False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(29)

I nod to her, and the brainload intel tells me her nickname is Pallua. All the hostesses choose nicknames. Psychological distancing, I guess. I was touched when I found out Tila’s was Echo. Now I’m the echo, a thin replica of Tila. Even my serviceable walk in heels is different from her feline prowl.

Through my VeriChip I’m able to bring up Tila’s employee file, but Nazarin had the owner expand my access. I bring up internal communications from the club over the last few days into my ocular implant overlay. Since the incident, nobody’s used the back room where the crime scene was. Everyone’s been told that a high roller’s rented it out for a long, exclusive Zeal trip.

I’ve been staring blankly into the distance for too long. Pallua looks down at her bright red nails. She’s a prototypical hostess—perfect features, perfect body, golden-brown skin, her hair a riot of purple, blue, and green. Tattoos of peacock feathers glow around one shoulder, snaking toward her breasts, which are on display in her low-cut gown.

I wave vaguely, and something stills in the other girl’s face. A crease appears in the smooth skin of her forehead, tense lines deepening next to painted lips. She swallows and busies herself with the reception desk. I rub my clammy palms discreetly on my dress, avoiding eye contact with the few other hosts and hostesses who are milling around Zenith waiting for their shifts to start.

“Your client’s waiting,” Pallua says, her bright smile back in place. “Cute, too.”

“Thanks.” I smile, hoping it reaches my eyes.

The door to the back room where I’m meant to be seems to stare at me, waiting for me to enter. I pause in front of it, take a deep breath, and the scanner reads my VeriChip, identifying me as Tila.

The door swooshes open. I step through and the dim lights brighten. Detective Nazarin waits for me, perched on a luxury sofa. He must have come in the rear entrance. He looks like a thug in the dark clothing that doesn’t quite obscure his shoulder holster.

The room is simple, but everything screams of wealth. I don’t look at the round bed in the corner. There’s a well-stocked bar, and a wide expanse of polished floorboards and low-pile rugs with abstract designs. Zeal Chairs are parked discreetly in the corner of the room.

Next to him is Sal, the owner of Zenith. He’s a tall man, thin and elegant. He wears rings on all his fingers and a dark green suit, the cravat at his neck a vivid blue that matches his eyes. It looks old-fashioned, almost Edwardian, but then Tila said he was like that: picking bits of the past and interweaving them into his look. Sal is one of the few people that Tila genuinely respects. He took a chance on her by taking her on at the club, trained her up, and always treated her well. She spoke of him sometimes, over dinner. He’s meant to be fiercely protective of his employees and he prides himself that Zenith has had no scandals, no violence.

Until three days ago. I feel nervous that he knows about the switch between me and my sister. How trustworthy is Sal, really? I asked Nazarin about it earlier, right before I went up to change into Tila’s clothes.

“From all we can tell, he’s fairly clean,” he reassured me. “There’s nothing connecting him to the Ratel. There’s a chance of course that he’s covered his tracks well, but it’s a risk we have to take. For an exorbitant sum, he’s keeping very quiet.”

“Tila told me once that he prides himself on keeping his word,” I responded.

Detective Nazarin nodded. “We have to hope that’s true.”

The door closes behind me. “We thank you for your assistance with this investigation, Mr. Kupka,” Detective Nazarin begins.

He waves his arm. “Call me Sal, please. And we all know it’s in my best interests as well as yours.” He looks me up and down. “My, but you do look just like Tila. It’s nice to meet you, Taema.”

I incline my head. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Tila’s spoken well of you.”

I notice he doesn’t call my sister Echo. The man before me looks polite, and a small smile rests on his face. I glance around the room, swallowing. There’s absolutely no trace of a crime scene, but this is the room where it happened. Did Tila sit on that very sofa on the night that tore both our lives apart?

I lean against one of the pillars of the room. It’s rude, but I can’t bear the thought of sitting down. Why are we meeting in this room, and not the others? I bring up the logs again. Ah. Because all the other rooms in Zenith are booked, and even if Sal wants to help us, he doesn’t want to eat into his profit.

I look toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown San Francisco. The bay is tinged its usual phosphorescent green, the lights of the skyscrapers blue and white. Hovercars wink and blink as they weave their way through them.

“So,” Nazarin begins, and I turn. “Was Vuk Radke a regular client of Zenith?”

“He’d come maybe once every other month or so,” Sal replies. He seems at ease, relaxed. I find that unnerving. A dead client was found in this very room, my sister covered in his blood, and he doesn’t seem to mind at all. I swallow.

“Did he often see Tila or Leylani when he was here?”

“Leylani was his favorite hostess.”

“Did he stay over when he visited?”

“Every other time. So perhaps three times a year.”

“Have you had any dealings with him outside Zenith?”