Desperation in Death (In Death #55)(14)

“In her hair?”

“Frizz fighter, right?” Peabody said.

Harvo did an air check mark with a purple-tipped finger. “You got it in one. A hydrating leave-in spray to kick the frizzies. I’m running the compound for brand ID.” She jerked a thumb at the humming machine.

“Nailed the pants, but can’t take credit. They had a label. Wool blend, navy, size five, regular. Morsett Uniform Suppliers. They have their main branch in Philadelphia.”

“That fits.”

“They’d been professionally hemmed—a good inch, so I’d say the regular length was too long—but short, too, you know, short. The shirt? A hundred percent cotton, broadcloth, and that’ll cost ya.”

“How much?”

“Well, considering the stitching, the buttons, the cut? I’m going to say a solid two-fifty. No label, which is a little odd, right? No evidence a label was removed. It’s a size medium, I can give you that, and I can tell you it had some tailoring for fit—taken in some at the torso, shortened about a half inch. Damn good job, too.”

“Like it was made for her?” Eve asked.

“Tailored to fit, abso-poso. And no manufacturer or brand label’s either a glitch or deliberate. I can run a search, but you’re gonna end up with multitudes for a white, short-sleeved, cuffed cotton broadcloth shirt. It’s a staple, right? You’d have zillions more in a blend, but higher-end, still multitudes.”

“Run it,” Eve decided. “Stick with outlets in the city to start. We could get lucky.”

“Here to serve. Now, the undies? Who puts sexy virgin undies on a kid that age? Pervs, sick fucks.” Harvo put up both hands, closed her eyes, took a breath. “Have to stop thinking. No labels.”

“No labels in the underwear?”

“Nada. You’ve got a silk georgette, white push-up bra with white lace trim, size thirty-two-A, and matching thong, size five. I’m giving you US sizes.”

“Okay.”

“These are high-end, the material, the design, the craftsmanship. I’m going to be able to narrow them easier than the shirt on a search. Best guess, the bra’s going to go for seven, eight hundred, even up to a grand.”

“Dollars? Dollars?” Eve repeated. “For a tit lifter?”

“A silk tit lifter with exceptional architecture and construction. The thong’s an easy three hundred.”

Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “Three hundred for something designed not to cover your ass. People are just screwed up.”

“I’ve got a black thong and a baby-pink one so I have a choice on my tonight’s-the-night undies,” Harvo commented. “But thirty bucks for a thong’s top of my limit.”

Eve just nodded. “I’m going to file that data away, somewhere I never think of it again.”

“Hold on.” Harvo pushed her stool over to the machine. “Hair product’s Gretta Giselle’s Hydrating Frizz Barrier Spray. Retails for two-fifty—and yeah, dollars—for a sixteen-ounce bottle. Higher-end retail stores, salons, and like that.”

She pushed back. “I’ll need some time to get you manufacturers and outlets on the shirt and the undies. Undies, like I said, should be quicker.”

“As soon as you can. This is good information, Harvo. Thanks for the quick work.”

“It’s what I do. Hey, Peabody, next time I want some pictures of the Great Mavis and Peabody House Project progress.”

“Oh, I got them. I’ll text you some.”

“Solid.”

As they headed out, Eve ran it all through her head. “Tailored a pricey but basic white shirt. How much, you figure, for that end?”

“Taking it in, shortening it? At least fifty. If you had basic skills, it’s an easy do-it-yourself.”

“Maybe, maybe whoever had her knew how to tailor, or had somebody on tap who did. That’s about three-fifty for the shirt. No label, so yeah, maybe somebody knows how to sew, how to tailor. But it has to be different for the bra, right? Even the thong deal, but the bra, that’s got the tit-lifter stuff, the hooks.”

“More specialized,” Peabody agreed. “I’ve never made one—I mean, why would you? Well, no,” she considered. “Maybe you just can’t find one that fits right, so you learn to make them, or pay someone to custom. Getting the right fit in a bra is like everything.”

“They just keep tits from jumping around.”

Deliberately, Peabody aimed a solemn look at Eve’s chest. “Easy for you when your girls are high, firm, and small. Those of us with big, bouncy girls need a good fit so we don’t spend our days hauling it up, tugging it down, or just suffering.”

Peabody changed the solemn look to a sorrowful glance. “And the suffering’s real.”

“The vic was just thirteen—she had girls, but I’m going with high, firm, and relatively small. No way she needed a custom bra.”

“My big, bouncy girls and I can’t argue that point.”

“Maybe whoever took her and/or held her works in a place that makes underwear. Maybe runs a company that does. You could get products made or make them, without the labels if you wanted to keep that part of your life hidden.”

When they got back to the car, Peabody strapped in. “I don’t know. Why not just go to one of the places that sell sexy bras and thongs and buy them? You buy a standard-type brand, we’d have a hell of a time tracking it. And the shirt, that bugs me. So it’s a little wide, a little long. Why go to the trouble to tailor it?”