Page 142 of Random in Death

“I won’t bust him down.”

“Okay, good. He said he knew places like that where you could keep it low and wait, then maybe snag a wallet, and snag a shopping bag full of snoot clothes. He said how he’d rather wear rags, but you could sell them, or sometimes you needed them like a costume so you could…”

Pausing, Quilla pressed her lips together. “But never mind that part.”

“Okay. You got a list?”

Digging into a pocket, Quilla pulled out a disc. “Names, addresses. Most are downtown, because that was Mouser’s turf. Before,” she said. “But they have Midtown and uptown branches. Some of them.”

“Okay, I’ll check them out.”

“Do you think it’ll help?”

“It does help. Now go away so I can work. And next time,” she called out, “if you bring brownies to soften up my squad, you’d better have one for me.”

“Check it,” Quilla said, and hurried away.

Eve turned to the AutoChef, thinking coffee, then changed it to a Pepsi, since the temp control in her office wasn’t quite beating the heat.

She sat and plugged in Quilla’s list.

“Might as well try it.”

She hit on the first one. Yes, Allisandra Charro often shopped there for clients. But the adrenaline rush proved temporary. None of the sizes worked, not even close.

It took time, but when she hit another, the sizes seemed reasonably compatible.

“Would you have the name of the client, or an address, other than Ms. Charro’s, for delivery?”

“I’d have to check on that, and I’m not certain I can disclose that information.”

“I can get a warrant, then I can come into your fancy store, flashing my badge around and scaring off your fancy customers. Or you can check and give me what I need.”

The response came stiffly. “One moment please.”

Eve waited a moment, then two, then three.

“Deliveries for one of Ms. Charro’s clients are occasionally sent directly to a Ms. Tasha Grimley. Other client selections are delivered to Ms. Charro.”

She read off a Park Avenue address for Grimley.

“Thanks.”

Eve ran Tasha Grimley—forty-six, married, sixteen years to Paul Grimley, two offspring.

Eve latched onto the son, age fifteen. And deflated when his ID shot came on-screen.

Dark skin, definitely not a white kid. Laughing bright green eyes, mile-wide smile.

A quick dive, just in case, informed her his interests lay in electronics and lacrosse. Team captain.

So athletic and popular.

She moved on.

And switched back to coffee.

As she felt the time leaking away, she tagged Charro again.