Eve spent the rest of the day doing what would normally have been assigned to drones. She interviewed the victim’s neighbors personally, recording statements, impressions.
She managed to grab a quick sandwich from the same Glida-Grill she’d nearly smashed before, driving across town. After the night and the morning she’d put in, she could hardly blame the receptionist at Paradise for looking at her as though she’d recently scraped herself off the sidewalk.
Waterfalls played musically among the flora in the reception area of the city’s most exclusive salon. Tiny cups of real coffee and slim glasses of fizzling water or champagne were served to those lounging on the cushy chairs and settees. Headphones and discs of fashion magazines were complementary.
The receptionist was magnificently breasted, a testament to the salon’s figure sculpting techniques. She wore a snug, short outfit in the salon’s trademark red, and an incredible coif of ebony hair coiled like snakes.
Eve couldn’t have been more delighted.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said in a carefully modulated voice as empty of expression as a computer. “We serve by appointment only.”
“That’s okay.” Eve smiled and was almost sorry to puncture the disdain. Almost. “This ought to get me one.” She offered her badge. “Who works on Sharon DeBlass?”
The receptionist’s horrified eyes darted toward the waiting area. “Our clients’ needs are strictly confidential.”
“I bet.” Enjoying herself, Eve leaned companionably on the U-shaped counter. “I can talk nice and quiet, like this, so we understand each other—Denise?” She flicked her gaze down to the discreet studded badge on the woman’s breast. “Or I can talk louder, so everyone understands. If you like the first idea better, you can take me to a nice quiet room where we won’t disturb any of your clients, and you can send in Sharon DeBlass’s operator. Or whatever term you use.”
“Consultant,” Denise said faintly. “If you’ll follow me.”
“My pleasure.”
And it was.
Outside of movies or videos, Eve had never seen anything so lush. The carpet was a red cushion your feet could sink blissfully into. Crystal drops hung from the ceiling and spun light. The air smelled of flowers and pampered flesh.
She might not have been able to imagine herself there, spending hours having herself creamed, oiled, pummeled, and sculpted, but if she were going to waste such time on vanity, it would certainly have been interesting to do so under such civilized conditions.
The receptionist showed her into a small room with a hologram of a summer meadow dominating one wall. The quiet sound of birdsong and breezes sweetened the air.
“If you’d just wait here.”
“No problem.” Eve waited for the door to close then, with an indulgent sigh, she lowered herself into a deeply cushioned chair. The moment she was seated, the monitor beside her blipped on, and a friendly, indulgent face that could only be a droid’s beamed smiles.
“Good afternoon. Welcome to Paradise. Your beauty needs and your comfort are our only priorities. Would you like some refreshment while you wait for your personal consultant?”
“Sure. Coffee, black, coffee.”
“Of course. What sort would you prefer? Press C on your keyboard for the list of choices.”
Smothering a chuckle, Eve followed instructions. She spent the next two minutes pondering over her options, then narrowed it down to French Riviera or Caribbean Cream.
The door opened again before she could decide. Resigned, she rose and faced an elaborately dressed scarecrow.
Over his fuchsia shirt and plum colored slacks, he wore an open, trailing smock of Paradise red. His hair, flowing back from a painfully thin face echoed the hue of his slacks. He offered Eve a hand, squeezed gently, and stared at her out of soft doe eyes.
“I’m terribly sorry, officer. I’m baffled.”
“I want information on Sharon DeBlass.” Again, Eve took out her badge and offered it for inspection.
“Yes, ah, Lieutenant Dallas. That was my understanding. You must know, of course, our client data is strictly confidential. Paradise has a reputation for discretion as well as excellence.”
“And you must know, of course, that I can get a warrant, Mr.—?”
“Oh, Sebastian. Simply Sebastian.” He waved a thin hand, sparkling with rings. “I’m not questioning your authority, lieutenant. But if you could assist me, your motives for the inquiry?”
“I’m inquiring into the motives for the murder of DeBlass.” She waited a beat, judged the shock that shot into his eyes and drained his face of color. “Other than that, my data is strictly confidential.”
“Murder. My dear God, our lovely Sharon is dead? There must be a mistake.” He all but slid into a chair, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. When the monitor offered him refreshment, he waved a hand again. Light shot from his jeweled fingers. “God, yes. I need a brandy, darling. A snifter of Trevalli.”