She went over to pick it up and slipped it into her bag. "Give me the highlights."
"Our man's forty-seven, born here in New York. Parents divorced when he was twelve. Mother was custodial parent." He yawned until his jaw cracked. "Sorry. She never remarried. Worked as an actress, mostly nickel-and-dime productions. She's got a history of mental illness. In and out of nut palaces -- mostly depression. They didn't do the trick because she offed herself last year. Guess when?"
"Christmas."
"That's a bull's-eye. Simon, he got himself a good education, double majored. Theater and cosmetology. He's got a degree in both. Did some gigs as makeup producer. Took over the salon two years ago. He never married, shared living digs with his mama."
He paused to slurp down more coffee. "He isn't hurting for credits, but his mother's treatments took big bites out of his accounts. No criminal record. Nothing but standard exams and checkups on the physical end, and no mental work."
"Copy the personal data to Mira, then see what you can dig up on the father. Stick with the hotel checks. He's got to go somewhere."
"Can I get some breakfast?"
"You know where the kitchen is. I'll be in the field. Keep me updated."
"Sure. Uh, Dallas, you and Peabody okay?"
Eve lifted her brows. "Why shouldn't we be?"
"Just seemed like something was off with you."
"Keep me updated," she repeated, and left him drinking coffee, scratching the cat's ears, and puzzling.
* * *
Eve decided that her aide had either slept on a board or put extra starch in her uniform. Peabody was stiff and brittle as burned toast.
But she was prompt. Exchanging nods rather than words, they walked into the salon together. Yvette was already behind her console, busily plugging in the day's schedule.
"You're getting to be a regular," she said to Eve. "You ought to let me work in a manicure or something for you."
"Got an empty treatment room?"
"I've got a couple, but no free consultants until two o'clock."
"Take five, Yvette."
"Excuse me?"
"Clock off. I need to talk to you. We'll use one of those empty rooms."
"I'm really busy."
"Here or at Cop Central. Let's go."
"Oh, for God's sake." With an irritated huff, Yvette pushed off her stool. "Let me set up the backup droid. We don't like to use droids. They're not as personal."
She scooted around the corner and uncoded a tall cabinet. The droid inside was beautifully groomed and coiffed, outfitted in a smart pastel skinsuit that set off deep gold skin and fiery red hair. When Yvette initialized, the droid opened big, baby blue eyes, blinked thick, weighty lashes, and smiled.
"May I assist you?"
"Take over the reception counter."
"I'm happy to be of service. You're looking lovely today."
"Right." Obviously annoyed, Yvette turned away. "She'd say that if I had a face covered with warts. That's the problem with droids. I hope we can make this fast," she added, clicking her way toward the back. "Simon doesn't like us to leave our posts except on scheduled breaks."
"He's not going to be a problem." Eve stepped into the treatment room and wished it didn't remind her of an autopsy suite. "When did you last talk to Simon?"