It seemed, she discovered, foot apparel didn’t just mean shoes and socks. It included house slippers, boots, something called leg slickers—with or without belly control panels. There were shoe protectors, shoe boxes, heating inserts, foot and ankle jewelry, and any number of products that dealt with foot care or decoration.
Who knew there was so much involved dealing with a guy’s feet?
The salesman she approached gave her the usual hem and haw before striding off to contact the store manager.
Eve zeroed in on the shoes in question while she waited.
Sturdy, she decided, hefting one. Practical and efficient, and well made from the look of it. She wouldn’t mind having a pair herself.
“Madam?”
“Lieutenant,” she corrected and turned with the shoe in hand. And had to take a step back, angle her head up to make eye contact.
He was seven feet if he was an inch, and skinny as the beanpoles she’d seen in Greenpeace Park. His skin was dark as a new moon so that the whites of his eyes, his teeth, gleamed like ice. As she gave him the once-over, his mouth quirked in a little smile that told her he was used to it.
“Madam Lieutenant,” he said, very smoothly. “I’m Kurt Richards, the store manager.”
“Power forward?”
He seemed pleased. “Yes. For the Knicks once upon a time. Most people automatically ask if I played basketball, but rarely guess the position.”
“I don’t get the chance to follow much round ball. I bet you moved over the boards.”
“I like to think so. I’ve been retired nearly eight years now. It’s a young man’s game, as most are.” He took the shoe from her. His palms were so wide, his fingers so long, it no longer looked outsized. “And you’re interested in the Mikon Avalanche?”
“I’m interested in your customer list for purchases of this model in size fifteen.”
“You’d be Homicide.”
“You’re good at guessing positions, too.”
“I saw a clip of yesterday’s media conference, so have to assume this has to do with the Park Murders.”
“That what they’re calling them?”
“In large, red letters, yes.” Lips pursed, he turned the shoe over in his hand, studied it. “You’re looking for a man who wears this particular model in that particular size?”
“It would be of help to me if I could have your customer list for those specifics.”
“I’d be happy to be of help.” He replaced the shoe on its stand.
> “And the names of any employees who purchased same.”
That stopped him. “Well. I’m going to consider myself fortunate that I wear a seventeen in footgear. Would you like to come up to my office while I get that data for you, or browse the store?”
“We’ll come up. Peabody—”
She broke off, frowning as she scanned the area and spotted Peabody with a handful of colorful socks. “For God’s sake, Detective!”
“Sorry. Sorry.” She hustled over. “Ah, my brother and my grandfather. Both big feet. I just figured . . .”
“No problem.” Richards gestured to a clerk. “I’ll have them rung up and boxed for you. You can pick them up at the main-level counter on your way out.”
“You know, Christmas isn’t that far away.” With the business done, Peabody scrambled out of the store, purchases in hand, behind Eve.
“Oh please.”
“Really. Time zips, and if you pick up stuff when you see it, you don’t get that holiday crazy look in your eyes. Besides, these are really nice socks, and they were on sale. Where are we going? The car’s—”