the majority. We heathens are the majority.”
“Heathens?”
“Sorenson’s favorite word. He’s not a bad guy, aside from the religion.”
“So, any thoughts on getting into the Tower? I was thinking we could go as curious potential converts—”
“No. Just ask him.”
Simone stretched her legs out and put them up on the desk. “Really?”
“Tell him you’re deCostas’ personal assistant trying to set up an inspection to see the stairwell, see that the water is there. Drop my name, if you’d like. Don’t mention the detective thing. There isn’t going to be a dry stairwell, so Sorenson won’t mind you seeing it.”
“That easy?”
“He’s really an okay guy. You’ll probably get preached at a little. Tell him you’re an occasional churchgoer. He knows that’s the best they can hope for out here. Pick a church, though, he’ll ask you which one.”
“Great. I thought this one would be hard.”
“Not with me on your side.”
“Just don’t tell deCostas. I don’t want him figuring out he didn’t need me for this.”
“Fair deal. I’m putting on my jacket now. Meet me at Rosie’s in twenty?” Simone sighed. Rosie’s was a greasy diner Caroline loved and Simone tolerated. “I believe my information has earned me the right to a bloodstained meal of my choosing.”
“Fair enough. I could do with a burger.”
“See you in twenty.”
She went back to the front office and began getting her coat on as she called deCostas.
“Hello, Ms. Pierce,” deCostas purred.
“I got your message. I think I should be able to get us into the buildings tomorrow. I need to make some appointments for both of them, though, so I’ll send you the exact time once I’ve made them. Don’t be late.”
“Thank you, that’s very good news.”
“They’re both fairly conservative, so dress appropriately.”
“What is appropriately?”
There was a pause as Simone finished shrugging her coat on and considered his question.
“Don’t show too much cleavage,” she said and hung up.
ONCE A LARGE YACHT, probably of serious luxury, Rosie’s had been transformed into something approximating a nostalgic diner. The yacht was painted in green-and-white checks, which matched the plastic tablecloths inside, and a large neon sign hung over the sliding glass doors that worked as an entrance. On deck, there were some tables and chairs, but it was cool out, and most people were eating inside. It was a wide open space, with booths and servers who wore sailor hats. One of them recognized Simone and pointed her towards Caroline, already at a booth and halfway done with her mug of beer, sipping the rest through a straw.
Simone sat down, and Caroline regarded her with tired eyes.
“Rough day?” Simone asked with a half-smile.
“It started when some mainland yokel who’d won a decommissioned cruise ship in some auction sailed it into the city at about four this morning,” she said. She finished the rest of her beer, the straw sucking dryly at the bottom of her glass. The server, with perfect timing, put down another in front of her, plus one for Simone, and a pair of menus. Simone glanced at hers but let Caroline continue. “He figured he was just going to anchor it in the city and start renting out rooms, like we’re a city of flotsam. Who does that?” Caroline put her mug down hard on the table, in emphasis, then immediately picked it up again and took a long drink. Simone smirked. Mainlanders tried setting up shop once every other month or so, as if they didn’t think New York was still a city, and they could just set up a boat, charge rent, and make a fortune. They didn’t realize they needed an anchor permit, leasing contracts, inspections, and all the stuff that went along with owning real estate in any other city.
“Four a.m.,” Caroline repeated. “I was paged to the office at ten after, got there at four thirty. After we dealt with him, and getting his boat back outside city limits where it
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