Sterling almost dropped the phone.
She pulled herself together, then clapped to break the Professor’s concentration and beckoned for him to follow her. They decided to walk rather than go by tram. She needed the fresh air to cool off.
The two of them met the detectives outside the Hotel, then went inside and gathered in Room 11. The cozy Philippe Starck Suite was named for the designer of the plastic ghost chairs arranged at the foot of the bed, that shimmered with translucent reflections of the dark floral wallpaper. The cramped space forced the detectives to sit close to the suspect, knees nearly touching. Sterling, meanwhile, posed on the end of the mattress. The awkward foursome was reflected inthe angled mirror at the head of the bed. The Professor sat by the window, wringing his hands.
Andreas rested his notebook on his knee. He no longer bothered bringing a tablet along. “So, we heard you were debating philosophy all night with a woman. Enjoying some sort of student-teacher liaison?” he asked.
“I’d never date one of my students,” said the Professor.
“So who was she?” asked Beate.
The Professor fiddled with the edge of the mauve curtain, looking away as he said, “I clicked an ad online.”
“Achso,you booked a—”
Sterling cut him off. “A night with a professional girlfriend. Though it can’t have been through Blanc de Noir if you booked online.”
“Correct,” said the Professor, toying with the side seam of his trousers. “Luisa runs her own website, and advertises her services on academic platforms.”
“Can you invite her here through the site?” asked Andreas.
“I doubt she’d return. She expected a different type of evening.”
“Let me guess—she had enough discussion of Wittgenstein?” asked Sterling.
The Professor beamed, impressed. “Well,actually,” he said, shaking his index finger as he straightened up. He had the eager look of a man about to lecture a woman on a topic he didn’t realize she already understood. Sterling tolerated that sort of egotistical drudgery only if she knew the guy would push her up against a bookshelf or bend her over a desk afterward.
Sterling was half tuned out, counting threads in his tweed jacket, when he started explaining.
“We debated about [some dead white guy]. She took the stance that he was [a racist piece of trash] but I reminded her of the meritsof [how he let his wife write his papers], and, um, that was when she left.”
“Give me her number. I’ll see if she’s available,” said Sterling.
She dialed the front desk from the floral-print rotary phone, which blended into the wallpaper, and relayed Luisa’s number to Fernando. He called back a few minutes later and said Luisa was at a nearby bar reading Foucault, she’d heard what happened to Hedy, and she’d be at the Orient soon.
Meanwhile, the Professor lectured Andreas and Beate, his captive audience.
“My specialty is [a long word that means ethics] through a [fluffy soft-focus Marxist] lens and my research is on [something with robots].”
Andreas squinted. “Hä?”
“I’m expanding my doctoral dissertation into a treatise on the ethics of [our evil robot overlords, which are definitely a metaphor for the tenure-review board].”
Beate took over. “Is that something like [a name she must have learned in Philosophy 101]?”
Sterling shot Beate a coy wink.Nicely done.
The Professor was too distracted to notice, lured by Beate’s meager contribution. “Not quite. I’m analyzing the moral [blah-blah;I am way too sober for this] of surveillance technology. But, naturally, through a lens of [Wait, what was that about surveillance?],” he said.
“Surveillance tech? Like what?” said Sterling, fluttering her lashes. When in doubt, wear red lipstick and play the fool.
“I mean, where to begin? Facial-recognition software operates in most major cities.”
“Are you familiar with a man named David Goldfinch?” asked Andreas.
The Professor flinched. “Did you sayDavid Goldfinch?”
“Correct. You’re acquainted?”
