“No,” Eve said flatly when Peabody snagged a sampler.
“Popping Pink. Who doesn’t want to pop?” Peabody squeezed some on an applicator, tapped it on her lips.
“Cut that out. You’re not a girl in here. You’re a cop.”
“I’m a girl cop.” And Peabody did a quick, agile turn toward eye crap.
Apparently, Eve noted, the managerial position required less normal. She watched the woman with plum-colored hair and silver brow studs clip her way over on high zebra-striped boots.
“I’m the manager. And you’re—”
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We’re looking for this man.”
“So I saw on screen last night. Why do you think he came in here?”
“He was in this area, and he shopped in this area. We’re checking other venues.”
“I see. Do you know what he might have wanted, what sort of products he might have come in for? Frankly, I hardly see why a suspected murderer would shop for enhancements or body products. We’re hardly a den of iniquity.”
“You recognized his face.”
“I told you I saw it on the media bulletin last night.”
Put it together, sister, Eve thought, but spelled it out.
“I bet a lot of other people did, too. A lot of people who might recognize him if, say, he walked into a deli for a freaking bowl of soup. So being the suspicious type I figure he might have enough brains to change his hair color.”
“Oh.” The manager took a deep breath that projected both annoyance and concern. “We should move into hair then. Perhaps one of our stylists can help you. That’s a lovely shade on you,” she said to Peabody, with a much warmer smile. “You shouldn’t be without it. Should I have it held for you?”
“Oh, I … it does look mag.”
“No.” Eve cut them both off. “I think, I don’t know, just spit-balling, but we should spend our time here trying to track down a murderer. Hair?”
“Of course.” The smile faded, the eyes chilled. “This way.”
She wound through the kiosks, the shelves, the customers who, like Peabody, played with samples or loaded up silver baskets with products they figured would ma
ke them sexier, prettier, softer, smoother, younger.
Feeling Peabody’s attention wander, Eve bared her teeth. Peabody quickened her pace.
“Marsella? I’d like you to help these women.”
“I’d love to.” Marsella, her short, sharp cap of raven black edged with candy pink, beamed a welcoming smile. “What a stellar and interesting cut,” she said to Eve. “So few could pull that off. I have a wonderful product that would punch out your highlights. And I love the casual day-do,” she said to Peabody. I bet you’d look mag in hot curls for an evening bounce. The home-care kit is incredibly easy to do. And you could—”
“Fascinating,” Eve interrupted in a tone that said otherwise. “But we’re more interested in him.”
She flashed the photo of Reinhold, and her badge.
“Oh. Oh.” Marsella shot a wide-eyed—smoked lids, heavily kohled—glance at her manager. “I don’t understand.”
“Do you recognize him?” Eve demanded.
“Well, yeah. I don’t understand,” she repeated.
“How do you recognize him?”
“From yesterday, when I served him. I don’t—”