“What about vans?”
“Vans?”
“Or ATs with large cargo areas?”
“Don’t see why not. You got the moolah, you get what you want.
“The chief took the paint dabs. He’s a little backed up, but he’ll get that going inside an hour.”
Harvo paused, smiled. “Just a heads-up on that. Give him a little time and space, quicker and less bitchy results.”
“Noted.”
“I’m just starting on the costume, so also a little time and space, but I eyeballed it already. You’ve got silk—I’ll be getting specifics, but the dress is silk, and really fine material. Human hair for the wig. Paintbrushes—”
“You took the paintbrushes?”
“Hair, Dallas. They’re hog hair, and they’re attached to the handle with quills—natural feather quills. Struck me all kinds of weird, so I did a little poking. They didn’t use metal for the collar deal—ah, it’s called a ferrule—until into the nineteenth century.”
“He needed eighteenth. I bet you can’t pop into your average art supply and pick up seven of those—and seven that precisely match the ones in the painting.”
“No, you cannot.” Harvo grinned. “Frosty, huh?”
“It ranks frosty. Somebody made them for him, made them custom. This is excellent data, Harvo. It’s all ego, Peabody. We’re going to wrap him up in his own ego. Appreciation galore,” she said to Harvo. “Let’s move.”
“I can start on brush makers.” Peabody jogged to keep up with Eve’s long stride. “Or the vehicles.”
“Take the brushes. You’re more likely to speak that language. You’ve got brushes, pigments, fabrics. Pigments mean you tag Dickhead in another hour or so to see where he is on those.”
“There goes my yippee.”
“Cross-reference any purchases or shipments. If and when Roarke narrows or hits on the costumes, we have that. I’ll take the carpet. Head back now. I’m going to make a quick stop at the morgue.”
“Do you think Morris will have anything new?”
“It only takes one thing.”
“The crack’s getting wider and wider.”
Wrap him in his own ego, Eve thought again. Because that was his big mistake. His egotistical certainty that he could do what those famed artists had done, but better. Every freaking detail of their work, but better.
Morris stood over the dead with his protective cloak over a forest-green suit. The shirt reminded Eve of the gold jacket the first victim had died wearing. His tie carried minute checks of both colors, and cords of both wove through the braid rounded into a knot high on the top of his head.
The music, a woman singing in what Eve thought might be French, sounded both sad and defiant.
“The late, great Édith Piaf,” Morris said. “She sings she regrets nothing. I hope our victim could say the same.”
“I bet she regrets going with the son of a bitch who put her on your table.”
“Up until then.” He walked over to wash his hands, got them both a cold tube. “She was in good health, no signs of alcohol or illegals abuse. She broke her left arm, about the age of twelve. It healed well. I have her street name as Chablis.”
“That’s right.”
“It may have been for his amusement to have served her Chablis. Six ounces at about eleven, another four at about two, along with some rosemary and sea salt flatbread crackers and Saint-Nectaire.”
“What the hell is that last thing?”
“Cheese. A soft French cheese.” He touched a hand to Chablis’s shoulder. “I hope she enjoyed it.”
