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“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.”
