Page 42 of Festive in Death

“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.”

He paused in his work, gave her then Peabody a wary look before reaching into the bag.

Surprise flooded his face, then delight—demonstrated by the shift in the poor excuse for a mustache when his skinny lips curved.

Then with eyes darting left, right, he shoved the bottle back into the bag, shoved the bag into one of the drawers of his workstation.

“Thanks.”

Eve wiggled fingers at Peabody, who lined up evidence bags on the counter.

“What’s this?” Berenski demanded.

“That’s what I need you to tell me. Now.”

“You want me to do an analysis on all this, right now?” He swept his arm over his workstation. “Can’t you see I got work going here?”

“This is work, too. We had samples sent in already.”

“Low priority.”

“Now it’s high priority. Start with this.” She pushed the tea labeled Relaxation toward him. “That might be enough for right now. If you’re so busy, delegate. How long does it take to analyze some tea leaves?”

“Get in line. We’ll get to it when we get to it.”

Saying nothing, Eve tapped the drawer where he’d hidden the scotch.

He radiated insult. “That was a gift.”

“Yeah, and if you ever want another gift, you’ll analyze this evidence.”

Maybe Summerset couldn’t be bought, she thought, but she knew damn well Dickhead could.

“I’m doing you a favor.” He pointed one of his long, skinny fingers at her.

“Okay.”

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