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“Yo, Dallas.”
“Yo.”
“Recently color treated. I can give you the brand, the color name, and the products used to style if you need them.”
“Never hurts, but I don’t think it’s relevant. Dr. Mira thinks the killer took some.”
“Yeah, so you said on the command—request,” she amended with a toothy grin. “And props to Mira. Good eye. He took a hank five and a quarter inches in length, one-point-one inches in width. I can give you the exact number of hairs in the trophy, but it’s probably not relevant either.”
Maybe it was Harpo’s sass, or her smarts, but Eve felt her own lips curve. “No, but impressive.”
“I so totally am. It’s really nice hair. Healthy, clean. She didn’t overproduct or heat. Natural color’s brown, but she made a nice choice with this new hue.”
“She didn’t get to wear it very long.”
“Too bad, because it’s uptown. He didn’t snip, by the way. Hacked, sliced, sawed. Not scissors, not a razor.”
She did something that had the screen image revolving, and different colors popping out. “Sharp, jagged-edged blade. I’m still analyzing and reconstructing, but it’s looking like a one-sided blade about three and a half to three and three-quarters in length, about an inch across, an eighth of an inch deep. I think I can nail it down before I’m finished.”
“Just under legal limit for a pocket sticker.”
“It’s looking,” Harpo said with a head bob. “I’m not going to be
able to tell you the brand. I can probably give you a list of possibles. Now if he’d stuck it in flesh, Morris could probably get close, or Birdman would punch it. He’s the master of sharps around here.”
“Good to know.”
“Sweepers sent in some fibers from the body, but you said no rush on them.”
“We know what he was wearing, and where he bought it. I needed to know if he took the trophy.”
“Definitely. My money-back guarantee on it.”
“And I could use the list of knives when you have it.”
“No prob. I’ll have Birdman take a look. He may be able to cut it down some.”
“Speaking of birds.” Eve glanced down at the one visible through the boot.
“You like? I crush on flamingos, but I’m not sure this is it. It’s a temp ’cause you gotta be sure.”
Eve couldn’t argue with that. “Thanks, Harpo. Good, quick work.”
“Our house specialty.”
She went back to it as Eve walked out.
Two steps into her bullpen, she stopped dead, pinned to the spot by Sanchez’s tie. She looked away from it, fearing, like staring at the sun, she might go blind.
It was the virulent color of an orange repeatedly exposed to excess radiation. On it floated searing yellow dots—unless they just floated in front of her eyes due to the five seconds she’d exposed her corneas.
“For God’s sake, Sanchez. What is that thing?”
“Retribution.” He glanced behind him, checked Jenkinson’s currently empty desk. “Don’t worry, boss, I’m not going to wear it out in the field. I mean, come on. I could blind people.”
“We’re people, too,” Baxter said behind the safety of his sunshades.
With a shake of her head she started toward Peabody’s desk, then changed her mind, signaled her partner to follow her. Maybe you didn’t have to actually look at it to go blind or start bleeding from the ears.
