Lev Rosen - Depth

“I don’t think I can help you,” he said. Simone gave up the act. She wasn’t getting any information without a name.

“Not even if I give you a nice tip?” she asked. The man lifted his nose and turned away from her slightly. She sighed. “Can you at least tell me if I should stake this place out or if she’s in for the night?” she asked in her normal voice.

“I don’t think loitering would be a very good use of your time, do you?” The receptionist continued to smile. He was almost unreadable, but Simone could tell he was one question away from calling security.

“Thanks,” she said, and left. That was a bust.

Next she headed a few blocks east to the Khan townhouse. It was dark now. The ocean was calm the way it was just after sunset. The fog was so heavy she couldn’t see clear outlines more than five feet ahead of her. Neon lights diffused in the mist, their advertisements unreadable, the color like the last moments of a dying fireworks display, mingling with the light from the algae and the darkness of the water. Simone took out a cigarette and lit it, pausing far enough away from the townhouse that she could see the light through the windows as inverted inkblots against the night. She smoked and leaned on a railing, staring at the mix of dark and light. The water below her was like a black mirror, reflecting back bits of her: a slice of face, a cutting of hair, the corner of a trench coat.

What the fuck was Caroline into? She’d met with The Blonde, who’d also met with the now-dead Henry, with Anika, and maybe with Pastor Sorenson. She’d pointed a gun at Simone. Linnea had vanished. Linnea and Henry had been about to make a score, were trying to auction off a piece, but then changed their minds. Maybe it was a sales deal; instead of auctioning it with Mr. Ryan, they had The Blonde act as seller. That made sense. She was meeting with rich, connected people. So it must be valuable art. Although Anika had said it wasn’t.

And Henry and Linnea had enough Foam to last an addict a good year. Was the art a cover for drugs? Was everyone just saying art when they meant the Foam? Mr. Ryan wouldn’t be that interested if it were just drugs, though. She knew he found drugs distasteful. So did Anika. And Caroline never touched the stuff. Simone couldn’t figure out what the connections were. And it bothered her that one of the few people she trusted was somehow involved. Bothered wasn’t a strong enough word. It disturbed her. She tried to tell herself it was just a minor meeting, two people bumping into each other on the street, but she’d seen those photos of Caroline and The Blonde. It was more than that. They were friendly, they were involved. It made her wonder who Caroline was, and if Simone didn’t know that, then who was she ? The detective who had always prided herself on knowing a person’s character ten seconds into a conversation—had Caroline been laughing at her this whole time, playing the role of privileged but brilliant, ambitious but careful, lawful but… ? Simone didn’t know. She turned away from her broken reflection on the water and leaned back on the railing.

Simone acknowledged that, objectively, she was a cold person. Not cruel, but distant from her emotions. Her father had taught her that. Simone had refused to speak to him or anyone else for a week after her mother left. Her father had tucked her in every night and told her to think about why she was angry, or sad, about what she missed. One night, Simone had finally opened her mouth and told him she had figured it out: She was upset because she had never expected her mother to leave.

“Well, from now on, don’t try to expect or not expect anything,” her father had told her. “Then there won’t be any surprises, and you’ll never be sad.”

Simone had tried to follow that advice, but as a detective, she had to make guesses, assumptions, figure people out—what they would do and why. He had taught her that, too, but he told her that making a guess and expecting to be right were two different things. It was a clear distinction: mind and heart. Your heart wanted to believe a guess would be right. The mind just wondered if it would be. A mind was never disappointed, always curious. It was what made a good detective: no expectations, no surprises, the ability to guess without getting so caught up in one guess that she didn’t see any other options. Open mind, closed everything else.

It’s why she’d never had many friends, it’s why she tended to stop seeing a guy after they’d had sex, it’s why she’d left Peter after he’d told her he thought maybe they should get married. She thought she had been doing a good job. She hadn’t realized how she’d come to assume so much about Caroline—that she would always have Simone’s back, that she kept her nose clean, and that her hands were only dirty from cleaning up other people’s messes.

Simone let the cigarette fall into the water. Her earpiece buzzed, telling her there was an incoming call from deCostas. She ignored it. Instead she walked closer to the Khan townhouse. She walked slowly, her hands in her pockets, not quite creeping. The fog was a little thinner here, and she could see farther. All the lights on the top floor were on, and she could see someone’s shadow walking back and forth. After a moment, the figure stopped and leaned out the window. Simone stared up at her, at Caroline, wearing only a white bra, her hair streaming around her like shadows. She looked out the window at the city, not below at Simone. She took a deep breath. Was she worried? Satisfied?

Simone walked farther away, out of earshot but where she could still see Caroline, leaning out the window. She told her phone to call Caroline. It rang twice, and Caroline left the window, then came back to it and touched her ear.

“Hey,” Caroline said. “It has been a long week.”

“Yeah. Look, Caroline—”

“You’re not going to cancel on me for tomorrow, are you? ’Cause I really need to blow off some steam.” In the window, Caroline rolled her shoulders, and her hair shimmered with the motion. She sounded tired.

“No,” Simone said. “Still on. I told you I invited Danny too, right?”

“Oh? Okay. I gotta grill him about what he’s been telling the mayor’s wife, anyway.”

“No ambushes,” Simone said, forcing a chuckle. “He’s airtight.” She marveled at how easy it was to talk to Caroline as though everything were normal, at how quickly she forgot and trusted her again.

“Fine, fine. But I can make sly insinuations that make him nervous, can’t I?”

“I would never take that away from you.”

Caroline laughed, then took a deep breath. In the window, Simone saw her stretch.

“Everything okay by you? I’ve been reading some stuff in the police reports that have me a little worried.”

“I can handle it. Just the usual nonsense, plus Kluren and all the delights that come with her.”

“Okay. But if you feel a drop, I’m your umbrella, right?”

“Right.” Simone smiled.

“Good. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow. And be prepared to lose, ’cause I am going to strike those motherfucking pins every time.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Don’t need to remind myself of something I know is true. ’Night. Sweet dreams.”

“Good night.”

Simone clicked her phone off and watched Caroline stare out the window a moment longer, then relax her body over the windowsill, head down, hair pouring off her like water. Then she straightened up and went back into the house. The lights went out. Simone stayed, watching the house for a while longer. The water under her got choppier as the moon rose, and soon there was the feeling of spray hitting her in the face and the sound of waves crashing around her.