Killer Hair (22 page)

Claudia laughed. “I know that when people say they want a lawyer, the FBI immediately assumes they’re guilty of something. But if you knew me, you’d know I should always have my conversations in front of lawyers.”

Lacey took silent notes. Wong squirmed perceptibly in her seat and the FBI agents shared a look. Mac played with a pen. Lacey decided she liked Claudia—unless she was about to be fired. The notorious Claudia Darnell had been a secretary in a Capitol Hill office. She had a messy and public affair with a married congressman and became famous for not typing. The obligatory scandal ensued. But she was smart. She got out, got educated, and got rich without posing naked for anyone. Claudia’s bright white smile spelled trouble, Lacey thought, for anyone who crossed her. “I put off my flight to Palm Beach to be here, gentlemen. So, let the games begin, shall we?”

Thorn directed his questions to Lacey. “How did you contact Marcia Robinson? And what made you think she knew anything about the hairdresser’s suicide?”

“That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? She called me. And are you aware that Angie Woods was probably murdered?” Lacey countered.

“I’ll ask the questions, Ms. Smithsonian,” he said. “Now—”

“Will you at least tell me if the Bureau is investigating Angie’s death?”

“It happens to be a simple suicide, according to—”

“Could you define ‘simple suicide’?” Lacey asked.

“There was no indication anyone else was involved.”

“You’ve seen the police report?” Thorn was silent. “So this was like so many other simple suicides who simply need a little help?”

“Ms. Smithsonian—”

Mac tapped his pen on the table, another warning. “I thought this was just an informal chat,” Lacey said. Everyone glared at her except Claudia, who seemed amused.

Thorn started over. “We are interested in Marcia Robinson, not Angela Woods.”

“Even if she killed herself because of something Marcia told her?”

“And that would be?”

“Marcia said she didn’t know. But she was suffering from a major case of guilt.”

Thorn pressed on. Lacey told him everything he wanted to know—everything, that is, that she had already written in her stories. He probed for more information on Marcia’s pornographic Web site, which she was glad she did not know. Nor did she know how Angie’s death, suicide or otherwise, might be related. “I cover the fashion beat. I just ask fashion-related questions.”

“Come now, Ms. Smithsonian, fashion?”

“Okay, what passes for fashion in D.C. The city that fashion forgot.”

Thorn stared her down. “Let me get this straight. You spend your days taunting people in print with your tasteless opinions?”

“Basically, yes.”

Claudia broke in. “Whether ‘Crimes of Fashion’ is tasteless or not, Agent Thorn, it sells papers and it adds an air of levity in a town that takes itself far too seriously.”

“But these articles are not levity.”

“In this case, my dear agents, an
Eye Street
reporter is shedding light on a suspicious death that would otherwise be swept under the carpet.”

Mac cleared his throat. “I ordered her to write the story and conduct the follow-up. We had a unique take on it.”

Lacey turned to look at him.
Really, tough guy?

“Is there anything you discussed with Marcia Robinson that you did not include in the story?” Thorn asked.

“Only her personal philosophy on the wearing of orange apparel when incarcerated. I actually prefer black-and-white stripes, only not horizontal. Is the special prosecutor interested in that?”

Mac broke in. “You ought to see what she has in mind for next week.”

“Well, Ms. Smithsonian?”

Lacey looked at Mac. He nodded as if they had already agreed on a column. “I think you’ve inspired me with your unique neckwear choices, something like ‘Too Ugly to Die: My Tie Fights Crime for the FBI.’ After all, Elliott Ness was supposed to be a snappy dresser and we all know how J. Edgar Hoover loved his party dresses and tutus. Now there’s a real fashion role model for the Bureau.”

Agent Watkins coughed into his fist, and Agent Thorn’s ears turned red. He sighed deeply and closed his notebook. “I think we’re through here. We may need to call on you again as our investigation goes forward.”

“One more thing, Agent Thorn,” Claudia warned. “
The Eye Street Observer
stands behind our reporters all the way. We know the shield laws. We know the Constitution. You cannot bully us.”

“We’re just doing a routine investigation, ma’am. We don’t care how people live their lives. We aren’t the morality police.”

She answered him with that dazzling smile and purred, “Of course you are. So nice to meet you.”

After the junior G-men left, Claudia grinned at her bemused staff. “I’m not the FBI’s biggest fan. If they call again, you call me right away. No matter where I am.”

Claudia pulled Lacey aside as they left. “Just remember, Lacey, the center of a scandal is a scary place to live. You have a duty to look for the truth and print the truth. But make sure it is the truth. And always be careful when you’re poking the bear.”

“I will.”

“And if you simply must poke the bear, call me. I love a good bearbaiting.” Claudia strode out without further ado, attorney Wong trailing behind.

Lacey nudged Mac. “You lied to the FBI. You didn’t order me to write that story.”

“I wasn’t under oath. Ain’t life grand? And by the way, Lacey, there’s a moratorium on surprises for the rest of the month. Let’s make this ‘Be Kind to Mac’ month.”

At home that night, she was glad to be spared a blow-by-blow with Brooke, who was working late preparing a brief. And Lacey made sure by leaving a message and then unplugging the telephone. She was too tired to talk, even to Brooke.

She opened a large bag of caramel corn and poured herself the last Dos Equis. She opened Aunt Mimi’s treasure trunk and spread some patterns around her while she watched
Sullivan’s Travels
and looked for inspiration in Veronica Lake’s gorgeous 1941 wardrobe. That is, when Veronica wasn’t dressed like a bum.

The caramel corn was too sweet and the beer chaser was not a good idea. However, Lacey was feeling brighter just for watching a smart comedy. And Aunt Mimi’s evening-gown pattern would be stunning in a cream-colored crepe with gold insets at the waistband and cuffs. If Lacey could find just the right materials. It would help keep her mind off Vic.

Lacey’s thoughts kept drifting back to six feet of testosterone and grass-green eyes. She had always been drawn to Victor Donovan.
Why is my timing always off?
That was the trouble. And if once she had felt she could conquer a man’s heart the way a climber scales a peak, she had lost that feeling long ago.

On Sunday, as soon as she plugged in the phone, it rang. Lacey picked it up. “Hello, Brooke.”

“Good, you’re not dead. I didn’t actually think you were. You’re not on DeadFed dot com. I checked.”

“I can always count on you, Brooke. And you were right. It went okay and I still have my job. And about half my nerves.”

“By the way, Lacey, nice piece on Marcia Robinson, the little squealer. Glad you stuck to describing her clothes this time. I think you should consider writing a primer on how to dress and prepare for court. I know someone who knows someone who knows John Grisham’s agent.”

“Brooke, let’s stop thinking for a change. Let’s
do
something instead. New York City. Small bite of the Big Apple. What do you say?”

“Keep talking, Lacey.”

“An invasion. You and me. Bag some cavemen, drag ’em back to our caves. Make ’em invent fire and cook for us.”

“Can’t. The pheromone jammers will get them.”

“Could we at least go ogle them? We could wear sunglasses.”

“Tell me, Lacey. Have you gotten a whiff of testosterone lately?”

“Only on video.”

She half hoped that Vic would call, but he didn’t. She returned the videos, shopped for fabric but didn’t find anything, and took a long walk along a secluded path on the river. She passed a man at an easel who was mixing paints with a palette knife. He appeared innocent enough, no earpiece, but Lacey took another long look and nervously checked her surroundings.

She shook off a feeling of unease and told herself she was being ridiculous. No one was going to take her simple pleasures away from her.

 

First thing Monday morning, Marcia Robinson’s attorney put out a press release that he was severing his professional relationship with his notorious client. He complained of leaks to the media. In the break room, Mac informed Lacey that Peter Johnson was already working on that story.

Mac hovered over Lacey’s desk all morning like a tropical depression. Her phone rang and she picked up, a signal for her editor to leave her alone. A chirpy voice was on the other end.

“I’m only calling because something weird happened today. Not that it has anything to do with Angie, but when you wrote about her hair being cut off, it got me thinking,” a woman said. “I know Angie would never cut her hair like how you described. She was totally into her hair, you know. I knew Angie. She was my best friend.”

“And you are? . . .” Lacey asked.

“Oh, Tammi, Tammi White. I’m the manager of the Stylettos Salon in Virginia Beach. I was at the funeral, but I didn’t get to meet you. Stella said I should call you. You know Stella.”

Lacey stifled a sigh.

“Um, I kind of thought I should call because Angie used to work here in Virginia Beach before she went to Washington. Stella said you knew all about Angie, you know, how she died.”

“I’m listening, Tammi.” Lacey picked up her coffee, took a sip and flipped open her daybook to see if anything important was on the schedule.
Slow day in the style biz.
She looked at her e-mail.
Too many messages.

“But anyway, this guy called the salon this morning and he said he wanted some of us to cut our hair if it was really long and he was willing to pay us for it.”

Lacey stopped flipping pages and picked up a pen. “Really? Go on.”

“His name was George something. I forget. Anyway, he said he was working on a photo layout of haircuts for his portfolio, as an example of a marketing campaign,” Tammi said. “For school or something. I wasn’t really listening to that part.”

It was pretty exciting to Tammi White that the guy was offering stylists $250 to cut their hair from “very long to very short and very dramatic.” George Something was willing to pay $100 more if he could videotape the haircut. Several stylists might be willing, Tammi said, herself included, because they needed the money. “I mean, who doesn’t?” George told her he had a great stylist for the cut and he would videotape it himself. He was just looking for models with the right kind of hair. Long. Really long.

“I’m kind of interested myself. I have long, curly black hair, almost to my waist, but I’ve been thinking of cutting it for a while now. High maintenance, you know.”

Lacey asked if there was anything else that struck Tammi about the guy. Tammi had no idea what he looked like, and he sounded “like anyone” on the phone. But one thing bothered her.

“He wants the hair,” Tammi said.

Lacey rubbed her neck. She felt a prickle run down her back. “Excuse me, the hair? I’m not getting this.”

“He offered five hundred dollars for the haircut, the video, and the hair.”

“He wants the hair?”

“Yeah, weird, huh? Nobody wants the hair.”

Lacey pointed out that stylists often train with model heads, set with real human hair.

“Yeah, I guess so, but I never heard of anyone paying that much for hair around here,” Tammi said. “And then I read your column, ‘Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.’ Stella faxed it to me.”

Tammi also thought there was something strange about the mysterious George’s request to make a videotape. According to Tammi, Stylettos occasionally videotaped guest stylists who flew in and demonstrated the latest techniques. The tapes were produced at the chain’s headquarters, the same training salon where the funeral reception for Angie was held. The studio was equipped with lights and camera equipment. But George said his amateur video would be okay and he’d call back to arrange a meeting with Tammi. He wanted to meet tomorrow night.

“Why spend all that money and not even get a professional video? And he said it would be better to meet somewhere else, not at the salon, like this was a top-secret project.”

“If you’re really nervous about this guy, maybe you should call the police.”

“I don’t know. What would I tell them?”

“Good question. Did this George guy leave a number?”

“Nah. He said he’d call back.”

“If he does call again, keep me posted. It was probably just a crank call.”

“Yeah, it was probably a dumb joke. Five hundred dollars for your hair is way too good to be true,” Tammi said.