of The Odyssey , when Odysseus finally returns home to his ever-faithful wife, Penelope, strings his bow, and slays her suitors…. In the case of the latter, it would be one of the first acts of contrition during the Trojan War, as Agamemnon has Odysseus deliver the captured Chryseis to her father to end a plague. But it just makes the war longer and bloodier. It could be about a man giving in to the gods, or it could be about one returning home after triumphing over them. I like that about it, too.”

“I’m sorry I never noticed it before,” Simone said. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you’ve noticed it now.”

“It looks like New York would, if things were simpler.”

“It is either the beginning or end of a war, Ms. Pierce. Surely that is just as complex as now?”

“In war, you’re given orders,” Simone said. “Here, you just make them up for yourself.”

Mr. Ryan ran his thumb over his chin, considering. “Maybe so, but we are not here for art history lessons or philosophical debates. This is your Mr. deCostas?” deCostas had been standing back and away from them, as if wary.

“It is. He just wants to see the stairwell and drop one of his devices down it. Show Mr. Ryan the device.”

deCostas pulled one of the small marble devices from his jacket pocket and held it up. Mr. Ryan approached and examined it without taking it.

“How do I know it isn’t a bomb?”

“Because I’m sure one of your detectors in the hallway would have told you if it was. How many do you have now? Twenty-six?” Mr. Ryan smiled but waved a finger at her.

“It would be foolish for me to tell you that. But you are correct. I know the device has a wireless signal, but it does not convert audio or visual data, so I see no reason to keep it from the bottom of the ocean. Come!” He clapped his hands. “Let me show you the stairs.” He walked them over to the stairwell and opened the door. It wasn’t even locked. Mr. Ryan probably never had to worry about anyone getting as far as the stairs. The stairwell itself was like the rest of the building—pristine and cleanly ornate. Even the water lapping against the stairs seemed cleaner somehow. deCostas stepped forward and knelt down to examine the water while Simone and Mr. Ryan hung back in the doorway.

“Was there something else you wanted, Ms. Pierce?” Mr. Ryan asked, sotto voce. Simone shook her head. “I have heard that you are Linnea St. Michel’s assistant these days.”

“Some people seem to think so,” Simone answered carefully. What did the St. Michel case have to do with Mr. Ryan?