In Death 38 - Thankless in Death

place, she thought. Privacy, status, less chance of being nailed by security or a nosy desk clerk, even with the change in looks.
    “Computer, save hotel list, but separate.”
    She’d scrape up a uniform, put him on a ’link, have him contact the hotels—again. But her gut said he’d rent his own space now.
    Secondary task complete. Result on screen, split with residential locations …
    Eve scowled at the list. “I said Manhattan only.”
    Affirmative. Results listed are for Manhattan only …
    “Shit.” This time she pulled at her hair.
    Some results are specialty outlets
, the computer continued.
Some deal only or primarily with one type of item. Lamps, tables, chairs
—
    “Okay, okay, I get it. Would he do that?” she wondered. “Would a guy take that kind of time, going to a lamp store, a table store? I don’t think so, but …”
    She stepped out into the bullpen briefly. “Baxter! My office.”
    She circled back, paced. Foot hurts. Probably wouldn’t walk around the city. Use websites, the ’link. Order that way, pay electronically. If he—
    “Yeah, boss?” Baxter flipped off his shades, hooked them in his breast pocket.
    “You’ve got pretty swank digs, right?”
    His grin spread. “I do what I can.”
    “I’ve seen your ride. Shiny penis metaphor.”
    “Hey.”
    “It is what it is.” Eyeing him, she eased down a hip on her desk. “You got the slick wardrobe, the slick ride, so you’ve got slick digs and sexy furnishings, right?”
    “I like looking good, living good. What’s the deal, LT?”
    “Reinhold. I figure he’s got to be getting or already has a place of his own. Something swank, and I’m working on it. But when you get a swank space, you need to furnish it. He’d go for trendy, high-end. He’d like paying a premium. It’ll make him feel superior. My list here has all these specialty shops.”
    Taking a look at the screen himself, Baxter nodded. “Yeah, City Lights—I got my bedroom lamps there. And … Urban Spaces. I got my couch, a couple of chairs, and a floor cabinet there.”
    So shit, guys did spend all that time and effort. “How long did it take you to furnish your digs?”
    “Who says I’m done?” He smiled again. “To get it where I want it—for now anyway—six, seven months.”
    Thinking back, she remembered furnishing her apartment in about a day and a half. “He’s not that patient.” Or, she calculated, as fussy or discerning as Baxter. “He wants it now. All of it.”
    “Then he needs to go to more full-service, at least for the bulk.”
    “He’s got a bum foot, so I figure he’s going to check out his options online.”
    “Well, that opens the world, but if he really wants it now, he’d stick local.” Baxter scanned the screen again. “He’d look for a place with same-day delivery maybe, or delivery within twenty-four. Like that.”
    “I’m thinking yeah. Okay, cut out the specialty shops, for now, go full-service, stick local, quick delivery. Thanks.”
    “Anytime.” He slipped his shades back on, strolled out.
    She started making contacts herself, switching from full-service furnishings—a much smaller list—to gourmet markets when the computer spat that out. Then back again.
    She juggled in conversations with building security and/or management. And had batted zero when Peabody poked in.
    “I hit on the pizza.”
    Her gradually-going-pissy mood jumped high. “Jesus, for a pie? Where is he?”
    “Not that big a hit. But Vinnie’s sold a droid—matching the description of ours—the pie last night. It’s a different guy on the counter now, but the manager checked the discs for me.”
    “I want a copy.”
    “Already sent and copied.” Peabody handed it over.
    “Did he call in the order?”
    “No, the droid came in and ordered.”
    “What time did the droid get the pizza?”
    “Time stamp’s twenty-three-twenty-one on the order.”
    “Nighttime hungries,” Eve mused. “Check on cabs—dropoffs, pickups at the pizzeria.”
    “Already got that in.”
    Eve ordered the pizzeria onto the map.
    “I’m betting no cab, but if I’m wrong, we got really lucky.” Frowning at the map, she picked up the closest subway stations. “Mass transit’s possible, but still probably not. Not that he’d have a problem sending the droid on a mile hike to get a pizza, but I’m going with reasonable walking distance. You want pizza after eleven at night, you don’t want to wait a damn hour or more.
    “Routines,” she