Killer Hair (17 page)

Marcia had been coached well, but she did not look at the press, nor did she wave. It was sensible, but Lacey would have to dock congeniality points for the Sunday story. If she remembered what the heck she promised Mac she would write. Of course, being the only judge, she could always change the rules. Now she was merely intent on getting close enough to ask a question. Lacey had years of reportorial elbowing experience on her side, and she was petite and fast. She dodged into a tiny opening next to the star witness. Marcia was surrounded by cameras and microphones and people were shrieking questions that she pretended not to hear.
This must be what it feels like to be dinner at the cannibals’ feast.

Lacey had to speak loudly to be heard even though she was close, but she did not bark like the rest of the pack.

“Marcia, when did you last see Angie and why did you cancel your last appointment with her? Angie. You remember.” Lacey hoped “Angie” was enough to jog Marcia’s memory. She wasn’t about to feed this wolf pack the full name. Let them work for it.

Marcia was startled and looked straight at Lacey. A hundred microphones pointed. Cameras whirred. Her composure slipped.

“Angie? I—I—I’m sorry. I didn’t think—I had no idea she would kill herself! I didn’t mean—”

“No comment! Make way, please. Miss Robinson has no comment.” Marcia’s lawyer, a sweating, overweight man sporting a graying Capital Comb Over, grabbed her arm, glared daggers at Lacey, and rushed his client into the building without another look at the clamoring crowd.

Marcia’s reaction electrified the press. As soon as the name “Angie” was out, the television reporters jumped on it like dogs on raw meat. Lacey heard one of them begin, “ABC has just learned that Marcia Robinson will testify about a mysterious woman known only as ‘Angie,’ perhaps another figure in the growing congressional pornography scandal.” Someone else asked, “Oh my God, did she say ‘kill herself’?”

CBS was reporting, “Another presumed congressional staffer, known only as Angie for the purposes of today’s hearing, is a new link in this story of pornography and corruption that has spread through the corridors of power on Capitol Hill to the White House. . . .”

Lacey walked calmly away with Todd Hansen in tow, Mona Lisa smile in place. A couple of alert TV reporters trotted after her. “Wait! Who is Angie, and who are you?”

She flipped her press credentials at them. All she said was, “
The Eye Street Observer
. Do your own homework.”

Old Beetle Brows was waiting for her as she strolled through the door of the newsroom.

“Smithsonian.”

He crooked his index finger and beckoned her into his office for a peek at a news video. Mac ceremoniously pushed the remote and a thirty-second news bite played. It featured Lacey asking her question, Marcia’s stunned reaction, and an anchorwoman trying to puzzle it out. The anchor promised there would be more developments, reported first on ABC. Several more news bites played from different stations, all showing Lacey and Marcia from slightly different angles. All promised they would be first with the developing story of the mysterious “Angie.”

Lacey thought she looked pretty good. She didn’t think the camera added ten pounds, as everybody claimed. Maybe five. But then she was standing next to the zaftig Marcia. Her black and emerald dress and bolero photographed particularly well. Aunt Mimi would be proud.

All three networks grudgingly reported on the air that a journalist from Washington’s
Eye Street Observer
provoked Marcia’s stunning revelation. They didn’t know what kind of revelation; nevertheless, it was better than nothing. And acknowledging Smithsonian might persuade
The Eye
to share. Two stations had already been on the phone with Mac trying to work a deal to get Lacey on the Sunday morning news shows. When Mac mentioned she was the author of the popular “Crimes of Fashion” column, which appeared every Friday in
The Eye
, they said they would call back.

“Don’t hold your breath,” she said.

Peter Johnson,
The Eye
’s lead writer on the latest congressional scandal series, yanked open the door and stepped inside Mac’s office. Peter was thirty-nine, unmarried, asexual, and possibly de-hormoned. He had a face like a pinched nerve, his lips drawn into a tight, thin line. Peter pushed his owlish glasses up his nose and glared at Lacey. Considered a snappy dresser at the office, he wore khakis, a blue shirt, and a screaming yellow bow tie with olives on it. Somewhere in the vicinity of his desk was a rumpled navy blue sport coat. Peter was obviously steamed, but he just stood there with his skinny arms folded and his pale hands knotted in fists. He let Mac take the lead. Mac cracked his knuckles at Lacey.

“So who is the mysterious Angie, and why is Lacey Smithsonian the only one in Washington who knows her?” He was too calm, like a snake choosing its moment before striking, like a toad waiting for a bug. Like an editor seeking a clue.

“I’m not the only one who knows who she was.” Lacey was getting warm in the office, so she removed the bolero jacket and folded it carefully over the back of a chair. “Angela Woods was Marcia’s hairstylist, the woman who gave Marcia the celebrated makeover just a month ago. Remember, we—
I
—wrote about it first. Last week, according to D.C.’s boys in blue, Angela Woods committed suicide. But there are others who think she was murdered, and that it’s ridiculous to believe she would kill herself.”

“What others?”

“Well, the manager of her salon.” Mac looked doubtful. “Marcia had an appointment with Angie the day Angie died, but Marcia canceled it. And that’s all I know.” Lacey decided they didn’t need to know about the weird haircut and missing hair. Not yet anyway. “Oh, and on Saturday, Angie’s apartment was reported burglarized.”

“Just how do you know this, Smithsonian?” Johnson asked.

“Style never sleeps, Peter. Except in your case.” She yanked on his shabby ID tag. “Fashion tip: Don’t wear your photo ID to bed. Do you shower in it too? Maybe I should address this question in a column and dedicate it to you.”

Peter sighed and stuffed his ID in his pocket so only the chain was visible.

“Ah, the stealth ID. Much better.”

Mac cleared his throat. Lacey dutifully explained that no one had heard of Angie until she styled Marcia Robinson. Because of Marcia and the whimsy of timing, the young stylist had a brief turn in the sun before dying. Marcia Robinson was a good place to start asking questions, and besides, she had the Sunday front feature all sewn up, so to speak. Mac was still perplexed.

“Is this a fashion story, a scandal, a suicide, a murder, or what?”

“Definitely fashion. Probably scandal. Possibly murder. Once Angie performed her magic on Marcia, Angie became famous in her own circle, creating a lot of jealousy. So maybe it led to murder, or maybe she had personal problems. But if Marcia Robinson hadn’t gone to her in the first place, no one would know about Angie Woods. Marcia’s scandal has taken its toll.”
What did Brooke say?
“Six Hill staffers have lost their jobs. More to come. Two congressmen have resigned. If Angie’s death is related in any way, she’s another scandal victim. If not, it’s a weird coincidence. Either way, it’s human interest. You don’t like human interest?”

“And why didn’t you tell me?” He stroked his bald head.

’Cause I didn’t think about that until just this moment.
“Because you don’t want to be bothered. You don’t care about fashion. I mean, just look at you—”

“Well, I care now, especially if Marcia Robinson, accused pornographer and corrupter of youth, has anything to do with murder.” Mac liked the idea of the paper breaking a murder story, if it was a murder story. He also found it amusing that the other media were hotly pursuing a phantom named Angie. “I want us to be buddies, Smithsonian. I want us to talk, to share confidences, nothing much, little things, like what the hell you’re working on!” Being buddies with her editor was an intolerable thought to Lacey. “It’s okay to make everyone else look like a bunch of monkeys, but not me. Got it?” His face clouded. She nodded, but he continued. “And if this story leads to anything remotely to do with the special prosecutor’s investigation, you tell Peter.” Mac nodded at Peter. Peter nodded back and left the room, confident that Lacey had been put in her place. “I told you not to step on his toes,” Mac said.

Lacey shrugged. “I was nowhere near his toes. They were asleep under his desk.”

“And I want you to tell Trujillo what you just told me.”

Peter Johnson was just a dweeb prima donna, but Trujillo had cojones. He would either try to take the story away from Lacey, or debunk it. He had the heart and soul of a cop reporter. If murder was involved and
The Eye
could score a point on the District’s cops, Trujillo would be sure to grab that feather for his own cap. She couldn’t let that happen.

“Like hell! I’m breaking it and I’m not giving Tony squat. This story is mine, Mac. All mine. I researched it. It’s my beat and my sources.”

He put his hands up in surrender. “Chill out. Okay, fine, Smithsonian. It’s yours.” Mac smirked. He thought she was really blossoming on the fashion beat. “So the Sunday piece is a go, right? The scorecard thing?”

She needed to get the proof sheets from Todd to determine exactly what Marcia looked like and how she’d score. “Sure thing. By the way, Mac, ‘Crimes of Fashion’ will be about Angela Woods this week.”

This time Mac smiled. “Sure. You might have a real crime this time. Only
this
story’s got to go today.”

“My deadline is tomorrow!”

“This is a daily newspaper, Smithsonian. Not a country club. Today, you’re the talk of the town. Enjoy it. Your
news
story on Angela Woods and Marcia Robinson goes on the Web in forty minutes. We’ll box it on the front page tomorrow. You can elaborate on the fashion angle for your column later. Now go.”

Trujillo came nosing around her desk as she was batting out the story on “the mysterious Angela Woods.” He turned on the charm, honored her with his one-hundred-watt smile, just like a rattlesnake would if a rattlesnake could smile. Thoughts of gardens and apples crossed her mind.

“I’m on deadline, Tony. So boot-scoot boogie out of here.”

He suggested they go for a beer after work. She suggested a rain check. He suggested they chat about what she had. She suggested he take a hike so she could wrap up the story on deadline. He suggested he might be able to help her with the possible criminal angle. She suggested a place he could stick his angle and offered to help. He got the hint. He smiled the killer smile again as he left, but he was down to about sixty watts. Lacey smiled to herself.
He’ll be back.

Chapter 13

There were several messages on her voice mail when she got home. Stella was thrilled to see Lacey on TV. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down. And you looked great, kiddo. So what’s next in our investigation?”

Brooke was the next to weigh in. “Thought you weren’t going to get involved. Call me with a full report. If you’ve got a phone, you’ve got a lawyer. Oh yes, beware of men wearing earpieces.”

The third message was from the one and only Marcia Robinson. “Lacey Smithsonian? Call me. I want to talk about you-know-who, and for God’s sake, don’t give out this number.”

Lacey started dialing before she had a chance to take off her jacket. She was surprised when Marcia herself answered the phone. “You nearly gave me a heart attack today,” Marcia said. Of course Marcia felt terrible about Angie and she wanted to know if Lacey had any more information than she had read in the papers. Marcia remembered Lacey’s articles on her makeover. To Lacey’s relief, she thought they were funny. “The other papers were just mean,” she said.

On the record, Marcia told Lacey Angie was “a styling genius” and she was “terribly saddened by her death.” Off the record, Marcia said she would fill her in later. Marcia was in a mood to talk, but she suggested that they meet somewhere interesting in person. “My attorney’s got me under house arrest and I’m dying to slip out. I swear he might be tapping my phone.”

“Which would be a violation of federal wiretapping laws.”

“You don’t know my lawyer. He thinks he wrote the loop-holes in the federal wiretapping laws. Fortunately, I have a cell phone he doesn’t know about.” Lacey hadn’t expected Marcia to be flip. It struck her that Ms. Robinson was not taking the whole rigamarole all that seriously, but her remorse about Angie seemed genuine.

Marcia suggested that they meet at the Washington National Cathedral the following day. She was an avowed agnostic who had never actually gone to church. She told Lacey, “I don’t really believe in God, but I have been through hell.”

Washington intrigues almost always require clandestine meetings in places like Deep Throat’s parking garage. The majestic Gothic church in Northwest, complete with gargoyles, was equally suitable, and although it was Episcopalian and not Catholic, it suggested to Lacey an atmosphere of sanctuary.