"There's no 60K T and M," McNab objected.
"There will be in about six months. We have some test units."
"Holy shit, 60K." McNab nearly shuddered with delight. "I don't need a tech. I can handle it."
"Have him send one anyway. Tell him I want it up and running by noon."
When he was alone, McNab looked at the card and sighed. "Money doesn't just talk. It sings."
• • •
Eve got behind the wheel and took off down the drive the minute the doors were shut. "Peabody, run all the flops and LC nests on West Forty-third."
"Licensed companions? Oh, I get it." She pulled out her personal palm computer and got to work.
"He wants her to die in a whore's surroundings—my guess is the sleazier the better. Roarke, what do you own on West Forty-third that fits the bill?"
Another time he would have made a joke of that. He took out his own ppc and requested the data. "I own two buildings on West Forty-three. One is a restaurant with apartments above—single-family units, a hundred percent occupancy. The other is a small hotel with a public bar, projected to be refurbished."
"Name?"
"The West Side."
"Peabody?" Eve cut over to Seventh and headed downtown. She nipped through a red light and ignored the blast of horns and pedestrian curses. "Peabody?" she repeated.
"Working on it. Here. The West Side—that's 522 West Forty-third. Approved for on-site alcohol consumption, private smoking booths. Attached hotel licensed companion approved. Former owner, J. P. Felix, arrested January 2058
. Violation of Codes 752, 821. Operating live sex acts without a license. Operating gambling establishment without a license. Property confiscated by City of New York and auctioned September 2058. Purchased by Roarke Industries, and currently up to code."
"Five twenty-two," Eve muttered as she winged onto Forty-third. "Do you know the setup here, Roarke?"
"No." In his mind he could see Jennie as he'd once known her. Pretty and bright and laughing. "One of my acquisitions staff viewed and bid on the property. I've only seen the paperwork."
He looked out the window as a young boy set up a three-card monte game while his adolescent partner scanned for cops and nuisance droids. He hoped they made a killing.
"I have one of my architects working up a plan for remodeling," he continued. "I haven't seen them either."
"Doesn't matter." Eve jerked the car to a stop, double parking in front of 522. She flipped on the NYPSD blinker, which helped her chances of finding her vehicle in one piece when she came back. "We'll check at the front desk, see what the clerk can tell us."
She bypassed the bar, noted grimly that the security plate on the hotel door was broken. The lobby was dim, with a single pathetic plant going from green to sickly yellow in the corner. The thick safety glass that caged in the desk was scratched and pitted. The access door was wide open. The droid on duty was out of operation.
It was easy to see why, as its body was slumped in a chair and its head sat on the counter.
"Goddamn it. He's been here. Maybe he's still here." She pulled out her weapon. "We take a floor at a time, knock on doors. Anybody doesn't answer, we go in."
Roarke opened a drawer under the droid's head. "Master code." He held up the thin card. "It'll make it easier."
"Good. Use the stairs."
Nearly every room on the first floor was empty. They found one groggy-eyed LC sleeping off a long night. She'd heard and seen nothing, and made her displeasure at being roused by cops obvious. On the second floor they found the remnants of a wild party, including a fistful of illegals scattered over the floor like abandoned toys.
On the graffiti-strewn stairway heading toward three, they found the child.
He was perhaps eight, thin and pale, with his toes poking out of his ragged sneakers. There was a fresh bruise under his right eye, and a scruffy gray kitten in his lap.
"Are you Dallas?" he wanted to know.
"Yeah. Why?"