Festive in Death (In Death #39)(26)

“I’m trying not to think about that.” She shoved up. “Where’s the hooch—for Dickhead?”

“Fourth-floor gift room.”

She stared at him for ten silent seconds. “We have a gift room?”

On a half laugh, he shook his head. “One day, darling Eve, you really should go through the entire house. East wing, fourth-floor tower.”

“Okay.” Since she wasn’t completely sure where that was, she walked to the elevator. Ordered it.

“Don’t bother shaking boxes,” he called out. “None of yours are in that location.”

“I don’t snoop,” she said as the doors shut.

But, of course, now she wanted to.

Gift rooms, she thought. Who gave so many gifts they had to have an actual dedicated room to hold them?

The doors opened; she stepped out. Her jaw dropped.

Apparently they did.

Shelves and counters held a colorful array of wrapped gifts with shiny, elaborate bows. Gift bags in silver or gold or red or green stood like uniformed soldiers.

She opened one of the doors along the wall, discovered more shelves with rigorously organized gifts not wrapped. Fancy candle sets or fancy bath sets—male, female, or unisex varieties.

Boxed wineglasses, elegant picture frames, electronics, even some toys.

Why the hell did she have to go shopping when she could just come up here?

She found more ruthless—to the point of scary—organization with gift boxes, wrapping paper, tissue paper, ribbons and bows.

Everything as pristine as some high-end gift boutique and all in the tall tower room complete with a wall screen and a comp. She just bet the comp held a complete catalog of the contents of the room, down to the last inch of shiny ribbon.

She grabbed one of the silver gift bags, checked the contents.

Bourbon.

Checked a gold one, found the scotch, then, out of curiosity, checked one of the red bags. Cognac. She found Irish whiskey in the green bags—figured.

Both impressed and intimidated, she got back in the elevator, ordered the main floor.

She grabbed her coat off the newel post, and decided a man who owned half the world anyway might as well have a room loaded with stuff he prepared to give away.

At least she knew just where to go the next time she needed a bribe.

She’d left early enough that traffic stayed light and gave her the opportunity to bypass Mira’s admin who’d give her grief for asking for a quick session. Instead she shot a v-mail straight to Mira’s ’link.

“I’d like a quick consult today if you can fit me in. I’m sending you the Ziegler file. Mostly I want to be sure I’ve got the right handle on him. If you can’t squeeze in a consult, maybe an overview profile, vic and killer. Appreciate it.”

The first ad blimp lumbered across the sky as she hit the edges of the West Village. It announced a last-minute SALE SALE SALE at the SkyMall running until ten P.M. Christmas Eve.

Jesus, even she wasn’t so lame she waited till Christmas Eve to grab a gift.

Then, amazing to her, it announced a door-buster SALE SALE SALE at the SkyMall beginning at one A.M. on December twenty-sixth.

Why would people do that? What could they possibly need to buy the day after Christmas, in the middle of the night the day after? Her second thought was she believed she would self-terminate if she had to make a living in retail.

She parked, noted she was about ten minutes early. Rather than wait for Peabody, she opted to go in, get started.

Ear-splitting music greeted her again, but this time with some amusement as she recognized Mavis’s voice wailing about having fun now that love was done.

She spotted Lill crouched beside a puny guy who struggled sweatily through some push-ups.

Eve crossed over, heard the man wheezing even over Mavis and the thump, thump of feet racing nowhere on treads.

“Need a minute.”

Lill nodded. “Come on, Scott, just two more. Don’t you quit on me. All right!” she shouted when he collapsed in a heap. “Thirty-second breather, then I want you to do ten minutes on the tread. Level five, Scott. Don’t wimp out.”

“Okay.” He got shakily to his feet. “Okay, Lill.” And staggered toward the tread.

“I’ve got to keep an eye on him,” Lill says. “He’s really coming along.”

“Did he start out at a crawl?”

“Just about. It’s clients like Scott make this job worthwhile. He really tries, he really works. Do you have news about Trey?”

“I’ve got some follow-up questions. This trainer of the year thing, how competitive?”

“Very, or else what’s the point? I submit progress reports for all my trainers, showing the improvements of their clients. And each trainer submits three separate original programs they’ve put together. The trainer’s fitness and established routines are also factored in. It’s a process. Why?”

“Who was his main competition?”

“Hard to say for certain, but in the BB franchise, I’d go with Juice—Jacob Maddow. But then he’s one of mine, so I’m biased. And there’s Selene, she’s right up there. She’s out of our Morningside Heights location. Outside BB, I’d lean toward Rock. He has his own gym—bare-bones place in Midtown—West Side. Rock Hard it’s called—and he is. But I have to say I figured Trey would grab the prize again this year. He’d worked up some fierce programs.”