Creation in Death (In Death #25)(18)

The trouble was, they were pals. Moreover, Nadine could be trusted. And at the moment, Nadine had plenty of juice of her own. She could, Eve mused, be useful.

“You’re going to want to come to the media conference, Nadine.”

“I’ve got a conflict. Just—”

“You’re going to want to be there, and when it wraps, you’re going to want to find your way to my office.”

“Offering me a one-on-one after a media announcement takes off the shine, Dallas.”

“You’re not getting a one-on-one. Just you, just me. No camera. You’re going to want to do this, Nadine.”

“I’ll be there.”

“That was smart,” Peabody said when Eve clicked off. “That was really smart. Bring her in, bargain, and get her resources and contacts.”

“She’ll keep a lid on what I ask her to keep a lid on,” Eve agreed. “And she’s the perfect funnel for any departmentally sanctioned leaks.” She parked, rolled her shoulders. “Let’s go harass Dickhead.”

Dick Berenski had earned his nickname. Not only did he have a head like an egg covered with slick black hair, his personality was oilier than a tin of sardines. He was slippery, sleazy, and not just open to bribes—he expected them.

But despite being a dickhead, he ran a top-flight lab and knew his business as well as he knew the exact location of the dimples on the ass of this month’s centerfold.

Eve strode in, moving by the long white counters and stations, the clear-walled cubes. She spotted Berenski scooting back and forth on his stool in front of his counter, tapping his spider-leg fingers on keyboards or tapping them to screens.

For a dickhead, she thought, he was hell at multitasking.

“Where’s my report?” she demanded.

He didn’t bother to look up. “Back up, Dallas. You want it fast or you want it right?”

“I want it fast and right. Don’t f**k with me on this one…Dick.”

“I said, ‘Back up.’”

She narrowed her eyes because when he swung around on the stool, there was fury on his face. Not his usual reaction to anything.

“You think I’m screwing with this?” he snapped out. “You think I’m jerking off here?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“This isn’t the first time either, is it?”

She flipped back through her memory. “You weren’t chief nine years back.”

“Senior tech. I did the skin and hair on those four vics. Harte took the bows for it, but I did the work. Goddamn it.”

Harte, Eve remembered, had also had a nickname: Blowharte.

“So you did the work. Applause, applause. I need an analysis of this vic’s hair and skin.”

“I did the work,” he repeated, bitterly now. “I analyzed and researched and identified what was barely any trace. I gave you the damn brand names of the soap, the shampoo. You’re the one who didn’t catch the bastard.”

“You did your job, I didn’t do mine?” She leaned down, nose-to-nose. “You’d better back up, Dick.”

“Ah, excuse me. Don’t clock the referee.” Courageously—from her point of view—Peabody eased between the chief tech and the primary. “Everyone who was involved nine years ago feels this one more now.”

“How would you know?” Dick rounded on Peabody. “You were in some Free Ager commune sitting in a circle chanting at the frigging moon nine years ago.”

“Hey.”

“That’s it.” Eve kept her voice low, and the tone stinging. “You can’t handle this one, Berenski, I’ll request another tech.”

“I’m chief here. This isn’t your shop. I say who works 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.”