Festive in Death (In Death #39)(31)

Still, she carted her gift bag toward his long counter where he sat on his rolling stool. His spidery fingers switched between two computers. He sported a half-assed goatee—that was new. The pointy triangle on his chin, the sparce hair above his upper lip made her think of graffiti drawn inexpertly on an egg.

She set the gift bag on his counter. “Merry Christmas.”

He paused in his work, gave her then Peabody a wary look before reaching into the bag.

Surprise flooded his face, then delight—demonstrated by the shift in the poor excuse for a mustache when his skinny lips curved.

Then with eyes darting left, right, he shoved the bottle back into the bag, shoved the bag into one of the drawers of his workstation.

“Thanks.”

Eve wiggled fingers at Peabody, who lined up evidence bags on the counter.

“What’s this?” Berenski demanded.

“That’s what I need you to tell me. Now.”

“You want me to do an analysis on all this, right now?” He swept his arm over his workstation. “Can’t you see I got work going here?”

“This is work, too. We had samples sent in already.”

“Low priority.”

“Now it’s high priority. Start with this.” She pushed the tea labeled Relaxation toward him. “That might be enough for right now. If you’re so busy, delegate. How long does it take to analyze some tea leaves?”

“Get in line. We’ll get to it when we get to it.”

Saying nothing, Eve tapped the drawer where he’d hidden the scotch.

He radiated insult. “That was a gift.”

“Yeah, and if you ever want another gift, you’ll analyze this evidence.”

Maybe Summerset couldn’t be bought, she thought, but she knew damn well Dickhead could.

“I’m doing you a favor.” He pointed one of his long, skinny fingers at her.

“Okay.”

He snatched up the tea, did a fast roll to the other end of his counter, muttering all the way.

Satisfied, Eve said nothing, leaned on her side of the counter. She watched him pull on thin gloves, open the evidence bag, unstop the container.

He took a sniff of it, frowned. “Chamomile and lavender shit.”

He took tweezers out of a tray, transferred some of the leaves into a tube, put the tube in a slot of a small machine on the counter. He repeated the process, this time adding liquid to the tube with an eye-dropper.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Do I tell you how to do your job?”

Eve only shrugged as he gave her the evil eye, then went back to work.

He lowered a clear lid over the tubes, ran those skinny fingers over a control panel. The machine began to hum, and Eve, still leaning on the counter, felt it vibrate.

Curious, she pushed off the counter, intending to walk down for a closer look.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.”

Dr. Garnet DeWinter, the new forensic anthropologist, swept up. She wore a hot pink lab coat over a pink-and-green striped dress that molded her tall, curvy body. She’d slicked her hair back into some sort of sleek twist that made her exotic eyes dominate the sharp-featured face.

Her green, ice-pick heels sported tiny pink bows at the ankle straps.

“Dr. DeWinter.”

“Someone must be dead.”

“Someone always is.”

“That’s true, isn’t it? Oh, well, it keeps us busy. Richard, I just wanted to come down and thank you for getting that report to me so quickly this morning.”

Richard? Eve thought, and watched Berenski preen.

“No problem, Doc. We’re on the same team.”

“Yes, we are.” She moved down, laid a hand on his shoulder, studied the computer screen along with him. “Chamomile, lavender, valerian. Tea? A soother?”

“So far.”

Stuffing her hands in her pockets—no way she was touching Dickhead—Eve moved down the counter to read the screen herself.

“What’s that?” she demanded with a long, unpronounceable element scrolled on.

“Hold on,” Berenski murmured, then nodded as a second, then a third element popped up.

“Those sure as hell aren’t herbs. That’s a Rohypnol-bremelanotide compound. Erotica with a twist. It’s a sex drug.”

DeWinter glanced over at Eve. “The combination would stimulate the sexual drive, yes, and potentially lower inhibitions. The tea is a relaxation blend, and would mask the chemicals, add to the lack of inhibition and certainly increase sex drive.”

“Your vic didn’t have any of this in him,” Berenski told her. “I saw his tox screen, and it was clean.”

“No, he didn’t drink it. He used it on women.”

“What you’ve got here is like a super soother, and it’s laced with illegals. Sort of a mild date-rape drug.”

Eve scorched him with a look. “Nothing’s mild about rape.”

“Don’t get twisted. I ain’t saying that. I’m saying the product’s on the mild side. It’s not like whore or rabbit, and the user’s likely to feel relaxed instead of jumpy after the job’s done. It don’t make it legal, and it sure don’t make it right. Your vic was an ass**le if he used this without telling the women what it was.”