discs—fashion mags, beauty mags, music—while techs slathered or snipped or painted. Products lined the walls.
Farther back, thin partitions offered some privacy for whatever the hell went on behind them. The place buzzed with voices, little tools that clipped or hummed or buffed, and chairs being lifted or lowered or reclined.
A woman with a fountain of red-tipped white hair talked cheerfully on an ear-link while she tapped a tattooed finger at a calendar on her screen.
“I squeezed you in, Lorinda. Two-fifteen, New Year’s Eve, with Marcus. You’ve got his last block. Oh, don’t I know it! We’ll see you then. Have a wonderful Christmas!”
She tapped her earpiece, beamed at Eve and Peabody. “Good morning! How can I help you today?”
“We’re looking for Sima Murtagh.”
“Sima’s with a client, but she’s got an opening at . . .”
Tap
,
tap
with the finger tattooed with a red butterfly. “One-thirty.”
“We’re not here for a service.” Eve drew out her badge.
The woman’s lime-green eyes went wide. “Oh! Oh. You’re here about . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Trey. It’s awful,” she saidin the same hissy whisper. “Just tragic! Let me just run back and check where she is on her service.”
She hopped off the stool and clicked her way to the back on the towering heels of thigh-high red boots.
Eve started to speak, then noticed Peabody wasn’t beside her but had edged over to a counter to play with samples.
“Stop it,” Eve ordered.
“It’s just sitting here.” Hurriedly Peabody rubbed some cream over her hands. “And it smells really good.”
“Try for some dignity,” Eve muttered as Trina swept in from the back.
Unlike her receptionist, Trina wore flat-soled shoes—but Eve found it hard to deem them practical as red-nosed reindeers cavorted over them.
“Sima needs a couple minutes. She’s at a critical point of the service. She can take five when she finishes applying the full mask. You should come back. I’ve got one treatment room open—we’re slammed with holiday party prep—but we can use it for a few.”
“Fine.” Eve started back with her, grabbed Peabody by the arm to make sure her partner didn’t go back to playing with samples. “You didn’t mention Ziegler used persuaders on women.”
“Do what?”
“You know, a little something in the tea to make a woman more . . . agreeable to having sex.”
Trina stopped dead in front of a line of cushy chairs where some women had their feet in bubbly blue water, others had them covered with green goo, and still others had techs painting their toes.
“I knew it. I
knew
it! Fucker.”
“You knew, but didn’t think it worth mentioning?”
“I didn’t
know
know it, but I knew it. Fucker,” she repeated, angrycolor rising up in her high-planed cheeks as she stomped off toward a door in her reindeer booties.
Inside she paced around a padded table, passed shiny silver counters holding what looked to Eve like devices of torture.
“You can’t say shit like that if you don’t absolutely know. But I
knew
. In my gut.”
She threw up her hands, still pacing so the red lab-style coat she wore over a black skin suit flapped.
“I told you I’ve had some women in my chair who’d slept with him, and some of them said how they didn’t plan on it, but how they just got the urge during a session—always a home session. Massage or personal training.”
“Names.”
Now Trina stopped in her tracks. “Come on, Dallas, my clients have to know I won’t mouth off about their personal business. They have to trust me.”
“It’s murder, Trina, and getting dosed is a hell of a motive for it.”
“Christ! None of my clients killed the slimy bastard.” She kicked a cabinet, a sentiment and temper reliever Eve understood. “Fine, fine. Fuck. I’ll give you the names, but you gotta let me contact them first, give them a heads-up. I need to make it right with them.”
“No details,
Farther back, thin partitions offered some privacy for whatever the hell went on behind them. The place buzzed with voices, little tools that clipped or hummed or buffed, and chairs being lifted or lowered or reclined.
A woman with a fountain of red-tipped white hair talked cheerfully on an ear-link while she tapped a tattooed finger at a calendar on her screen.
“I squeezed you in, Lorinda. Two-fifteen, New Year’s Eve, with Marcus. You’ve got his last block. Oh, don’t I know it! We’ll see you then. Have a wonderful Christmas!”
She tapped her earpiece, beamed at Eve and Peabody. “Good morning! How can I help you today?”
“We’re looking for Sima Murtagh.”
“Sima’s with a client, but she’s got an opening at . . .”
Tap
,
tap
with the finger tattooed with a red butterfly. “One-thirty.”
“We’re not here for a service.” Eve drew out her badge.
The woman’s lime-green eyes went wide. “Oh! Oh. You’re here about . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Trey. It’s awful,” she saidin the same hissy whisper. “Just tragic! Let me just run back and check where she is on her service.”
She hopped off the stool and clicked her way to the back on the towering heels of thigh-high red boots.
Eve started to speak, then noticed Peabody wasn’t beside her but had edged over to a counter to play with samples.
“Stop it,” Eve ordered.
“It’s just sitting here.” Hurriedly Peabody rubbed some cream over her hands. “And it smells really good.”
“Try for some dignity,” Eve muttered as Trina swept in from the back.
Unlike her receptionist, Trina wore flat-soled shoes—but Eve found it hard to deem them practical as red-nosed reindeers cavorted over them.
“Sima needs a couple minutes. She’s at a critical point of the service. She can take five when she finishes applying the full mask. You should come back. I’ve got one treatment room open—we’re slammed with holiday party prep—but we can use it for a few.”
“Fine.” Eve started back with her, grabbed Peabody by the arm to make sure her partner didn’t go back to playing with samples. “You didn’t mention Ziegler used persuaders on women.”
“Do what?”
“You know, a little something in the tea to make a woman more . . . agreeable to having sex.”
Trina stopped dead in front of a line of cushy chairs where some women had their feet in bubbly blue water, others had them covered with green goo, and still others had techs painting their toes.
“I knew it. I
knew
it! Fucker.”
“You knew, but didn’t think it worth mentioning?”
“I didn’t
know
know it, but I knew it. Fucker,” she repeated, angrycolor rising up in her high-planed cheeks as she stomped off toward a door in her reindeer booties.
Inside she paced around a padded table, passed shiny silver counters holding what looked to Eve like devices of torture.
“You can’t say shit like that if you don’t absolutely know. But I
knew
. In my gut.”
She threw up her hands, still pacing so the red lab-style coat she wore over a black skin suit flapped.
“I told you I’ve had some women in my chair who’d slept with him, and some of them said how they didn’t plan on it, but how they just got the urge during a session—always a home session. Massage or personal training.”
“Names.”
Now Trina stopped in her tracks. “Come on, Dallas, my clients have to know I won’t mouth off about their personal business. They have to trust me.”
“It’s murder, Trina, and getting dosed is a hell of a motive for it.”
“Christ! None of my clients killed the slimy bastard.” She kicked a cabinet, a sentiment and temper reliever Eve understood. “Fine, fine. Fuck. I’ll give you the names, but you gotta let me contact them first, give them a heads-up. I need to make it right with them.”
“No details,
Similar Books
