in the darkness.
At home she changed out of her wet things and toweled off her skin. She sent out Henry’s photo to Danny and other contacts, asking them to keep an eye out. She had no other moves until Linnea called her back to say her husband was alive, or Henry’s face showed up on the recycling website. She confirmed Henry’s blood type was O positive. It didn’t tell her anything. And the photos she’d taken of the shadow approaching the building were just blurs, even enhanced with the night filter.
Simone had seen many deaths in her years as a PI and had long ago learned to compartmentalize. The death of her client’s husband was a mystery to be solved, not a loss to be mourned. She leaned back in her chair, put her feet on the desk, and tried calling Linnea again. Voicemail. Simone left another message. She stretched her arms out behind her head. A message from Danny came in on her touchdesk. It was a video with a note attached: “Is this her on the right?”
The video was taken off a security cam, but high quality, a clear image panning back and forth. It was the interior of Delmonico’s, all dark-green carpets, brown leather, and dim chandeliers. Caroline had taken Simone there after the first big case she’d done for her. It was out of Simone’s price range to even stop in there for a drink unless someone else was picking up the tab.
On the right side of the image, panning in and out of view, was a woman with blonde hair to just above her shoulders sitting alone at a table. But it was just the back of her head. Simone wasn’t sure it was The Blonde, instead of a blonde. But she trusted Danny and kept her eyes on her and, sure enough, when she next panned into view, she stood and shook hands with another woman who had just walked over to the table. In profile, it was clearly The Blonde. She was shaking hands with a tall black woman in a sapphire-blue cape coat and a skirt to just below the knee. Simone couldn’t make out her face before the camera panned away, though she had a guess. When the camera panned back, her guess was confirmed: Anika Bainbridge was sitting at the table.
She sent a thank-you back to Danny and then dialed up Anika. Straight to voicemail. Not unexpected. As a vice-president of Belleau, the second largest commercial cosmetics company in the world, she was a busy woman. Technically she oversaw foreign sales (which were most sales), but the city was considered outside the mainland, and Anika was a native New Yorker, so she’d set up her offices here. She’d once told Simone she went to the mainland only as long as she needed to. She didn’t intend to live anywhere else again. But she was always flying around—the mainland, the EU, Africa—doing whatever it was that she did. Simone wasn’t totally sure. But she had hired Simone for some corporate espionage on several occasions and paid well. Simone liked her. She was cold but sensible, and Simone liked to think that if she’d been more ambitious, she might have ended up like Anika. She wasn’t sure Anika felt the same way—they’d never clicked, gone out for drinks or anything—but Simone thought maybe that was just because she had never asked.
Simone had never read Anika as the violent type, though. She’d always seemed to find violence distasteful; if she couldn’t achieve what she wanted through scheming alone, she’d just walk away. But maybe Simone was wrong about that.
“Hi, Anika,” Simone said into the voicemail. “It’s Simone Pierce. I was hoping you could give me a call sometime soon. I have something I’d like to ask you. Thanks.” Keep it vague. Hopefully Anika would call back. She was the closest thing Simone had to a lead on any of this.
There wasn’t anything to do now, unless she wanted to call the cops. And she didn’t. So she lit a cigarette and smoked it near the window, looking out at the darkness punctuated only by the sickly green of algae generators and their paler reflections,
At home she changed out of her wet things and toweled off her skin. She sent out Henry’s photo to Danny and other contacts, asking them to keep an eye out. She had no other moves until Linnea called her back to say her husband was alive, or Henry’s face showed up on the recycling website. She confirmed Henry’s blood type was O positive. It didn’t tell her anything. And the photos she’d taken of the shadow approaching the building were just blurs, even enhanced with the night filter.
Simone had seen many deaths in her years as a PI and had long ago learned to compartmentalize. The death of her client’s husband was a mystery to be solved, not a loss to be mourned. She leaned back in her chair, put her feet on the desk, and tried calling Linnea again. Voicemail. Simone left another message. She stretched her arms out behind her head. A message from Danny came in on her touchdesk. It was a video with a note attached: “Is this her on the right?”
The video was taken off a security cam, but high quality, a clear image panning back and forth. It was the interior of Delmonico’s, all dark-green carpets, brown leather, and dim chandeliers. Caroline had taken Simone there after the first big case she’d done for her. It was out of Simone’s price range to even stop in there for a drink unless someone else was picking up the tab.
On the right side of the image, panning in and out of view, was a woman with blonde hair to just above her shoulders sitting alone at a table. But it was just the back of her head. Simone wasn’t sure it was The Blonde, instead of a blonde. But she trusted Danny and kept her eyes on her and, sure enough, when she next panned into view, she stood and shook hands with another woman who had just walked over to the table. In profile, it was clearly The Blonde. She was shaking hands with a tall black woman in a sapphire-blue cape coat and a skirt to just below the knee. Simone couldn’t make out her face before the camera panned away, though she had a guess. When the camera panned back, her guess was confirmed: Anika Bainbridge was sitting at the table.
She sent a thank-you back to Danny and then dialed up Anika. Straight to voicemail. Not unexpected. As a vice-president of Belleau, the second largest commercial cosmetics company in the world, she was a busy woman. Technically she oversaw foreign sales (which were most sales), but the city was considered outside the mainland, and Anika was a native New Yorker, so she’d set up her offices here. She’d once told Simone she went to the mainland only as long as she needed to. She didn’t intend to live anywhere else again. But she was always flying around—the mainland, the EU, Africa—doing whatever it was that she did. Simone wasn’t totally sure. But she had hired Simone for some corporate espionage on several occasions and paid well. Simone liked her. She was cold but sensible, and Simone liked to think that if she’d been more ambitious, she might have ended up like Anika. She wasn’t sure Anika felt the same way—they’d never clicked, gone out for drinks or anything—but Simone thought maybe that was just because she had never asked.
Simone had never read Anika as the violent type, though. She’d always seemed to find violence distasteful; if she couldn’t achieve what she wanted through scheming alone, she’d just walk away. But maybe Simone was wrong about that.
“Hi, Anika,” Simone said into the voicemail. “It’s Simone Pierce. I was hoping you could give me a call sometime soon. I have something I’d like to ask you. Thanks.” Keep it vague. Hopefully Anika would call back. She was the closest thing Simone had to a lead on any of this.
There wasn’t anything to do now, unless she wanted to call the cops. And she didn’t. So she lit a cigarette and smoked it near the window, looking out at the darkness punctuated only by the sickly green of algae generators and their paler reflections,
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