And when the image popped this time, she read clearly the fancy brass tag of the manufacturer. “Cachet. Okay, what does that give us? Computer, identify model of baggage on screen, manufactured through Cachet.”
WORKING . . . UNIT IDENTIFIED AS MODEL NUMBER 345/92-C, MARKETED AS BUSINESS ELITE AND AVAILABLE IN LEATHER OR CLOTHUNIT MEASURES FOURTEENBY EIGHT BY SIX AND PASSES FAA AND PAA CARRY-ON REQUIREMENTS FOR ALL AIR AND SPACE TRANSPORTATION. 345/92-C IS A NEW MODEL, AVAILABLE SINCE JANUARY OF THE CURRENT YEAR. CACHET IS THE TRADENAME OF A DIVISION OF SOLAR LIGHTS, A ROARKE INDUSTRIES CORPORATION.
“Who didn’t know that,” Eve muttered. “Out since January. There’s a nice little break. Computer . . . No, never mind.” She shifted to her interdepartment ’link and snagged McNab.
“Cachet, luggage. Their model 345/92-C, called Business Elite. Get me a list of where that model was sold, in black leather, since its intro in January of this year. I want locations, and from those locations, I want names. Who bought the bag?”
“That’s going to take—”
“Time,” she finished. “Did you run out of that substance?”
“No, sir. I’m on it.”
“So am I,” she murmured, then rose. She grabbed her jacket, her files, then strode out to Peabody’s cubicle in the bull pen. “I’m heading home to run some data. I want you to check on the hair.”
“Hair, sir?”
“Yost’s hair. No way that was his. Just doesn’t fit his face, and it’s too damn fussy for his style. So it’s a rug, a good one. And my hunch is he has a collection. Start off with the one he’s wearing on the security tapes, check salons and beauty suppliers, top-level ones, major cities. He doesn’t fool around with second line. And start with stuff that’s natural fiber and nonallergic or whatever it’s called. He likes things clean. He carries a leather suitcase rather than the lighter, manmade cloth.”
Peabody opened her mouth, but Eve was already striding away so she didn’t get to ask what a leather suitcase had to do with a wig.
Eve walked in the front door of the house just as Roarke came down the stairs. She blew her bangs out of her eyes and frowned at him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I live here.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, and I might ask the same. You’re not off-shift as yet.”
“I’ve got stuff I want to run here instead of at Central.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah, ah. And since you’re here, I should be able to cut some time. I’ve got some questions you could—”
She started up as she spoke, breaking off when he laid a hand on her arm. “I was just upstairs, settling Mick into one of the guest rooms.”
“Mick? Oh.” She paused. “Oh.”
“Do you have a problem with him staying here for a few days?”
“No.” The timing sucks, she thought. Seriously sucks. “Like you said, you live here.”
“As do you. I realize he comes from a time in my life that isn’t entirely comfortable for you.” He ran a finger over the strap of her shoulder harness. “Lieutenant. But it is, in fact, a time in my life.”
“I met a few of your friends from Dublin before. I like Brian.”
“I know.” He laid his hands on her shoulders now, ran them down her back, moving closer until his brow rested on hers. “Mick was important to me, Eve. As close, likely closer than a brother might have been through some very ugly times, and some good ones. I thought he was dead, and I’d adjusted to that.”
“And now you know he isn’t.” She understood friendship, its pulls and tugs and its puzzles. “Would you mind asking him not to do anything I’d have to arrest him for while he’s staying in one of the guest rooms?”
He shifted just enough to press his lips to hers. “I think you’ll like him.”
“Yeah.” And they both knew he hadn’t agreed to her request. “You Irish guys are pretty likable. Listen, I just want to say you don’t need any trouble right now, with the way this homicide investigation is heading.”
He nodded. “It was never her, was it? That poor little maid.”