Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(63)

Marsella tapped again, turned the tablet. “If used properly and to full potential, he’d come out about like this. They’re not a hundred percent, but it gives a good representation.”

“I bet.” Eve studied the newly blond, blue-eyed, bronzed and pierced Reinhold.

“He bought the styling kit, but he was really vague on how he’d style the do. So I just had to go with the as-is do, new color and lights.”

“This is good, this is excellent. I need you to send it to me at this code, and I need a hard copy now.”

“Oh, sure. I can send right from the tab, but I have to look for the print. It’ll take a minute.”

“Make it happen. You did good, Marsella.”

“Thanks.” She smiled wanly. “It’s my first murderer.”

“Let’s keep it that way. And get me that—what was it—Pink Pop, Popped-Up Pink—that lip dye.”

“Popping Pink, by La Femme? It’s mag, totally, but I have to be honest. It’s not really your color. Now the Blooming Poppy or the—”

“Not for me.” Eve dug for credits. “How much?”

“Sixty-two dollars.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Marsella’s face fell into apology. “No. It’s a really excellent product, honestly, and lasts all day. It’s waterproof, smudge-proof, has conditioners, and—”

“Fine, fine.” Considering the cost, Eve dug out a credit card. “Put it on this.”

“Of course. It really does well with the Rose Petal liner.”

“Don’t push it, Marsella. Just the lip crap and the hard copy. And make it quick.”

Marsella swiped the card on the tablet, turned it so Eve could sign. “I’ll have the picture and the product right back to you. Two minutes,” she promised, and dashed—no wobbling now—away.

Taking a moment, Eve glanced around, thumbs in front pockets. No, she didn’t see the lure. What she saw were countless products that given half a chance the Terrifying Trina would smear, brush, paint, rub, and coat all over her face, hair, and body.

That alone was enough to make her want to get the hell out.

“Got the discs.” Peabody held them up and she strode back to Eve. “The manager got really cooperative when it turned out he got his stuff in here. Anything we need, want, anything she can do. Total CYA.”

“Works for me. I’ve seen the morph, and Marsella’s sending it to my PPC, making a hard copy.”

“We can have it out to the media, on screen inside ten minutes.”

“No.” Eve shook her head. “He sees it, he changes again—and he’ll be a lot more careful about it next time. Now we know what he looks like now—potentially anyway. We keep it in house, away from the media, until circumstances call for the spread.”

“I have everything.” Marsella came back with a pink and black leopard print bag, offered it to Eve. “The morph’s in the white envelope, the product’s in the small bag. I threw in some samples, you really should at least try the Blooming Poppy.”

“Thanks. If you remember anything else, contact me.”

“I will. And believe me, I’m going to watch the screen. This is scary. Like I said, I never served a murderer before.”

That you know of, Eve thought as they headed out.

“You bought something.” Peabody’s voice was an accusatory whisper. “I turn my back for a second, and you buy something after dissing the whole idea of the store.” She huffed. “What did you buy?”

“Some crap called Popping Pink lip dye.” She slipped the envelope out, shoved the bag at a speechless Peabody.

“You—you—you bought it for me?” The me ended dangerously close to a squeal. “Dallas!”

“If you hug me I’m shoving that lip dye up your ass.”

Peabody did a little dance in her pink cowboy boots. “I wanna. I really, really wanna. But I won’t because I won’t have pretty pink lips if it’s up my ass.”

“Keep that in mind.”

“That was really nice.”

“It was the best way to get you to stop whining.”

“Really nice,” Peabody repeated. “Thanks.”

Eve consulted the route map. “You called the store, and we hit. We hit big. You get a prize.”

“A totally mag prize.” She riffled through the bag. “Oooh, samples!”

“Peabody.”

Peabody stopped riffling, but kept grinning. “Okay, he went blond and blue right? Rich man’s tan, pierced ear—most likely ear with the hoop. He’d need at least a couple hours to do all that. More like, I’d say, four to do it right.”

“And a place to do it. A hotel again? Go in looking as is, leave looking new. Not a smallish hotel then. Someone might notice, should notice. Maybe another business hotel, a big, busy hotel. Or …”

“Or?”

“He spent the night with his murdered parents, several hours with his dead ex. Maybe he picked his next victim, and did his makeover there.”

“Creepy.”

“He hits that note. Not a family place for this. He wouldn’t want to take on a spouse, kids. Look through for singles, and we’ll start there. Start contacting them via ’link. Anyone who doesn’t answer or seems off, we pay personal visits to. And I want to talk to Golde again, in person. How did Reinhold get his old ID?”