In Death 25 - Creation in Death

what.” Then he held up his hand. “Just back off a minute, back off a minute. Goddamn it.”
    Because it wasn’t his usual style, Eve kept silent while he stared down at his own long, mobile fingers.
    “Some of them stick with you, you know? They stick in your gut. Other shit comes in and you work that, and it seems like you put it away. Then it comes back and kicks you in the balls.”
    He drew a breath, looked up at Eve. It wasn’t just fury, she saw now, but the bitter frustration that on the job could push perilously close to grief.
    “You know how when it stopped, just stopped cold, everybody figured he got dead, or he got tossed in a cage for something else? We didn’t get him, and that was a bitch, but it stopped.” Berenski heaved out a breath. “But it didn’t. He didn’t get dead or tossed in a cage. He was just bopping around Planet Earth having his high old time. Now he’s back on my desk, and it pisses me off.”
    “I’m serving as President of the Pissed-off Club. I’ll take your application for membership under advisement.”
    He snorted out a laugh, and the crisis passed.
    “I got the results. I was just rerunning the data. Triple check. It’s not the same brands as before.”
    “The old brands still available?”
    “Yeah, yeah, here’s the thing. He used shea butter soap with olive and palm oils, oils of rose and chamomile on the four prior vics. Handmade soap, imported from France. Brand name L’Essence or however the frogs say that. Cake style, about fifteen bucks a pop nine years back. Shampoo, same manufacturer, same name, caviar and fennel extracts.”
    “They put caviar in shampoo?” Peabody demanded. “What a waste.”
    “Just fish eggs, and disgusting if you ask me. Tech in Wales was good enough to work the trace, got the same deal as me. Same for Florida. They didn’t get anything in Romania or in Bolivia. But now he’s switched brands.”
    “To?”
    “Okay, what we got is still handmade soap, got your shea butter—cocoa butter addition, olive oil, and oil from grapefruit and apricot. Specifically—and this took a little finessing—your pink grapefruit. It’s made in Italy, exclusively, and get this, it’s going to run you fifty smacks a bar.”
    “So he upgraded.”
    “Yeah, that’s the thing. I took a look at the Internet site, check these out.” He brought the images of the soaps up. Each was a deep almost jewel-like color, with various flowers or herbs studding the edges. “Only one store in the city carries them. The shampoo’s from the same place. White truffle oil, running one-fifty for an eight-ounce bottle.”
    He sniffed, he snorted. “I wouldn’t pay that for a bottle of prime liquor.”
    “You don’t have to pay,” Eve said absently. “You get your booze in bribes.”
    “Yeah, but just the same.”
    Pricey, exclusive products. Prestige, Eve thought. The best of the best? “What’s the outlet in the city?”
    “Place called Scentual. Got a store midtown on Madison and Fifty-third, and one down in the West Village on Christopher.”
    “Good. How about the sheet?”
    “Irish linen, thread count of seven hundred. That’s another change. First time he used Egyptian cotton, five hundred thread count. Manufacturer’s in Ireland and Scotland. Buncha outlets around. Your higher-end department stores and bedding places carry the brand. Fáilte.”
    He massacred the Irish, Eve knew, as she’d heard the word before.
    “Okay, send copies to me, to Whitney, to Tibble, and to Feeney. You finish with the water?”
    “Still working it. At a guess, and I mean guess, it’s city water, but filtered. May be out of the tap, but with a filtration system that purifies. We got good water in New York. This guy, I’m thinking, is a fanatic for pure.”
    “For something. Okay, thanks. Peabody, let’s go shopping.”
    “Hot dog!”
    “Dallas.” Berenski swiveled on his stool again. “Bring me something more this time. Get me something.”
    “Working on it.”
    She hit the downtown boutique first, and was assaulted with fragrance the moment they walked in. Like falling into some big-ass bouquet, Eve thought.
    The clerks all wore strong colors. To mirror the products, Eve supposed, and the products were displayed as if they were priceless pieces of art in a small, intimate museum.
    There were a number of customers, browsing, buying, which, given the price tag on a bar of soap, made Eve wonder what the hell was wrong with them.
    She and Peabody