“What lip dye?” Peabody asked as they walked up to the car.
“The one on your lips.”
Obviously baffled, Peabody flipped down the vanity mirror when she dropped into the driver’s seat. Her gasp sucked up most of the oxygen in the car.
“Oh my God! When did I do that? I don’t remember doing that. This is all wrong.” She started digging in her bag. “I bought this on impulse, but it’s not my color. It looks terrible on me. I tossed it in my desk drawer weeks ago.”
“So your main concern is it’s not your freaking color?”
“It’s not!” Peabody pulled a tiny, wet tissue out of a pack, rubbed it vigorously over her lips. Balled it up when it turned pink, pulled out a second. “And, come on, I’d never wear something called Sexcapade Pink on duty. I’m a cop!”
In this case, Eve accepted the exclamation point. “Good to have you back.”
19
They interviewed three more at places of employment. Two of the three had ready alibies—to be verified for both the weekend of the home invasion and the night of Banks’s murder. The third claimed to have been at home with a cold from Saturday through Monday, and provided the name of the herbalist he’d used for remedies and relief.
“You can fake a cold and a trip to an herbalist,” Peabody commented.
“Yeah, you can. And it’s a squishy alibi to have handy if you’re hiding something. We’ll keep him on the high side of the list. We’ll verify the alibis, check off the herbalist. We’re going to head to the apartment building, knock on some doors of the work-at-homes or not-workings.”
“Can I have coffee now? I drank a gallon of water,” Peabody claimed when Eve gave her a silent stare. “I peed out a gallon when you count I’ve peed at every stop we’ve made. The boost is gone, I swear.”
“If you start talking about puppies I’ll punch you again.”
“Deal.”
Peabody programmed coffee for both of them, drank hers while working her PPC. “We’ve got two still up on the list out of five—once I verify the alibies. I think they’re going to hold. I’ve got Baxter and Trueheart’s update on here. One out of four—and the one’s bumped down a couple notches.”
“Confirming Kinski’s ex is an addict in rehab doesn’t take him off the hook,” Eve considered. “But it does lead me to speculate rather than spousal abuse he may have been defending himself against a juiced-up attack or trying to keep her from using. He still checks the boxes.”
“We talk to some of his friends, coworkers, his Army CO.”
Eve nodded. “Next step on him. Then there’s Markin, because something’s there. The wife says he’s too lazy. Maybe he’s lazy, but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t go into something like this for the fun of it.”
“Bored rich with a mean streak.”
“Exactly.”
She pulled up in front of the apartment building. The doorman, all courtesy, hustled over to open the car door. “Good morning, Lieutenant. What can we do for you?”
“I’ve got some people to talk to.”
“No problem. Rhoda will get that going for you.”
The efficient Rhoda ran down Eve’s list of names. “Mr. Skinner’s out—dentist appointment. I can let you know if he comes back while you’re here. Mr. Lorimer left just after eight for some outside meetings. He didn’t indicate when to expect him back, but again, I’ll let you know. Both Mr. Abbott and Mr. Prinz left for the gym—they go to the same one and are friendly—they’re usually back by two. Everyone else should be in residence.”
“Good. I have two detectives who’ll be here sometime this afternoon with another list of names.”
“I’ll be happy to clear them.”
“Appreciate it.”
In the elevator, Peabody said, “This is a nice place. Classy.” She lifted her shoulders. “Roarke.”
“Yeah. We’ll start at the top, work down.”
At their first stop, Clinton Wirely welcomed them with considerable enthusiasm. Fit and fifty-ish, with gold-and-silver-tipped brown hair, avid green eyes, he sparkled with delight.