In Death 16 - Portrait in Death

meal, no sexual contact. Kid was driven snow. Got some fibers off her clothes and shoes."
     
     
He played his long, spider fingers over a keyboard until the image popped. "Off the bottom of the shoes I got carpet fibers. Vehicle carpet. Bagged the brand for you. Trouble is it's way common. Find this type, this color, in lots of lower-end vehicles. Mostly vans, SUVs, trucks manufactured between '52 and '57. Newer stuff's been ungraded, but you can still buy this carpet for replacement. See, it's a brown, beige, black mix."
     
     
He tapped the screen where a sample of the fiber was magnified so it looked like a frayed hunk of rope. "Pretty much a horseshit color. You get the carpet, we can match it, but it's not a lot of help unless you do."
     
     
"Give me something better."
     
     
"A little patience, a little respect." He stuffed the rest of the bagel in his mouth and talked over it. "Fibers on her clothes from the chair he had her in. Colors match the image he shot, and are again typical of low-end upholstery fabric. Our guy doesn't spend a lot of money on vehicles and furniture if these are representative. But..."
     
     
He moved to another image. "He doesn't stint on the enhancements. Look, here are shots of her taken before. The shot of her taken post-mortem. He made up her face for the portrait."
     
     
"Yeah, I got that already."
     
     
"None of these products used match anything she had at home. Fact is, you can see from the candids she didn't wear much face paint. Didn't need it. Got a fresh look about her. But he polished her up for this shot. Samples taken from the body are top-drawer, professional enhancements. The sort of stuff models and actors use. This brand of lip dye-counter name Barrymore, shade First Blush? It goes for a hundred-fifty smackeroos retail."
     
     
"I'll need the list of all identified products."
     
     
"Yeah, yeah." He flipped her a disc. "And we got another interesting tidbit. Traces of NuSkin bandage on her chest."
     
     
"Yeah, so Morris said."
     
     
"The unmedicated kind. He bandaged the wound, but no point in medication because, hey, dead girl. But he didn't want her bleeding on her shirt." He brought up a close-up image of the wound on-screen. "No corresponding hole in the shirt she was wearing. He didn't stab her through the shirt or the bra."
     
     
"He took them off her first," Eve murmured. "Maybe not off, maybe just loosened them. Stabbed her. Pressure bandage to stop the bleeding so it didn't get on her clothes for the shot. Buttoned her back up, posed her. But when he's done, he takes the bandage off again. Why?"
     
     
She paced away to think. "Because he was done. He's finished with her and she's just garbage now. Maybe he worries about fingerprints on the bandage, or that it can somehow be traced back to him. Or maybe he doesn't think or worry about that, and just kept it back as a fucking souvenir." She dragged a hand through her hair.
     
     
"I've seen sicker," Dickie commented.
     
     
"Yeah, there's always sicker."
     
     
***
     
     
"Trina'd be a good source on the enhancements," Peabody said as they got back into the car. "She'd know all the local and online sources for the products."
     
     
"Yeah." Eve had already thought of that. And of what would happen if she contacted the stylist. She'd be trapped into some sort of horrifying and sadistic session that involved haircuts and facials and body treatments.
     
     
She shuddered.
     
     
"You talk to her."
     
     
"Coward."
     
     
"That's right. Want to make something of it?"
     
     
Peabody studied Eve's hair. "You could probably use a little trim."
     
     
"Maybe you could use a good colonic."
     
     
Peabody hunched her shoulders. "Just saying."
     
     
"Contact her when you're back in your cube. I don't want to be anywhere in the vicinity. If she asks, tell her I'm on a top-secret investigation off planet. I may not be back for weeks. No, years."
     
     
"Check. Meanwhile?"
     
     
"Diego."
     
     
"It's not lunchtime."
     
     
"You can have a breakfast burrito."
     
     
***
     
     
But Peabody knew she was doomed to go hungry within five minutes of entering the pretty cantina. It smelled great. All spicy and exotic. Kids were chomping down their morning meals in booths and four-tops, giving the place a buzzy chatter while the waitstaff moved along efficiently, topping off mugs of fancy coffees.
     
     
Diego didn't work the breakfast shift they were told by one of the busy waitresses.