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“It’s rape.” Peabody scowled at her PPC as she worked. “If we’re right, and I think we are, it’s rape. It’s no different than holding a knife to her throat. It takes choice away.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“It was bad enough when he was just an asshole.”
“Whatever he was, he’s dead. We do the job. We can think it’s too damn bad Trina didn’t get a chance to skin his balls, but we do the job.”
She answered the in-dash ’link when it signaled, watched Mira come on screen.
She’s done something different with her hair, Eve thought. What did they call that sleek sort of curve. A bob? Why did they call it a bob? What kind of name was bob for hair?
“Eve. I’ve read the report you sent. I actually have a fairly light morning, so I can certainly meet with you.”
“Great. I’ve got another stop to make, but I’m not sure how long it’s going to take.”
“If you can be here in an hour, I have time. If not, I have time, a bit, later this afternoon.”
“I’ll make it in an hour, thanks.”
“Hey, Dr. Mira.” Peabody angled over. “I really like your hair.”
“Oh, thanks.” As women did, Mira fluffed at it. “Not too severe?”
“Totally no.”
“I wanted a change, so I’ll live with it a few days. I’ll see you in an hour, Eve. I have a session about to start.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks.”
Eve signed off as she hunted for parking. “Why do women always want to change their hair? If they liked it one way, why change it to another way?”
“For fun. Or just to mix things up. You change your shoes or your jacket or whatever all the time.”
“They’re not attached to me.”
“So changing your hair makes it even more about you, the way I see it.” Peabody twisted a lock of hair that poked out from her cap. “I think I’m going to try something different for the holidays. I should’ve talked to Trina.”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Eve decided, pulling into a slot. “We’ll take Schubert’s hair to Harvo.”
“The Queen of Hair and Fiber.”
“Yeah, her. Just give it to her, ask her to get us the results as soon as she can, then we’ll get Dickhead to make some tea.”
• • •
Holiday fever had infected the lab with colored lights and a tree—twice the size of the puny reject in Homicide—decorated with evidence bags, brushes, tweezers, and other sweeper tools.
But the centerpiece was a fat Santa dressed like a sweeper toting a banner that read:
CSI SANTA KNOWS WHEN YOU’VE BEEN BAD!
It kind of gave Eve the creeps.
But then, so did Dick Berenski.
Still, she carted her gift bag toward his long counter where he sat on his rolling stool. His spidery fingers switched between two computers. He sported a half-assed goatee—that was new. The pointy triangle on his chin, the sparce hair above his upper lip made her think of graffiti drawn inexpertly on an egg.
She set the gift bag on his counter. “Merry Christmas.”
