J. Robb - Creation In Death

“They put caviar in shampoo?” Peabody demanded. “What a waste.”

“Just fish eggs, and disgusting if you ask me. Tech in Wales was good enough to work the trace, got the same deal as me. Same for Florida. They didn’t get anything in Romania or in Bolivia. But now he’s switched brands.”

“To?”

“Okay, what we got is still handmade soap, got your shea butter-cocoa butter addition, olive oil, and oil from grapefruit and apricot. Specifically-and this took a little finessing-your pink grapefruit. It’s made in Italy, exclusively, and get this, it’s going to run you fifty smacks a bar.”

“So he upgraded.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. I took a look at the Internet site, check these out.” He brought the images of the soaps up. Each was a deep almost jewel-like color, with various flowers or herbs studding the edges. “Only one store in the city carries them. The shampoo’s from the same place. White truffle oil, running one-fifty for an eight-ounce bottle.”

He sniffed, he snorted. “I wouldn’t pay that for a bottle of prime liquor.”

“You don’t have to pay,” Eve said absently. “You get your booze in bribes.”

“Yeah, but just the same.”

Pricey, exclusive products. Prestige, Eve thought. The best of the best? “What’s the outlet in the city?”

“Place called Scentual. Got a store midtown on Madison and Fifty-third, and one down in the West Village on Christopher.”

“Good. How about the sheet?”

“Irish linen, thread count of seven hundred. That’s another change. First time he used Egyptian cotton, five hundred thread count. Manufacturer’s in Ireland and Scotland. Buncha outlets around. Your higher-end department stores and bedding places carry the brand. Fáilte.”

He massacred the Irish, Eve knew, as she’d heard the word before.

“Okay, send copies to me, to Whitney, to Tibble, and to Feeney. You finish with the water?”

“Still working it. At a guess, and I mean guess, it’s city water, but filtered. May be out of the tap, but with a filtration system that purifies. We got good water in New York. This guy, I’m thinking, is a fanatic for pure.”

“For something. Okay, thanks. Peabody, let’s go shopping.”

“Hot dog!”

“Dallas.” Berenski swiveled on his stool again. “Bring me something more this time. Get me something.”

“Working on it.”

She hit the downtown boutique first, and was assaulted with fragrance the moment they walked in. Like falling into some big-ass bouquet, Eve thought.

The clerks all wore strong colors. To mirror the products, Eve supposed, and the products were displayed as if they were priceless pieces of art in a small, intimate museum.

There were a number of customers, browsing, buying, which, given the price tag on a bar of soap, made Eve wonder what the hell was wrong with them.

She and Peabody were approached by a blonde who must have hit six-two in her heeled boots. The boots, like the skinny skirt and rib-bruising jacket, were the color of unripe bananas.

“Welcome to Scentual. How can I help you today?”

“Information.” Eve pulled out her badge.

“Of what sort?”

“Soap with cocoa and shea butter, olive oil, pink grapefruit-”

“From our citrus line. Yes, please, this way.”

“I don’t want the soap, I want your customer list for sales of that soap, and for the truffle oil shampoo. Customers who purchased both products.”

“That’s a little difficult as-”

“I’ll make it easy. Customer data or warrant for same, which will tie up the shop for a number of hours. Maybe days.”

The blonde cleared her throat. “You should probably speak to the manager.”

“Fine.”

She glanced around as the blonde hurried off, and saw Peabody sniffing at minute slivers of soap that were set out as samples. “Cut it out.”

“I’ll never be able to afford so much as a scraping of this kind of thing. I’m just smelling. I like this one-gardenia. Old-fashioned, but sexy. ‘Female,’ as my guy would say. Did you see the bottles? The bath oil?”

Her dazzled eyes tracked along the jewel-toned and delicate pastels of fancy bottles in display shelves. “They’re so mag.”

“So you pay a couple hundred for packaging for stuff that eventually goes down the drain. Anything in a bottle costs that much, I want to be able to drink it.”

She turned back as another woman came over, this one petite and redheaded in a sapphire suit. “I’m Chessie, the manager. There’s a problem?”

“Not for me. I need your customer list for purchases of two specific products as said products are related to a police investigation.”

“So I understand. Could I see some identification, please?”

Eve pulled out her badge again. Chessie took it, studied it, then lifted her gaze to Eve’s. “Lieutenant Dallas?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can. The specific products?”

Eve told her, nodded as the woman asked for a moment, then watched her walk away. “Peabody-” When she looked around, her partner was testing out an elf-sized sample bottle of body cream on her hands.

“It’s like silk,” Peabody said, reverently. “Like liquid silk. I’ve got a cousin who makes soaps and body creams and all, and they’re really nice. But this…”

“Stop rubbing stuff all over yourself. I have to ride with you, and you’re going to make the ride smell like some big, creepy meadow.”

“Meadows are pastoral.”

“Exactly. Creepy. He could’ve bought the stuff here,” she said, thinking out loud. “Or at the midtown store, off the Net. Hell, he could’ve bought the stuff in Italy or wherever the hell else it’s sold and brought it with him. But it’s something.”

Chessie came back with some printouts. “We haven’t had any sales-cash or credit-of both products at the same time. Nor has our Madison Avenue store. I contacted them. As a precaution, I’ve generated all the sales for each product, from each of our stores. Obviously, we don’t have customer names for the cash sales. I went back thirty days. I can go back further if that would be helpful.”

“This should do for now. Thanks.” Eve took the printouts. “Did you get a memo about me?”

“Yes, certainly. Is there anything more I can do for you?”

“Not right now.”

“If she got the ‘Cooperate with Lieutenant Dallas’ memo, Roarke owns that place,” Peabody said when they were back on the street. “You can swim in that bath oil if you want. How come you-”

“Hold on.” She flipped out her ’link, contacted Roarke.

“Lieutenant.”

“Do you manufacture bedding-sheets and linens-under the brand name Fáilte?”

“I do. Why?”

“I’ll let you know.” She ended transmission. “I’m not buying coincidence here, Peabody.”

“Oh. Just caught up. First vic worked for him, was washed down in products from a store he owns, was laid out on a sheet he manufactures. No, I’m not buying that today either, thanks. But I don’t know what the hell it means.”

“Let’s go. You drive.” Eve pulled out her ’link again, and tagged Feeney. “Missing persons, add in a new piece of data. Look for a woman who’s employed by Roarke. Don’t say anything to him as yet. Just look for anyone reported missing in the last few days who fits our vic profile and who works for one of Roarke’s interests in the city.”

“Got that. I’ve got three potentials from MP from the tristate. Give me a minute on this. Aren’t you due at the media blather?”

“I’m on my way there.”

“Okay, okay,” he grumbled, “takes time. He’s got a lot of layers on some of his…son of a bitch. Rossi, Gia, age thirty-one, works as a personal trainer and instructor at BodyWorks, a subsidiary of Health Conscience, which is a division of Roarke Enterprises. She was reported missing last night.”