Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

“Zip it, Peabody.”

Rather than zipping it, Peabody made a yum sound, and stepped into the doorway holding one of Eve’s shoes as if it were a priceless gem.

“They’re so awesome mag it’s beyond all magnitude.” Peabody completed the pink theme—pink coat, striped cap heavy on the pink, pink fuzzy-topped boots—with her square face flushed pink with awe.

“Put the damn shoe down. Are those my clothes?”

“What? Oh, yeah, we got here just as the driver pulled up with—” Peabody squealed again as she finally tore her eyes from the sparkle of the shoe and looked at Eve. “The dress!”

“Shut up.” Eve snatched the garment bag from Peabody’s other hand.

“Oh, but it’s gorgeous! It’s … sexigance.”

“It’s a dress, and that’s not even a word.”

“Sexy elegance. It’s all so … you got blood and matter on the hem, and some blood— A good cleaner can get all that out.”

“That is my immediate priority. The dead guy over there? He’s an afterthought.”

“It’s just that—” Peabody broke off, focusing on the body and finding her inner cop. “He won’t have to worry about having that suit cleaned. He was a doctor, right? No physician healing himself this round. Any update on the wife’s status?”

“No. We’ll get to that. I’ve notified the sweepers and the morgue. I’ve got TOD, and the obvious on-scene COD. Seal up, start on the room. I’m using the bathroom to change.”

Shutting herself in the elaborate white-and-gold bathroom, Eve stripped out of the dress. Relief was immediate.

In the bag she found everything she needed. She tried not to think of Summerset selecting and packing her underwear—that way lay madness—but pulled it on, dragged on soft wool trousers, blissfully black, a pale gray sweater, her weapon harness and main police issue, sturdy black boots, a black jacket with needle-thin gray stripes.

He’d included the cases for the jewelry she wore, so she took it off, piece by piece, puzzled out the coordinating cases. He’d also included her ankle holster—she had to give him props for that as she strapped it on.

That left her coat, the snowflake hat she’d grown fond of, a scarf with black, gray, and red stripes—she could live with the red—and a pair of surely insanely expensive fur-lined gloves she’d lose in no time.

Feeling like herself again, she rolled her shoulders, glanced at the ornately framed mirror over the long vanity. Said, “Shit!”

Real clothes (even if they were embarrassingly fashionable) aside, she still had on her fancy party face. And had no way to take it down to cop.

She grabbed the garment bag, stepped out. “Peabody!”

“Sir!” Snapping to it, Peabody stuck her head out of Anthony Strazza’s closet.

“Do you have any gunk? You know, the gunk that takes off the gunk?” To illustrate, Eve circled a finger in front of her face.

“Cleanser? Enhancement remover? No, not with me.”

“Crap, crap, crap.”

“You look good.”

“Another of my top priorities.”

“No, really. You still look like a hard-ass. In fact, the lip dye only boosts the hard-assery.”

“Bullshit.” But since previous experience had taught her that soap and water simply smeared everything so the skin looked like one livid bruise, she opted to forget her face.

But when she walked over, started to shove the shoes into the bag, Peabody leaped toward her.

“No! You can’t just shove them in there. Aren’t there shoe bags? Let me do it. Let me! Dr. Strazza strikes as more than a little OCD.”

“Because?”