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“So you pay a couple hundred for packaging for stuff that eventually goes down the drain. Anything in a bottle costs that much, I want to be able to drink it.”
She turned back as another woman came over, this one petite and redheaded in a sapphire suit. “I’m Chessie, the manager. There’s a problem?”
“Not for me. I need your customer list for purchases of two specific products as said products are related to a police investigation.”
“So I understand. Could I see some identification, please?”
Eve pulled out her badge again. Chessie took it, studied it, then lifted her gaze to Eve’s. “Lieutenant Dallas?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can. The specific products?”
Eve told her, nodded as the woman asked for a moment, then watched her walk away. “Peabody—” When she looked around, her partner was testing out an elf-sized sample bottle of body cream on her hands.
“It’s like silk,” Peabody said, reverently. “Like liquid silk. I’ve got a cousin who makes soaps and body creams and all, and they’re really nice. But this…”
“Stop rubbing stuff all over yourself. I have to ride with you, and you’re going to make the ride smell like some big, creepy meadow.”
“Meadows are pastoral.”
“Exactly. Creepy. He could’ve bought the stuff here,” she said, thinking out loud. “Or at the midtown store, off the Net. Hell, he could’ve bought the stuff in Italy or wherever the hell else it’s sold and brought it with him. But it’s something.”
Chessie came back with some printouts. “We haven’t had any sales—cash or credit—of both products at the same time. Nor has our Madison Avenue store. I contacted them. As a precaution, I’ve generated all the sales for each product, from each of our stores. Obviously, we don’t have customer names for the cash sales. I went back thirty days. I can go back further if that would be helpful.”
“This should do for now. Thanks.” Eve took the printouts. “Did you get a memo about me?”
“Yes, certainly. Is there anyt
hing more I can do for you?”
“Not right now.”
“If she got the ‘Cooperate with Lieutenant Dallas’ memo, Roarke owns that place,” Peabody said when they were back on the street. “You can swim in that bath oil if you want. How come you—”
“Hold on.” She flipped out her ’link, contacted Roarke.
“Lieutenant.”
“Do you manufacture bedding—sheets and linens—under the brand name Fáilte?”
“I do. Why?”
“I’ll let you know.” She ended transmission. “I’m not buying coincidence here, Peabody.”
“Oh. Just caught up. First vic worked for him, was washed down in products from a store he owns, was laid out on a sheet he manufactures. No, I’m not buying that today either, thanks. But I don’t know what the hell it means.”
“Let’s go. You drive.” Eve pulled out her ’link again, and tagged Feeney. “Missing persons, add in a new piece of data. Look for a woman who’s employed by Roarke. Don’t say anything to him as yet. Just look for anyone reported missing in the last few days who fits our vic profile and who works for one of Roarke’s interests in the city.”
“Got that. I’ve got three potentials from MP from the tristate. Give me a minute on this. Aren’t you due at the media blather?”
“I’m on my way there.”
“Okay, okay,” he grumbled, “takes time. He’s got a lot of layers on some of his…son of a bitch. Rossi, Gia, age thirty-one, works as a personal trainer and instructor at BodyWorks, a subsidiary of Health Conscience, which is a division of Roarke Enterprises. She was reported missing last night.”
“Take one of the uniforms, get to her place of employment, her residence, talk to the person who reported her missing, to—”
“I know the drill, Dallas.”
