Vendetta in Death (In Death #49) - J. D. Robb Page 0,103
bright spring green.
Her own hair, drawn back in a little bouncy tail, matched the field. A tiny glittery stud—green ranked as the day’s color—winked on the side of her nose.
She had tunes going, bouncy like her tail of hair, as her fingers—tipped in more green—danced over her screen.
She glanced over as Eve stepped in, shot out a smile. She snapped her fingers three times. The music shut off.
“Hey, Dallas. Hanging tough? Just finished your deal. Take off a load,” she invited with a gesture to another stool.
“I’m good, thanks. A little pressed.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know how that rides. So your hair had your vic’s blood and skin tissue all over it. And see, like, some started to scab over, so he was still breathing when she lost it on him—and it stuck in the blood. Just his blood and tissue, btw.”
“Could you get DNA?”
“Old hair, Dallas. Old, dead hair, no root. What you sent me came from human hair, yeah, but old. It came from an enhancement.”
No DNA, she thought. Not as big a turn in luck as she’d hoped.
“A wig?”
“Possibly extensions or lifters, but I say wig at a solid eighty-five percent. And no cheapie deal. Human hair, almost all non–color treated, so whoever sold or donated it had true black hair.”
“Almost all?”
Harvo swiveled, brought up a magnification of the hair on-screen. “Just a touch—tiny—of silver there. And that’s color added—hard to tell how much because this strand broke off. It’s not root to tip, but a partial.”
Eve didn’t bother to ask how she’d know all that. No need to question the queen.
“And that’s a pro color—Numex brand, Lightning Strike. So I’m seeing what’s most likely some drama streaks,” Harvo told her, “because most people aren’t going to add silver to a wig except for that.”
“Because most people remove the gray—or silver.”
All cheer, Harvo tapped a finger in the air. “Exactamundo. Now, maybe somebody wanted to add age in—like for a costume or whatever. In any case, there’ll be some silver streaked or dashed like through the wig. The hair? I’m saying Asian. It’s good, thick, healthy. That costs. And it’s been well-maintained. Professionally maintained, with professional-grade products. Specifically, Allure Hair Enhancement Conditioner.”
“You got a brand on that, too?”
“Dallas.” Harvo spread her hands. “Who you talking to?”
“You got a brand,” Dallas repeated, this time as a statement. She wanted to ask if Harvo was sure about the wig, but didn’t. She did know who she was talking to.
“She posed as a street level. Purple hair. The bartender said purple, like lilacs, not black. He was two feet away. Even in dim light, he couldn’t mistake the color. Why does she change wigs? Why does she wear a wig when she’s torturing them?”
“Above my pay grade on that. Could just be she likes different looks for different, you know, tasks.”
“Costumes?” Eve turned a circle, paced. “Just like you said. Is it all costumes? Part of the role? Wouldn’t she want them to see her when she’s got them in her control? When they’re helpless? Wouldn’t she—”
She stopped, turned back. “They do. Son of a bitch. They do see her, as she sees herself. Lady fucking Justice.”
“Well, Lady fucking Justice wore a top-of-the-line, human hair, professionally maintained wig when she offed this guy. That I can tell you.”
“Yeah. Yeah, she did. Thanks, Harvo.”
“Here to serve.”
Eve stopped at the doorway. “What’s all that?” she asked, circling a finger toward Harvo’s lab coat.
“On the coat? Dallas, that’s the periodic table. Better life, and better death, through chemistry, right?”
“Hard to argue. See you around.”
18
Eve walked back into Homicide, saw Peabody’s empty desk.
“Peabody?” she asked Baxter.
“In Interview.”
No point in pushing in on that, she decided. “I may need a stakeout team tonight. Looking at maybe nineteen to twenty-three hundred. You and Trueheart volunteered.”
“Yeah, we’re selfless that way. Is this the Lady Justice case?”
“She’s on a streak, and I can’t see her breaking it. One potential target’s out of town, but the other’s got a fancy deal later tonight. She may try to scoop him up from there.”
“Have tux, will travel.”
“You’re not going to the fancy deal. You’re going to sit on a big, fancy house. I need to know if and when my prime suspect leaves. Any vehicle, but so far she’s used a dark town car. You see that vehicle or a white all-terrain, a silver sedan leave the residence, you tag me, and you follow.”
“Hear that, kid?” Baxter said to Trueheart. “It’s time for stakeout snacks.”