Considering, Eve took a corner. “I’ll drop you home.”
“You will?”
“It’s on the way, basically.” And, she remembered, Peabody began and ended her day in the dark, too. “Check the alibi. It’s going to hold, but check it through.”
“It’s Trina’s salon. I can tag her, get the full skinny.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
“It’s a wonder he didn’t tap the sister. She’s just his type, right? Just into her forties, plenty of money, really attractive.”
“Who says he didn’t?”
“Well, she did.” But now Peabody’s eyebrows drew together. “But yeah, she strikes as a better liar than little sister.”
“We’ll see. And we’ll run through the rest of the client list tomorrow. Martella Schubert’s not going to be the only one he dosed, if he dosed her. We can start working that angle.”
“He’s our dead guy,” Peabody said, “but I really hate when they’re fuckheads.”
“Being a fuckhead’s a good reason to punch somebody in the face, not to cave in their skull.”
“Still, I wish he’d been a nice guy. On the other hand, then he’d be a dead nice guy, and you’d have to feel bad. So maybe being a fuckhead’s better.”
“Just check the alibi, Peabody.” Eve pulled over to the curb.
“On it. Thanks for the lift. Hey, look at that hoodie!”
She pointed to a sidewalk stall and the virulent orange hooded sweatshirt with an animated hula dancer plastered over the front.
“That’s just perfect for McNab. A little from-Santa present.”
“Does he know Santa doesn’t exist?”
“Santa exists in the hearts of all true believers.” Face aglow, Peabody patted her own. “Can I borrow fifty bucks?”
“What?”
“I’m short until payday.”
“You’re short every day.”
“Ho, ho, ho. Financially, in this case. Please? He’d really love that hoodie.”
“Christ. Santa Claus and hula dancers,” Eve muttered as she dug into her pockets.
“Oh, there’s one with a gyrating Elvis in a Santa hat! How much fun is that!”
“Elvis has been dead a hundred years. How is it fun to have a dead man gyrating on your chest?”
“Elvis never dies, just like Santa. No, it’s the hula girl. Except—”
Eve shoved money at Peabody. “Go, buy McNab a ridiculous hoodie. Get out of my car.”
“Fun! Shopping! Bye!”
Eve pulled out, flicked a glance in the rearview. And saw Peabody doing a happy little bounce in front of dancing, gyrating hoodies.
Merry Christmas.
But it got her thinking, made her curse and check the time. If she only had two days, and today was practically over, when the hell was she supposed to buy stuff for people the rules somehow dictated she had to buy stuff for?
She headed uptown, took a detour. It was a little late in the day, but there was a chance she’d find a source who could wrap it all up for her—or at least some of it—quick and easy.
She drove by first, spotted the kid on his corner, manning his stall, then dealt with the insanity of parking.
She had to hoof it two blocks, through the raging sea of tourists, of shoppers, of semi-sane New Yorkers just trying to get the hell home after the workday.
She studied the stall as she approached. Scarves, capes, socks, gloves, mittens, caps, hats—the kid had expanded since their last encounter.
She watched him make change, fold three scarves into a clear bag. “Have a good one.”
Then his dark eyes shifted over, met hers. His grin spread. “Yo, Dallas. What you say?”
“Yo, Tiko. Business is good.”
“Business is tight.”
He was a squirt of a thing, a kid who probably should’ve been home playing video games or sweating over math homework. But at heart, Tiko was a businessman.
“You catch any bad guys?”
“Not today, but the day’s not over. Late for you out here, isn’t it?”
“Holiday business. I got till seven-thirty. My granny’s good with that. Deke! Help that lady there. One of my employees,” Tiko told her, nodded toward a skinny kid wearing fingerless gloves and an earflap cap. “I got two.”
“Employees now?”
His eyes did an amused dance under the bright stripes of the watch cap he wore pulled low. “For the Christmas rush, sure. Got some nice scarves here. Got cotton, got wool, got cashmere, got silk blends. You can match ’em up with gloves and a cap, make a gift set.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets. “I’ve got some girl types I need to get stuff for.”
“What kind of girl types? Friends, relations, coworkers?”
Eve huffed out a breath. “Friends, I guess. Friends.”
“Good ones? Or the kind you just gotta come up with shit for?”