“We’ll risk it. They have a dead customer,” Eve pointed out. “One who got his johnson whacked off. Seems they’d want to prove one of their LCs didn’t do it.”
“That’s an angle. Do you think if sex was your job it’d get really boring, or more exciting because you were always mixing it up?”
“I think because it’s not just sex that’s the job, it’s pretending attraction to somebody who put me on their credit card—or, lower level, picked me up on the street, and on the upper levels you actually have to have conversations with the john like you give a rat’s ass what they think about anything—I’d rather work the night shift in some factory that tests cat food.”
“Like they have to taste it, the cat food? They don’t do that, do they?”
“How the hell do I know? I don’t work at a cat food factory. There!”
She spotted a curbside slot, hit vertical, did a one-eighty in midair, and dropped down.
“I woulda walked,” Peabody managed. “I’d’ve been happy to walk blocks. Loose pants. And more no cardiac arrest.” Because her legs still trembled, she eased out carefully to stand on the sidewalk.
“It’s starting to rain,” Eve pointed out.
“A walk in the rain’s refreshing.”
“A walk in the rain’s wet.” Pleased, Eve walked into the soaring downtown office building.
A small horde of business types moved at a quick pace in the lobby. To elevators, from them, with briefcases, suits, earbuds, take-out fake coffee.
She walked straight to the security desk, held up her badge. “Discretion.”
The short man with thin, graying hair gave them a once-over. “Sign in please, with the name of the party you’re here to see.”
“I’ll know the party when I get there. What floor?”
“Twelfth floor, east bank.” He checked his log screen. “Twelve hundred for the main office.”
Eve scrawled her name, waited for Peabody to do the same, then headed for the east bank.
They got on the elevator along with more business types. She tuned out the talk of marketing strategies, Jenny in accounting’s birthday, brainstorming sessions, lunch meetings as the damn car stopped on every damn floor to let some off, let more on.
She grieved for the glides at Central.
Everything smelled like too much perfume, cologne, fake coffee, somebody’s mid-morning muffin, somebody else’s fear sweat.
On twelve she stepped out into a moment of blessed quiet.
Discretion’s office, behind double-frosted glass doors, held more quiet yet, and the faint scent of … she didn’t know what the hell, but it was good—and probably discreet.
The waiting area held deep scoop chairs, each with an individual screen. Maybe to preview choices of companions, she thought.
A single female—late twenties, silky blond hair, sharp green eyes, and a red suit that showed just a hint of black lace at the cleavage—sat at what looked like an antique desk or excellent replica.
She swiveled away from her comp screen, smiled. “Good morning and welcome to Discretion. How can I assist you?”
Eve pulled out her badge. “Manager.”
The smile faded. “We’re fully licensed and inspected.”
“Not my area, not my question. We need to speak to whoever runs the s
how, regarding a dead guy.”
“Wh—how— Please wait.”
She didn’t call back from the desk, but popped up and rushed away on shoes so high Eve wondered she didn’t suffer nosebleeds.