It was also some sort of fake ham drowned in fake mayo. Eve was forced to shift to auto on the trip, then grab Peabody’s tube of OrangeAde to try to wash down the two bites she scrounged. “Christ, how do you drink this crap?”
“I happen to think it’s refreshing, and find it goes very well with the shortbread cookies I have for dessert.” She took the tiny package out of her bag and made a production out of opening it.
“Give me a goddamn cookie, or I’ll hurt you. You know I can.”
“My fear is almost as great as my love for you, Lieutenant.”
Eve found a slot on the second level, curbside, and zipped up the ramp at a speed and angle that had Peabody’s lunch lurching dangerously in her belly.
Delicately, Eve brushed cookie crumbs off her shirt. “Smartasses always pay.”
“You never do,” Peabody said under her breath.
Chapter 4
In the daylight hours, the action at data clubs whittled down to the geeks and nerds who thought they were living on the edge by hanging in a joint that offered a holoband and sports screens.
The stations were silver, and so small, so crammed together that even the shyest nerd was virtually guaranteed a free feel of a neighboring butt during peak hours.
The holoband was in mellow mode, with soft guitars and whispering keyboard with the vocals going for plaintive croon. The girl singer was dressed in black to match her glossy skin. The only spot of color was her stoplight red hair that fell over most of her face while she murmured something about broken hearts and minds.
The clientele was primarily male, primarily solo, and since no one looked distressed or interested in Peabody’s uniform, Eve figured a sweep of the place wouldn’t net an Illegals hound enough of a cache to fill a dwarf’s pocket.
She made her way to the sluggishly circling central bar.
There were two servers, a human male and a female droid. Eve opted for the one that breathed.
His dress was trendy—the loose shirt in sunset colors, the small army of multicolored loops riding up the curve of his left ear, the crop of spikes in the crown of his ordinary brown hair.
His shoulders were wide, his arms long. There was a sturdiness about him that told her he had a few years on the afternoon clientele. His face was white, edging toward pasty.
She pegged him at mid- to late twenties, probably a grad student, a shaky step up from geekdom, earning his tuition by manning the stick and chatting up the patrons.
He stopped playing with the small computer set on the bar and offered her an absent smile. “What can I do for you?”
Eve set her badge and the smiling image of Rachel Howard on the
bar. “You recognize her?”
He used a fingertip to nudge the image closer and gave it the earnest study that told her he was fairly new at the job. “Well, sure. That’s, ah, shoot. Rebecca, Roseanne, no . . . Rachel? I’m pretty good with names. I think it’s Rachel. She’s in here most every week. Likes, ah, whatzit?” He closed his eyes. “Toreadors—orange juice, lime juice, a shot of grenadine. She’s not in trouble, is she?”
“Yeah, she’s in trouble. You remember the names and the drinks of all the patrons here?”
“The regulars, sure. Well, especially the pretty girl regulars. She’s got a great face, and she’s friendly.”
“When was the last time she was here?”
“I don’t know, exactly. This is one of my part-time jobs. But the last time I remember being here and seeing her was maybe last Friday? I work the six to midnight on Friday. Hey, look, she never caused any trouble in here. She just comes in now and then with some friends. They grab a station, listen to tunes, dance, keyboard. She’s a nice girl.”
“You ever notice anyone hassling her?”
“Not so much. Like I said, she’s a pretty girl. Sometimes guys would hit on her. Sometimes she’d hit back, sometimes she’d blow them off. But nice. Things get zipping in here after nine, especially weekends. You get the cruisers, but this one always came in with a friend, or a group. She wasn’t looking for a one-nighter. You can tell.”
“Uh-huh. You know a guy named Diego?”
“Ah . . .” He looked blank for a moment, then drew his eyebrows together in concentration. “I think I know who you mean. Little guy, cruiser. Likes to strut around. Got some good moves on the dance floor and he’s always flush, so he didn’t leave alone very often.”
“Did he ever leave with Rachel?”