Dark in Death (In Death 46)

Eve glanced around the second floor. Racks and shelves of clothes, little alcoves with names of designers above the entrances full of more. A lot of frozen fake people wearing outfits. Three grouped together appeared to have a conversation as they posed.

And that was just creepy.

Eve arrowed toward an actual person, one carrying a couple pair of those flowy pants, and moving too fast to be a customer.

“Hold it.”

“Good afternoon! I’m sorry, I’m with a customer. Let me call for a consultant to assist you.”

“I need Alterations.”

“Of course. Just let me—”

“Get me, ah, Jill. Formal wear. Blond, big blue eyes.”

“I’ll call for her right away. Just one moment.”

When she hurried away, Eve decided to give it exactly two minutes before she shoved her badge into someone’s face.

Jill made it in about ninety seconds. When she saw Eve, her big eyes went bigger yet.

“I didn’t say anything to anybody! I swear!”

“We’re not here for that. I need you to take me to Alterations.”

“Oh. Gosh. Customers aren’t allowed down there.”

Eve drew out her badge, but didn’t shove it into Jill’s face. “This makes me a cop, not a customer.”

Behind Eve’s back Peabody dropped her hand from the sweater she’d been stroking.

“Look, Jill, I’m pressed for time. I can get the store manager, go through the damn protocol, or you can just take me where I need

to go.”

“I guess. Okay. I guess it’s okay because you’re the police. I saw the vid and everything.”

“Great. Lead the way.”

“We should take the elevator. It’s in the basement, and you have to swipe to get down there. It’s employees only.”

The elevator proved roomier than the ones at Central, and not as packed with bodies. But once you added the multitude of shopping bags, a baby in one of those wheeled chairs—strollers, Eve remembered—and a good-size dog in a plaid sweater, it made a decent crush.

Everybody poured off on the main floor. Jill swiped for the basement.

Given the underground location, Eve expected a sweatshop atmosphere. Dozens of people huddled over machines, or killing their backs and feet crouched over worktables and stations. Bad lighting, chilly air.

Instead, she stepped into a brightly lit area where about a half dozen people worked on machines or with hand tools at individual stations. Some of them chatted away as they worked. Some wore headsets and bopped a bit like an e-geek.

“This is the main area,” Jill told her. “There’s like a break room and the bathrooms, and a supply area, but—”

“This works. Thanks.”

“I can go back up?”

“Yeah. Keep it zipped for now.”

“I will. I swear!” She escaped.