Page 80 of Thankless in Death

“He needs a new look.”

“He didn’t change it. We’ve got him on the feed from the hotel.”

“That doesn’t mean he hasn’t changed it since.”

She pushed her way in, badged the first tech she saw and flashed Reinhold’s photo.

Tapping out there, they hit the next pawnshop, the next salon.

And Peabody stopped, pointed. “There. He could’ve stopped there for hair and face stuff. He’d have passed it.”

“True Essence? What is it?”

“A chain, but a pretty high-class one. Mostly above my pay grade unless they’re having a good sale. Enhancements, hair stuff, body stuff, bath stuff,” Peabody elaborated. “The works. The uptown one—on Madison—has a frosty little day spa attached. You can go in for a makeover, but then, well, if I do that I feel like I’ve gotta buy something. But the staff’s really helpful. It’s part of their rep. Solid and personal customer service.”

“Let’s see if they gave any of that to Reinhold.”

Eve didn’t understand places like this. The walls—all artily lit—the kiosks, the lower-level area—were all loaded with products created to enhance you, change you, transform you, or improve you. Skin, hair, face, eyes, lips, ass—there was even a whole section dedicated to throats and boobs, though they called it décolletage.

But she had to admit, the trim, stylish, and perfectly groomed staff didn’t swarm as they did in some places.

They were approached by one woman in classic New York black. The tall blonde with killer looks looked pretty normal to Eve’s eye. No spikes, visible piercings or tats, no explosion of odd-colored hair.

“Welcome to True Essence. Can I help you with anything this afternoon?”

“Yeah. Have you seen this man?”

Eve took out the photo, and since the blonde didn’t seem to be an asshole, palmed her badge discreetly.

“Oh, that’s the man who killed his parents.” Instantly her voice went to stage whisper. “I saw him on the media reports. You’re looking for him?”

“That’s right.”

“I haven’t seen him, but I had the last two days off. Would you like to talk to the manager? I can call her out.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Sure. Give me a minute.”

“Oooh, look at this lip dye.”

“No,” Eve said flatly when Peabody snagged a sampler.

“Popping Pink. Who doesn’t want to pop?” Peabody squeezed some on an applicator, tapped it on her lips.

“Cut that out. You’re not a girl in here. You’re a cop.”

“I’m a girl cop.” And Peabody did a quick, agile turn toward eye crap.

Apparently, Eve noted, the managerial position required less normal. She watched the woman with plum-colored hair and silver brow studs clip her way over on high zebra-striped boots.

“I’m the manager. And you’re—”

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We’re looking for this man.”

“So I saw on screen last night. Why do you think he came in here?”

“He was in this area, and he shopped in this area. We’re checking other venues.”