Lev Rosen - Depth

Mr. Ryan stood and walked around the statue, regarding it.

“His early coral work is more daring. More beautiful,” he said. “After this, he becomes just another coral sculptor. Early for the technique, yes, but not exciting. Not interesting. A shame.”

“What does that have to do with his art being something else?” Simone asked.

“He started as a painter, you know,” Mr. Ryan continued, as though Simone hadn’t said anything. “In general, I actually prefer his paintings. They weren’t just paintings; they were almost mixed media.”

“But—” Simone tried to interrupt, but before she could speak, Mr. Ryan brought his cane down on the floor in a loud thud.

“I promised you an art history lesson, Simone,” he said quietly. “I’m giving you one because I saw in your eyes a genuine interest and appreciation when you looked at the painting downstairs. I saw you become, for just a moment, something more. I saw it again when you looked at Circe here. That’s something art does to some people. Not many, unfortunately. But I saw it in you, and I want to encourage it. I’m not here to solve your problems or solve your cases or give you some vital clue.” He paused, and his face softened, his voice became lighter and smooth, like the oil coating a frying pan. “Unless, of course, you’d care to give me something in return?”

“Something like what?”

“There’s an item coming into the city in a month or so. I want it. Would you be willing to retrieve it for me?”

“Like an escort?” Simone asked, but she knew that wasn’t what he meant. He shook his head.

“Like a thief, Ms. Pierce,” he said. Simone took another sip of her wine.

“I’d like to hear more about Reinel,” she said softly.

“As I was saying, I prefer Mr. Reinel’s paintings. Generally. Circe is certainly more impressive than any of his early paintings, but he had a style in his brushwork: hard, glamorous. Common people he met on the street looked like movie stars. And they were fused into objects around them—hair turns into streets on a map, lips become bridges.”

“Maps?” Simone asked. Mr. Ryan’s lips turned up at this, but then he shook his head slightly, as if a little sad.

“His early work involved taking photos with an old-fashioned smartphone. This was just when the water was rising. He’d mark on his map the place where the photo was taken. In his studio, he would project both these images over each other, onto a canvas, and from that he would paint. He would combine the scene and the map. And then he’d spray the whole thing with Privilux, so no one could take a photo of it. He said it was about art from media; but media from art from media was one too many layers. He needed his work to be appreciated in person.”

“So he painted a scene with a map, and it couldn’t be photographed,” Simone said, standing. “It’s a treasure map.”

Mr. Ryan sighed with disappointment. “Do you want an art history lesson, Ms. Pierce, or do you want to solve the case?”

Simone stared at Circe. “I want both, Mr. Ryan. That’s the truth. But I need to solve the case first. Can you tell me what Linnea’s Reinel was a map to?”

“Are you willing to pick up the object next month?”

Simone shook her head. “But I’ll work security for you—free.”

“It’s my job to know the value of a thing,” Mr. Ryan said, shaking his head. “This information is worth more.”

“It is,” Simone agreed. She needed to know what the map led to. She felt suddenly so close, as though there was merely one more wall to be scaled. “Can I get back to you?”

“You’re going to go try to figure it out yourself, you mean, and if you can’t, then you’ll come back to me?”

“Yes.” Simone saw no point in lying to him.

“I’ll allow that, but you’re giving me that free security no matter what. Five nights’ worth.”

“Two,” Simone said.

“Let’s just say three then,” Mr. Ryan said. “And you will come back for a real art history lesson. I miss having people to share my collection with. I miss seeing that look. That look used to be like home for me.”

“I promise,” Simone said. She reached out and shook Mr. Ryan’s hand. “And thank you.”

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I won’t wish you luck. In fact, I hope you have to come back to me. I would very much like that object, and Mr. Ormond’s rates keep going up. Besides, he’s so much less pleasant than you.”

“Everyone is less pleasant than me,” Simone said, downing the last of her wine in one gulp. She put the glass down on the bar.

“There are degrees, though.” Mr. Ryan opened his mouth as if to say something else but closed it again, then extended his arm for Simone to take. “Let’s take the elevator down together, shall we?”

Simone was silent as they walked through the hallway, reminded again of her father.

“You thought my father was scared, the time we came to see you?” Simone asked as they got in the elevator.

“Oh yes. Terrified. I’m familiar with the look.”

“I never thought he was afraid of anything.” The elevator plummeted downward.

“That’s probably how it should be with fathers and daughters,” Mr. Ryan said. Simone remembered the flash of red on her father’s temple when she found him, like a button oddly sewn onto the leather of his remaining skin.

“Probably,” she said. The doors opened on the lobby, which was now fully alive. The people who had been waiting furtively outside prowled the hall, going from stall to stall—the empty frames now plush, silk-lined tents, like some sort of ancient bazaar. It smelled of gunpowder and spice, bitter and acidic and dusty all at once. People spoke softly, but there were enough of them so that it was like a cool murmur blending with the waves outside. When customers wanted to buy something—an antique pistol or a pound of un–genetically modified peanuts—they flashed their wristpieces and transferred money directly into the seller’s account. Money was moved around, but nothing was bought on paper, so no taxes applied. The system had been put into place by the mainland to help the very wealthy manage their finances, but it worked well for the black market as well. This sort of thing couldn’t exist on the mainland. All it would take was one loyal citizen calling it in, and everyone would go to prison. Too risky, there. In New York, no one cared. It was part of doing business.

“I don’t suppose you’re looking to buy anything tonight?” Mr. Ryan asked, dropping his arm. “We have a few art dealers in.”

“I can’t afford any of this, and you know it,” Simone said. “And besides, I’m late. I need to get to church.”

Mr. Ryan clutched at his chest as though having a heart attack. Simone almost leapt to help him before she realized he was joking.

“A pastor wants to see me. Don’t worry, if he tries to reform me, it won’t take.”

“I should hope not.”

“Thanks again, Mr. Ryan. I’ll be back for the next lesson.”

“And for that free security you promised. I’ll send you the dates.”

“Sure,” Simone said, shaking his hand before taking off for the door. The crowd was getting thicker as she walked, and people pressed up against her in a surge before she could get outside.

THE SUN WAS HALFWAY into the ocean, a gold semicircle burning through the layers of gray fog. Simone still had some time. It was a good thing Sorenson had wanted this meeting at night—although that meant he wanted it after most of his parishioners and staff had cleared out. Simone walked to the end of the bridge leading away from the black market, weaving her way through the people heading in the opposite direction.