Page 22 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

Bobby’s mother cried. She looked and sounded resigned, then cried again.

“Bobby always had to go his own way. After his dad died, there was no stopping him from going his own way. He was a good son, and a good brother to Rachel. He came to see me most every Sunday. He took me out to a fancy dinner in the city for my last birthday, even though I said he shouldn’t spend his money that way.

But he’d never let me come see him where he lived.

He said it wasn’t fit for me, and it was only temporary.

And he never hurt anybody in his life. I don’t know why somebody would hurt him. ”

“We’re going to do everything we can to find out.”

“I need to see him. I need to tell his sister, and we need to come see him. I need to take care of things for him now.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’ll be notified as soon as that’s possible. Will you need transportation?”

“No, I know my way around.” She swiped at her eyes. “I can get to my boy. You find who took him away like this, and you tell them he had a mother who loved him. You tell them Bobby was a good son and a good brother.”

When Eve finished, she just sat a moment.

“Nobody who hasn’t had to do a notification knows what it’s like to do one.”

Eve shook her head. “No, I guess they don’t. We need something from Harvo we can work with. You don’t pick up costumes like that on the street corner, damn it.”

“If anybody can pin it down, it’s Harvo.”

“Counting on it.”

But when they got to the lab, Eve aimed for Dick Berenski first. The chief lab tech slid up and down his long counter on his rolling stool, egg-shaped head bent, spidery fingers tapping keys, swiping screens.

He looked up and fixed Eve with beady eyes. “Figured you’d be in here this morning to nag my ass.”

“I’m not interested in your ass. What did he use to dose the victims?”

“I’m looking right now to see if we got the same in the second one, aren’t I? What he used on Culver? He did a cocktail of secobarbital and phenobarbital. The one’s short acting—it’s going to last about fifteen minutes—and the other’s long acting—you can get twelve hours out of it.”

“Why mix them?”

“Can’t tell you. Either one’d do the job. Maybe he wanted the sec—kicks in faster—but he wanted to be sure he had enough time, so went with the cocktail.”

Yes, she thought. That played.

“Okay, what else?”

“He used powder. What he did, he ground up pills. Maybe got a prescription because he used medical grade on both. He ground up the pills, mixed the powders, and dosed the wine.”

Something beeped, and he swiveled, rolled. “Yeah, yeah. Same with today’s guest. Same mix, not the exact mix, not the exact amount, but close. Both of them had some wine already. Add this? They’re good and out. Pretty quick and for probably, given the dose, four, maybe five hours.”

He swiveled again, swiped again. “Thing is, what Morris tells me, he didn’t need that long. Dosed them five to ten minutes before TOD.”

“He wanted to be sure. He needed them good and out before he killed them. He’s a coward.”

“They’re dead either way.”

“What else have you got?”

“Got your glue—running the second now, but we know it’ll match.

It’s Grip All. That’s the brand name. You can get it in any hardware venue, hobby shop, craft stores, name it.

Same with the wire. Nothing you couldn’t pick up in half a million places.

Common use, hanging pictures, so art supply store, hobby store, craft store, like that. It’s thin, coated, strong.”

“How about the paint on the board, second vic?”

“We’re working on it, Dallas. Jesus.”

“Yeah? Us, too. I just got off the ’link with the second vic’s mother.”

“Oh, well.” He made a puffing sound. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re working on it,” he repeated. “We’ve got no prints, no DNA. No fibers on the skin or the outfits. Get us the guy, and between us and Morris, we’ll match his hands to the bruises on the DBs.”

Another ding, another slide down the counter. “Same glue on both, same wire. That’s what I got. And it ain’t nothing.”

“Okay. We’re going to see Harvo.”

He held up one of his spider fingers, wagged it. “Don’t give her any grief.”

“When have I given her any grief?”

He shrugged. “Just reminding you.”

“And so he remains a dickhead,” Eve muttered as they wound their way through the maze of the lab.

“Some are born dickheads.”

“Profound, Peabody. Profound and true.”

Harvo sat at her station in the glass-walled box that always reminded Eve of a rare animal habitat. Yet she’d found it also profound and true that some thrived in glass-walled boxes.

Harvo qualified.

Her weird machines hummed as she bent over one of her scopes. She’d gone with her invisible boots today, with her visible toes painted in a neon rainbow. She’d streaked her hair to match.

She wore white cropped baggies with wide rainbow cuffs and a white T-shirt covered with multicolored question marks.

While she’d have fit right in with EDD’s fashion circus, when it came to hair and fiber, Harvo ruled the lab.

Eve rapped knuckles on the jamb of the open door.

Harvo looked up, shot out a smile. “Hey, and welcome to my queendom. Domicile tripping, Peabody?”

“Mag beyond the ult.”

“Party up?”

“Total. Watch this space.”

“Check it.”

“If we could now return to standard English?” Eve asked. “Can you tell us anything?”

“I can start off telling you you’re hunting for somebody rolling in it.”

“Rolling in what?”

Harvo rubbed her fingers together. “Mega mucho moolah. At least it took the mega and the mucho to score the first outfit. I don’t need my loyal associates”—she gestured to her humming equipment—“to tell me the same for the second. But we’re running the analysis.”

“Why mega moolah?”

“Okay, we’ve got a silk-and-linen blend in the jacket and skirt.

Finely woven to give it that, you know, luster.

It’s a lot of yardage—you’ll get the whole caboodle in the report.

And it’s hand-dyed with organics, including saffron.

That’s moolah, Dallas, mucho and mega. And the stitching? Silk thread.”

She swiveled, gestured to Peabody, then brought an image on-screen.

Eve saw the inside of part of the jacket.

Peabody saw art.

“Whoa, that’s genius skill. Machine, yeah, but with a way skilled operator. Perfect, uniform, delicate.”

Harvo nodded. “Right? You pay for all this. You pay mega mucho moolah. And the scarves? A lot of yardage there, too, to get the whole…”

She waved her hands over her rainbow hair.

“Silk. One hundred percent, brought to you by Italian silkworms.”

“You can tell the worms are Italian?”

Harvo grinned at Eve. “I can tell the silk came from Italy, and my run says the scarves cost about eight large, each.”

“Eight thousand for a scarf.”

“Probably more, since it had to be custom, right? To match the painting. Even the collar deal, the fabric just above the jacket? Silk. My pal Joker took the earrings, but I can tell you, since we caught a brew last night, they’re man-made pearls, but high quality.”

She swiveled again to face them both. “Add it up? The outfit cost an easy hundred K. You wouldn’t see my shocked face at half that again. So he’s rolling in it. He could’ve got it for like, say, five hundred at an upscale costume shop. Not this quality, right, but the basic look.”

“He’s too precise and detailed for that.”

“I’ll say. To get this? You maybe go to a designer—top level like Leonardo?

And that probably runs more than the hundred thou.

Or you hunt up one of the venues I found that’ll reproduce authentic historical costumes.

Like for other people rolling in it for big-ass fancy costume parties or whatever. ”

“I need that list.”

“Coming. Hold that,” she said as something buzzed.

Instead of rolling over, Harvo got up, walked to a machine, and stood, hands on her hips as its screen rolled out data.

“Yeah, yeah. We agree down the line, baby. Got your second outfit coming. Satin, organic hand-dyed for the blue. Even the ribbons—went for silk there, but the same dye mix. Lots of yardage. White silk for the accents. White—handmade—lace for the collar, the cuffs. French satin and silk, Irish lace.”

Satisfaction on her face, Harvo turned. “I need some time to get you a moolah estimate, but survey says, easy a hundred-fifty large. I’m leaning toward one-seventy-five. Add another ten for the hat—it’s an ostrich feather.”

“A hell of a lot for a one-time use.”

Harvo nodded at Peabody. “You got that. Oh, the wig on number two? Haven’t run it yet, but I can tell you by visual and touch, human hair, handmade, and top quality. I’ll get you the estimates and general sources in a couple hours.”

Eve met satisfied look with satisfied look. “You earn your crown, Harvo.”

“And nobody wears it better.” She plopped down again. “It had to cost seriously over a quarter mil to get all this just to dress people up to kill them. This asshole has too much money, and is one sick bastard.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“What if he made them himself?”

As Eve turned to Peabody, Harvo angled her head. “That’s why you’re the detective. I hadn’t gone there. You’re also the sewing girl. Could you do it?”

“Maybe. If I had the time and money. To get all the detail and that quality of workmanship, it would take me weeks. Months maybe. But someone like Leonardo…”

She turned to the close-up of stitching still on-screen. “Maybe the costumes, that quality and precision in the replications. Maybe that’s his art.”

Eve said, “Well, shit.”

“It’s probably not. It seems like if it were, he’d have left the bodies at a design house, in the fashion or fabrics districts. But…”

“We have to look at it.”

“I like my job better than yours,” Harvo decided. “My questions have answers. Yours have a lot more questions to the questions before there’s an answer. You keep going until you find the answer though. You both deserve crowns. Kick-Ass Queens of Investigation.”