Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(92)

“Yes, dominant left. He also had a very good start on cirrhosis of the liver, and other health issues. His first wounds, and the last? Only three to four hours between. You’re quite right, she didn’t have or didn’t spend as much time with him.”

“No point torturing him until he’s conscious. And I think she may have had to break off. Then she had to get him back before one of the residents came home from night shift work. Used to be on the job, so he was helpful.”

“A stroke of luck.”

“So was the hair Peabody found that I’m hoping Harvo’s nailed down for us. He tell you anything else?”

“The scarring on his knuckles indicates he used his fists regularly over the years. The damage to his body tells me he drank to excess just as regularly, had a poor diet, sketchy dental hygiene. Not helpful.”

“You have to know the vic to know the killer. She knew all of this. He was likely the easiest mark of the three, and still she made mistakes. Gave him too much of the drug, had to rush her kill so she didn’t check the body well enough to make sure she didn’t leave anything.

“She’s getting sloppy,” Eve concluded, “and also taking bigger risks. She sat right at the bar with this one, long enough to order a drink, have a conversation, with the bartender right there. So …”

She tossed him the chips. “Thanks.”

Eve thought it through on her way to the lab. Definitely sloppy to overdose him. She had to know him for a heavy drinker. Then again, big guy, and she didn’t want to risk him having any fight left in him.

Sloppier yet to leave the hair.

Not the lavender wig. So she got rid of the disguise before she went to work on him.

She had to bank on Harvo matching the DNA.

When she reached the lab, Eve angled for Harvo’s glass-walled domain. The queen of hair and fiber sat on her stool at a leg of her work counter. She wore what could be termed a lab coat providing your definition thereof stretched wide, as her version was a bunch of inexplicable symbols scrolled over a field of 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—”