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“Lights on,” she ordered and was rewarded with a flickering, hopeless yellow glow from the dusty ceiling unit.
Absently, she stuck her hands in her jacket pockets. It was colder inside than it was out in the frisky, late-winter wind. The entire place, such as it was, smelled of old sweat, older dust, and what she assumed was last night’s dinner of hash and beans.
“What did you say this guy pulled down a year?” she asked Peabody.
Peabody pulled out her PPC, scanned. “Union scale for his position is eight hundred and fifty a show, with ascending hourly wage for put-ups, tear-downs, turnaround, and overtime pay. Union takes a twenty-five percent bite for dues, retirement, health plans, and blah-blah, but our guy still raked in about three hundred thousand annually.”
“And chose to live like this. Well, he was either spending it or stashing it somewhere.” She strode across the bare floor to the computer unit. “This piece of crap’s older than the piece of crap I just got rid of. Computer on.”
It coughed, wheezed, snorted, then emitted a sickly blue light. “Display financial records for Quim, Linus.”
Password required for data display…
“I’ll give you a password.” Halfheartedly, she rapped the unit with her fist and recited her rank and badge number.
Privacy Act protects requested data. Password required…
“Peabody, deal with this thing.” Eve turned her back on it and began riffling through the drawers in a cabinet that had the consistency of cardboard. “Arena ball programs,” she announced while Peabody tried to reason with the computer. “And more notebooks. Our boy liked to bet on the games, which might explain where his salary went. He’s got it all written down here, wins and losses. Mostly losses. Petty-ante stuff, though. Doesn’t look like he was spine-cracker material.”
She moved on to the next drawer. “Well, well, look at this. Brochures of tropical islands. Forget the financials, Peabody. See if he went searching for data on Tahiti.”
She moved onto the closet, pushed through a handful of shirts, feeling the pockets, checking for hiding places in the two pairs of shoes.
As far as she could see, the guy had kept nothing—no mementos, no photographs, no personal discs. Just his notebooks.
He had a week’s worth of clothes, obviously old, which included one wrinkled suit. His cupboards turned up several dehydrated single packs of hash, several bottles of brew, one jumbo bag of soy chips, as yet unopened.
She took the bag out, frowned over it. “Why does a man so obviously tight with his money spring for a jumbo bag of chips, then hang himself before he eats them?”
“Maybe he was too depressed. Some people can’t eat when they’re depressed. Me, I head right for the highest caloric content available.”
“Looks to me like he ate last night and again this morning. Autopsy will confirm that, but his recycler’s overstaffed.” Wincing, she reached into the slot and pulled out an emp
ty bag. “Soy chips. My guess is he finished them off yesterday and had his backup bag ready for his next nutritious meal. There’s a half bottle of brew chilling in his friggie box, and two backups in the cupboard.”
“Well, maybe…Good call on Tahiti, Dallas.” Peabody straightened. “It was his last data search. We’ve got pictures, tourist data, climate scans.” As she spoke, the machine began to play exotic music, heavy on the drums. “And half-naked dancing girls.”
“Why does our urbanite do scans of faraway islands?” Eve walked back over, watched the native women shake impressively in some tribal dance. “Computer, replay most recent search for transpo choices and costs from New York City to Tahiti.”
Working…Last search for transpo data initiated oh three thirty-five, twenty-eight March, 2059, by Quim, Linus. Data as follows: Roarke Airlines offers the most direct flights daily…
“Naturally,” Eve said dryly. “Computer hold. Quim spent time just this morning researching flights to Tahiti. Doesn’t sound like a guy suffering from guilt and depression. Computer, list Quim, Linus, passport and/or visa data.”
Working…Quim, Linus: Request for passport initiated fourteen hundred hours, twenty-six March, 2059.
“Going on a trip, weren’t you, Linus?” She stepped back. “What did you see, what did you know?” she murmured. “And who were you going to tap for the money to pay for your island vacation? Let’s take this unit in to Feeney, Peabody.”
• • •
Eliza Rothchild had made her debut on stage at the age of six months as a fretful baby causing her parents distress in a drawing room comedy. The play had flopped, but Eliza had been the critic’s darling.
Her own mother had pushed her, pulled her, from audition to audition. By the age of ten, Eliza was a veteran of stage and screen. By twenty, she’d been a respected character actress, with a room full of awards, homes on three continents, and her first—and last—unhappy marriage behind her.
At forty, she’d been around so long no one wanted to see her, including producers. She claimed to be retired rather than used up, and had spent the next decade of her life traveling, throwing lavish parties, and fighting excruciating boredom.
When the opportunity arose to play the nagging nurse Miss Plimsoll in the stage production of Witness, she’d pretended reluctance, allowed herself to be wooed, and had privately wept copious tears of relief and gratitude.
She loved the theater more than she had ever loved any man or any woman.
