Festive in Death (In Death #39)(30)

“Yeah. And it did, and I’d start getting in the mood after all.”

“Sima, I’ve taken a statement from one of his clients, one who wasn’t in the mood, either, until he made her tea.” Eve waited a moment to let it sink in—saw it didn’t. “It’s pretty clear there are going to be more.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re taking the tea into the lab for testing, and I believe they’ll find some form of date-rape drug in the mix.”

“No, no, he wouldn’t do that. Holy God! You’re wrong. Trina.”

“You think about it, Sim. Think,” Trina insisted. “Did he ever make you the damn tea when you already wanted to have sex, or after you had sex? Or in the morning before you both left for work, or any goddamn time you didn’t have sex after drinking it?”

“I . . . He . . .” Her eyes filled. “No. But—why would he do that? Why would he do that to me? He didn’t have to do that to me. I mean sometimes you just want to sleep or just cuddle. Don’t you?”

“Sure you do, honey. Sure.” Trina went over, hugged Sima close. “It’s not on you, and don’t you think that. It’s not on you, and it’s not about sex.”

“But—”

“It’s about him wanting to make you do something you didn’t want to, so he could feel like a big man. Anybody who does that is small.”

“I cared about him. I thought he cared about me.”

“He never cared about anybody but himself.” Over Sima’s head, Trina’s eyes met Eve’s fiercely. “And that’s not on you, either.”

• • •

Run the names Trina gave us,” Eve said as they started back to the car.

“On it. It really flattened her.” Peabody pulled out her PPC to begin the runs when she got into the car. “Imagine it. Imagine finding out someone you thought cared about you, someone you lived with, slept with, slipped you a sex drug. If he did. We’re not a hundred percent sure.”

“I’m sure enough. Profile it, Peabody. Everything we know about the vic. Is he the kind of guy who makes tea for his girlfriend when she’s too tired for sex?”

“Probably not, no.”

“And then, coincidentally, once she drinks the tea, she’s, bang, in the mood to do it after all? If that’s straight tea, I’ll eat the leaves dry.”

“It’s rape.” Peabody scowled at her PPC as she worked. “If we’re right, and I think we are, it’s rape. It’s no different than holding a knife to her throat. It takes choice away.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“It was bad enough when he was just an ass**le.”

“Whatever he was, he’s dead. We do the job. We can think it’s too damn bad Trina didn’t get a chance to skin his balls, but we do the job.”

She answered the in-dash ’link when it signaled, watched Mira come on screen.

She’s done something different with her hair, Eve thought. What did they call that sleek sort of curve. A bob? Why did they call it a bob? What kind of name was bob for hair?

“Eve. I’ve read the report you sent. I actually have a fairly light morning, so I can certainly meet with you.”

“Great. I’ve got another stop to make, but I’m not sure how long it’s going to take.”

“If you can be here in an hour, I have time. If not, I have time, a bit, later this afternoon.”

“I’ll make it in an hour, thanks.”

“Hey, Dr. Mira.” Peabody angled over. “I really like your hair.”

“Oh, thanks.” As women did, Mira fluffed at it. “Not too severe?”

“Totally no.”

“I wanted a change, so I’ll live with it a few days. I’ll see you in an hour, Eve. I have a session about to start.”

“I’ll be there. Thanks.”

Eve signed off as she hunted for parking. “Why do women always want to change their hair? If they liked it one way, why change it to another way?”

“For fun. Or just to mix things up. You change your shoes or your jacket or whatever all the time.”

“They’re not attached to me.”

“So changing your hair makes it even more about you, the way I see it.” Peabody twisted a lock of hair that poked out from her cap. “I think I’m going to try something different for the holidays. I should’ve talked to Trina.”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Eve decided, pulling into a slot. “We’ll take Schubert’s hair to Harvo.”

“The Queen of Hair and Fiber.”

“Yeah, her. Just give it to her, ask her to get us the results as soon as she can, then we’ll get Dickhead to make some tea.”

• • •

Holiday fever had infected the lab with colored lights and a tree—twice the size of the puny reject in Homicide—decorated with evidence bags, brushes, tweezers, and other sweeper tools.

But the centerpiece was a fat Santa dressed like a sweeper toting a banner that read:

CSI SANTA KNOWS WHEN YOU’VE BEEN BAD!

It kind of gave Eve the creeps.

But then, so did Dick Berenski.