Memory in Death (In Death 22)

Back on the sidewalk, she stood looking at the police barricades, the throngs behind them, the ugly smears left behind on the pavement. It had been stupid, and plain bad luck, and had too many elements of farce to be overlooked.

But two men who’d been alive that morning were now in bags on their way to the morgue.

“Hey, lady! Hey, lady! Hey, lady!”

On the third call, Eve glanced around and spotted the kid who’d scooted under the police line. He carried a battered suitcase nearly as big as he was.

“You talking to me? Do I look like a lady?”

“Got good stuff.” As she watched, more impressed than surprised, he flipped the latch on the case. A three-legged stand popped out of the bottom, and the case folded out and became a table loaded with mufflers and scarves. “Good stuff. Hundred percent cashmere.”

The kid had skin the color of good black coffee, and eyes of impossible green. There was an airboard hanging on a strap at his back, and the board was painted in hot reds, yellows, and oranges to simulate flames.

Even as he grinned at her, his nimble ringers were pulling up various scarves. “Nice color for you, lady.”

“Jesus, kid, I’m a cop.”

“Cops know good stuff.”

She waved off a uniform hot-footing it in their direction. “I’ve got a couple of dead guys to deal with here.”

“They gone now.”

“Did you see the leaper?”

“Nah.” He shook his head in obvious disgust. “Missed it, but I heard. Get a good crowd when somebody goes and jumps out the window, so I pulled up and came over. Doing good business. How ‘bout this red one

here. Look fine with that bad-ass coat.”

She had to appreciate his balls, but kept her face stern. “I wear a badass coat because I am a bad-ass, and if these are cashmere, I’ll eat the whole trunk of them.”

“Label says cashmere; that’s what counts.” He smiled again, winningly. “You’d look fine in this red one. Make you a good deal.”

She shook her head, but there was a checked one, black and green, that caught her eye. She knew someone who’d wear it. Probably. “How much?” She picked up the checked scarf, found it softer than she’d have guessed.

“Seventy-five. Cheap as dirt.”

She dropped it again, and gave him a look he’d understand. “I’ve got plenty of dirt.”

“Sixty-five.”

“Fifty, flat.” She pulled out credits, made the exchange. “Now get behind the line before I run you in for being short.”

“Take the red one, too. Come on, lady. Half price. Good deal.”

“No. And if I find out you’ve got your fingers in any pockets, I’ll find you. Beat it.”

He only smiled again, flipped the latch, and folded up. “No sweat, no big. Merry Christmas and all that shit.”

“Back at you.” She turned, spotted Peabody heading her way, and with some haste stuffed the scarf in her pocket.

“You bought something. You shopped!”

“I didn’t shop. I purchased what is likely stolen merchandise, or gray-market goods. It’s potential evidence.”

“My ass.” Peabody got her fingers on the tip of the scarf, rubbed. “It’s nice. How much? Maybe I wanted one. I haven’t finished Christmas shopping yet. Where’d he go?”

“Peabody.”