Dark in Death (In Death 46)

“I think … I guess … We did a lot of shopping that day, but it was either over on Third Avenue or maybe over on Ninth Street. I mostly think Third Avenue, right after we came out of Baby Love. My brother and his wife had a baby right before Thanksgiving, so we shopped there. I think that was it. Or else it was when we were on Ninth Street. It was back in December for sure, though. The first Saturday in December, because I asked for the day off—right, Cheeta? Cheeta can check. I asked for it off so we could go shopping as a team. And have lunch and—before lunch!”

Now Yolanda clapped her hands together, as if she’d won a prize. “Before lunch. I’m sure it was because it hurt my feelings when she saw me and walked away, and I talked about it at lunch. So the baby store for sure.”

“That’s very helpful, Yolanda.”

“I hate to get her in trouble.”

“You haven’t. You may have helped others out of it. If anyone remembers anything more, I’m going to leave cards with your supervisor. Contact me, anytime. Ms. Gomez, if you can compile that list.”

“I’ll need about an hour. Last year’s files would have been archived, as would a former employee’s tickets—work tickets.”

“Send it to me the minute you have it. Thank you for your time.”

In the elevator Eve pulled out her ’link.

“That was a lucky break,” Peabody commented.

“Maybe. Time to call in the locals.” She tagged her contact. “Lieutenant McMahon, Lieutenant Dallas. I’m still on your turf.”

By the time she got to the car she had Brooklyn ready to canvass the two areas Yolanda gave her.

“Anything?” she asked Callendar, who worked, car-seat danced, and slurped a fizzie in the back.

“Got a list started.”

“I’m going to have another coming in. We’re going to cross yours with that, see if we get any matches. Can you stick with this, Callendar?”

“You got me until the cap says different. Somebody smells like a fancy girl’s gym locker, after a sweaty volleyball game.”

“I’ve got to get it off!” Peabody rubbed at her wrist. “It was just a little spritz.”

“Serves you right.”

Eve took off, updated her teams—both of which currently batted zero.

“Shorter red hair,” she murmured as she wove through traffic. “She needed that to stalk Glaze in character, to select which woman connected to him would be her primary target.”

“Prob

ably a rinse,” Callendar murmured back.

“A what?”

“Maybe she dyed it, maybe she went with temp color. You got somebody needing the different looks to become different killers, smarter to rinse it so you can wash it out, change it back, or change it to something else.”

“Like Mavis,” Peabody explained.

“It just washes out?”

“It takes a few times—and you can seal it so it won’t wash out for more than a few. Like my tips. I want to try them out for a while—not make a total commitment, right? It costs more to seal it up, but you can still do it all yourself. Home jobs.”

“Home jobs—that’s what I heard before, too,” Eve remembered. “The next killer she’ll become is male. Dark brown curly hair—past the jawline. I was figuring wig, but she’s on a budget. Which is cheaper, home-job curls or wig?”

“Home job,” Peabody and Callendar said together.

“Especially temp curls. You can wash them out, too,” Peabody added. “You can get them with a hair tool and some product. If you want longer lasting, you need to do a home perm.”

“What does ‘perm’—whatever that is—have to do with curly hair?”