In Death 22 - Memory in Death

ears.
    “Yo,” she said.
    “That my fiber?”
    “One and the same. Hair’s turned in.”
    “Yeah, I got that from Dickhead. I thought you were the Queen of Hair, not fiber.”
    “Queen of Hair,” Harvo agreed with a snap of her chewing gum. “Goddess of Fiber. Fact of it is, I’m
    just fucking brilliant.”
    “Good to know. What’ve we got?”
    “Synthetic white poly with traces of elastizine. Same constitution as the particles found in the unfortunate vic’s bone and gray matter. What you’re looking for is either a sock or a tummy tamer. But I’d say not a girdlenot enough elastizine.”
    “Sock,” Eve said.
    “And you’d win the prize. Compared fibers to a lone white sock taken from the scene. You got your match. New sock, never worn, never washed. Still traces of gum on the lone one, from the tag, and
    I got me a tiny bit of plastic jammed in the toe. You know how they snap the socks together with the
    little plastic string?”
    “Yeah, I hate those.”
    “Everyone does. You got to cut them apart, and who’s got a knife or scissors handy when you want to wear your new socks?” Harvo snapped the gum in her mouth and circled a finger in the air. The nail
    was painted Christmas red with little green trees. “Freaking nobody. So you” She fisted her hands together, twisted. “And half the time you snag the socks, or end up with a little bit of plastic inside that stabs you in the foot.”
    “Pisser.”
    “Yeah.”
    “How about the tag?”
    “It’s your lucky daythe sweepers were thorough and brought in the contents of the trash can. Came from the bathroom. I took it since I was doing the fibers anyway.”
    She scooted, showed Eve the tag.
    “It was balled up, like you do, and a piece of it torn. Fibers stuck to the gummy side. Anyways, got it straightened out, put together, and you can see our handy bar code, and the type.”
    She tapped the protective shield over the evidence.
    “Women’s athletic socks, size seven to nine. Which is another pisser on my personal bitch list. See I
    wear a seven myself, and when I buy socks like this, I always got too much length in the foot. Why
    can’t they just make them fit? We have the technology, we have the skill. We have the feet.”
    “That’s a puzzler,” Eve agreed. “Prints?”
    “Vic’s, tag and sock. Got another on the tag. Ran it.” She bumped back to the screen. “Hitch, Jayne. Employed by Blossom Boutique on Seventh, sales clerk. I don’t know, call me crazy, but I bet Jayne
    sold the vic a pair of socks recently.”
    “Nice job, Harvo.”
    “Yeah, I awe myself regular.”
    * * *
    It was a simple matter to track down Jayne. She was behind the counter at the boutique ringing up sales with the focused determination of a soldier on the front lines.
    The shop was jammed with customers, drawn, Eve imagined, by the big orange sale signs on every
    rack, table, and wall. The noise level, punched upward by incessent holiday music, was awesome.
    You could shop online, Eve thought, if you were desperate to shop. Why people insisted on pushing into retail outlets with other people who probably wanted the same merchandise, where the lines roped around in endlessly confusing misery and torture, and where the sales clerks were bitter as raw spinach, was beyond her.
    When she said the same to Peabody, her partner’s answer was a chipper “Because it’s fun!”
    To various consumers’ annoyance and objections, Eve cut the line and muscled her way up front.
    “Hey! I’m next.”
    Eve turned to the woman all but buried under piles of clothing, and held up her badge. “This means I go first. Need to talk to you, Jayne.”
    “What? Why? I’m busy.”
    “Gee, me, too. Got a back room?”
    “Man. Sol? Cover register two. Back here.” She thumped her way on two-inch-thick airsoles down a short corridor. “What? Listen, we were having a damn party. Parties get loud. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. My across-the-hall neighbor is a primo bitch.”
    “Next time ask her to the party,” Peabody suggested. “Hard to complain if you’re part of the noise.”
    “I’d rather eat worm shit.”
    The back room was loaded with stock, boxes, bags. Jayne sat down on a stack of underwear. “Anyway, I’m off my feet for a minute. It’s lunacy out there. Christmas makes people insane. And that bit about goodwill toward men? It sure as hell doesn’t apply to retail.”
    “You sold a pair of socks to a woman sometime between Thursday and