Boogeymen - Mel Gilden [27]
Picard knew exactly where they were. They were in the office of a private investigator, a shamus, a gum-shoe, a hard-boiled detective. They were also in a bad situation, so Picard tried not to enjoy being where he was. He tried and failed dismally. The Boogeymen and the holodeck computer, for reasons of their own, had put him and Data and Wesley right in the middle of one of his favorite fantasies.
Picard said, “We’re in the office of Dixon Hill.”
“Who?” Wesley said.
“A mid-twentieth century detective,” Picard said. “In business for himself. A white knight who walks the mean streets to protect the innocent and ferret out the guilty.”
While he explained, Picard strolled to the filing cabinet and took a brown fedora from the top drawer. He put it on and adjusted it in a mirror over a tiny washstand. He put on the trench coat that hung from the hat rack.
“And,” said Data, “a character who is entirely fictional.”
“No more or less fictional than Sherlock Holmes.”
“Point well taken, sir,” said Data as he nodded.
Someone knocked on the door. Picard glanced at the other two. The swivel chair complained bitterly as he sat down behind his desk; Data and Wesley took up positions on either side of him. “Come in,” Picard said.
A tall, slim woman came in and leaned against the door she’d just closed. Her dress was made of a loud floral print and was tight as the skin of a peach. Her hairstyle was a frothy thing Picard did not recognize but was probably right for Dixon Hill’s era. She said, “A woman is here to see you.”
“A customer?” Picard said.
“Probably. She’s a looker. You’ll want to see her alone.” The woman glanced meaningfully at Data and Wesley.
“Don’t worry about that,” said Picard. “Shoo her in, Effie. Shoo her in.”
The moment they were alone, Data said, “Is it wise to get involved in a holodeck scenario at this time, sir?”
Earnestly, Picard said, “The Boogeymen are presenting this to us for a reason. Finding out what it is will certainly tell us something.”
“It might be another trap,” Wesley said.
Picard heard Wesley’s intake of breath, and when he looked toward the door, Picard could not help making the same noise.
Posed in the frame of the doorway was one of the most striking women Picard had ever seen. She rivaled even the women of his student days in Paris. The fact that she made Effie look like a boy was no insult to either of them.
She was a redhead to make a priest think twice. Her high-heeled green shoes matched her tailored suit and brought out the color of her eyes. Her mouth was red and inviting. After long study, Picard noted that her stockings were very sheer indeed. Under her arm was a chocolate brown purse large enough to hold the evening papers, and on her head was a green hat that looked as if it had been folded from a desk blotter. Her teardrop earrings might have been dipped from the ocean on a clear day.
The woman said, “Mr. Hill?”
Picard’s impulse was to leap up and help the woman into the customer’s chair, but that wouldn’t have been the detective way. He said, “Who’s asking?”
The woman managed to get into the customer’s chair all by herself. She crossed her astonishing legs, leaned toward him, and said, “My name is Rhonda Howe, and I am in very big trouble.”
“It’s a good day for it, Miss Howe,” Picard said.
Rhonda Howe glanced at Data and Wesley and said, “I thought you worked alone.”
“This is as alone as it gets. Tell me about your problem.”
“Very well.” Picard enjoyed watching her