Festive in Death (In Death #39)(28)

“If somebody smears my rep, I’m going to want to get up in their face,” Eve commented.

“It didn’t matter. The guy was like a gnat buzzing. You just ignore it. The way I figured, either me or Rock would take that award next spring, and that would pay Ziegler back.”

“He was favored.”

“Not anymore.” Juice shook his head. “I know how that sounds, but I said I wasn’t going to lie. I hated the son of a bitch.”

Outside, Eve headed for her car. “A competitor may just be a good angle here. I’ll fill you in on the three top candidates I got from Lill on the way to Ziegler’s apartment.”

“Did you see the arms on that guy? And the pecs?” Peabody bundled herself in the car. “I wonder what he charges for personal training.”

“You’ve got access to a gym right at Central,” Eve reminded her.

“I don’t have access to those arms.” Peabody glanced back as Eve pulled into traffic. “Or those pecs.”

6

Eve broke the seal on the apartment door, stepped inside.

It smelled of death and sweeper dust.

“Logical place for tea’s the kitchen, right? Where do people keep incense?”

“There wasn’t any in the bedroom, not that I remember,” Peabody began. “If he uses it on off-the-book or in-home massages, maybe he has some with his gear.”

“Check the gear, I’ll check the kitchen.”

Eve moved into the small U-shaped kitchen, gave it a quick overview. Standard AutoChef, friggie, compact oven, three-burner range, mini dishwasher.

Not that Ziegler made much use of it, she noted. Dishes, glassware piled in the sink, empty or near-empty takeout boxes scattered the counter. The sweepers had taken the lidless pizza box, but she couldn’t imagine what that might tell them.

In any case, the obvious conclusion was, Ziegler had been too lazy for the recycler.

Out of curiosity, she opened the friggie. Energy drinks, lite beer, box wine, a jug of one of those mixed fruit and veggie juices, a small container of soy milk.

She checked the menu on the AutoChef. A couple of whole wheat bagels, a veggie pizza, coffee, veggie hash, and tofu turkey.

No tea, she noted, and turned to the short line of cupboards.

Soy chips, dry cereal that looked like bark and twigs, some dehydrated berries, several bottles of vitamins and supplements. And three small containers of leafy substances labeled as tea: Relaxation Tea, Digestive Tea, Energy Tea.

She bagged them all.

“Cone incense—a variety pack.” Peabody came in with a clear case holding about a dozen colorful little pyramids. “In his massage bag. It’s a smart way to transport and store, kind of like a small fishing tackle box. They’re all labeled by scent. None of them say sex-inducing. You’ve got patchouli, vanilla, lavender and so on.”

“I don’t think he’d label it sex-inducing. I’ve got three teas—the loose leaf stuff like in the baggie.” Eve stepped out of the kitchen bump. “We’ll take another pass through the place. The sweepers wouldn’t have been looking for anything like this. Then we’ll talk to Sima again before we get these to the lab.”

“If any of this contains some sort of date-rape drug, he probably used it on her, too. I mean, why wouldn’t he?”

“Yeah. I’m counting on it.”

• • •

Music played at Trina’s salon, but not at the head-throbbing volume of the gym. Here it provided a bouncy bit of background. The place smelled a little too much like a meadow for Eve’s taste—with a faint underpinning of chemicals. God knew what they mixed up here to slather on your hair, your face, and other parts of the anatomy.

People sat in brightly colored chairs sipping fizzy drinks, babbling away with each other or focused on provided 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 said in 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.