Page 117 of Random in Death
Since she shared that affection, she sampled. “Got a little heat on it. Not bad.”
Since she also had a dish of summer berries, she couldn’t really complain.
“I’m wearing black today, so no comments. They’re having Jenna Harbough’s memorial, and unless I’m about to tackle this bastard, we need to monitor.”
“Do you think he’ll be there?”
“I don’t. He’s done with her. She served her purpose. But if I’m wrong about that, and he shows… I think I’ll know him. I know that sounds—”
“As if you think you’ll know him. And I believe you will,” Roarke added.
“I will. If I see him at the memorial today, I think I’ll know him. If I see him in the school stuff, I think I’ll know him.”
As she ate, she considered. “He’s worn a wig—either because he thinks it helps him blend or for the disguise. Both. Plus, the style hides his face. Under it? His hair might be the same color, or close, but the style’s not. His is conservatively cut, short, neat, parted on the side, ruler straight.”
“That’s very specific.”
“It goes with the shoes, the clothes. He gets it cut at a high-end barber shop. Maybe a salon, but I lean toward the barber.”
“Because salons give off at least a whiff of the feminine, and he wouldn’t tolerate that.”
“Exactly.”
“Not as many of those as private schools, but.”
“Yeah, but. Plenty of them. But it’s an angle.” One that needed following. “And besides the hair, it’s going to be the eyes. His eyes, they’re going to be wrong. And I’ll know it.”
Reaching over, she gave the black silk of his hair a tug. “Who does this?”
“In the last couple of years, Trina. She’ll come to me.”
“I bet.” And thinking of the hard-ass stylist, Eve shoved her fingers through her own hair.
It was fine, just fine.
“And I bet she doesn’t bitch at you when she does.”
He smiled. “About what?”
“‘Didn’t I tell you to use that face gunk? You’ve only got one face! You’re a dead cop, you oughta know skin’s alive. You gotta feed it. Your hair needed a trim two weeks ago.’ Then she slathers that sheep cum all over my hair.”
He nearly choked on his frittata. “Sheep cum?”
“It looks like sheep cum.”
“This begs the question,” he decided. “Have you ever encountered the cum of sheep?”
“Not so far, but if I do, it’ll look just like what Trina slathers all over my hair.” After her last bite, she wagged her fork at him. “Your family has sheep. I bet they’d back me up on it.”
“Well then, that will be quite the conversation starter over Thanksgiving dinner when they visit. I’ll make a note.”
“They’ll back me up,” she insisted. “Anyway, he doesn’t go to Trina. Her place doesn’t approach the bomb zone area of conservative.”
She pushed up. “Black.”
And went into her closet.
Roarke stacked the plates under the domes, then pointed at the cat. “Knock these off again, and there’ll be no treats for you later. Mark my words.”