“Is it common? The cheese? You know, like cheddar or mozzarella?”
“My computer tells me it’s a washed-rind cheese from the Auvergne region in France. Ah…”
He turned, called it up again. “Here we are. An uncooked, pressed cheese produced from Salers cow’s milk.
“I have no idea what sort of cow that might be,” he added, “but apparently they graze on the volcanic pastures of that region, which gives the cheese its flavor.”
“How many kinds of cows are there? Too many,” she decided instantly. “Who decided in the first place to grab a cow by the tits and squeeze out milk? Then drink what they squeezed out of a cow’s tits. Then hey, let’s make cheese from what we squeezed out of a cow’s tits. What kind of mind goes there?”
His smile filled with amused affection. “They do the same with goats.”
“I don’t want to think about it. I like cheese. How am I supposed to eat cheese if I think about it? Salers cows. French cows. You probably can’t pick up that kind of thing at your neighborhood twenty-four/seven.”
“Doubtful. More likely a fromagerie or high-end market.”
“Fromagerie,” she muttered.
“A cheese shop.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” French cheese, French wine, French painting. Yeah, they’d hit Paris again on the costume.
“When did he dose her?”
“Her last glass of wine he laced with the same barbiturate mix as your other two victims. It would have been around three this morning.”
He studied Eve as she studied the body. “You don’t need any of this at this point.”
“No. Well, the cheese gives me something else to look for. It’s a detail. It’s specific. We’re picking up solid details this morning.”
“You came for those, yes. But first, Dallas, you came for respect.”
Sighing, she rubbed at the back of her neck.
“We didn’t have enough, Morris. I hope we do now, but didn’t have enough to save her from this. She had friends. She had family.”
Now, Eve shoved at her hair. “Her family doesn’t know what she did for a living. She told them she worked in retail. I don’t know if any of them will come—they live in Kansas—but they’ll want to bring herhome. She talked to them regularly. She went home every Christmas. There’s a photo of her with her family in front of a big Christmas tree on her dresser.”
“If they come, or simply contact me for arrangements, I won’t mention her work. I have her now, Dallas. Go, do your work, and I’ll see to her.”
“Thanks.” At the door, she paused. “I really hope we don’t have this conversation over another tomorrow.”
But when she walked back down the white tunnel, she saw Chablis on the slab under Morris’s compassionate hands.
And she saw her dressed in rosy pink silk, with a straw hat, standing in an ornate frame against a white wall.
She knew, if she couldn’t bring those details together, someone else would fill a fourth.
Chapter Sixteen
Eve caught the scent of chocolate before she turned into Homicide. And saw Nadine Furst, camera ready in a red dress with a short, matching jacket, perched on the corner of Jenkinson’s desk.
She momentarily blocked Eve’s view of the tie. But when Nadine shifted, rose, Eve saw cows.
It just had to be cows.
Dozens of cows standing unnaturally on their hind legs, their front hooves joined as they spiraled down the atomic green field.
“That’s just sick. It’s sick.”
