Killer Hair (33 page)

“I was hoping to avoid that possibility.”

“This isn’t Dodge City, Lacey. It’s not even Sagebrush. Look, you made a police report, and once I get the blood-spatter report on the photos I’ll contact the proper authorities.”

“Ooh, the proper authorities! That’ll take a bite out of crime. So when are you going to unleash the Keystone Kops?”

“After I take you home. But you’re going to stay out of it. Got it?”

“Oh no, I’m going to see Radford. His address is in the phone book.”

“Still intent on that nonsense?” She didn’t budge. “Okay. I’ll make a call.”

“You think he’s dangerous?”

“No. I’m afraid you’ll tear his head off.”

“Flatterer.”

 

Vic had arranged to take Lacey to meet Radford later that night, at eight o’clock at Stylettos’ headquarters. As he pulled into the company parking lot, he warned her, “Now, play nice. And I don’t want to see any of this in the paper.”

“Ha! Then you’d better read
The Post.
” She didn’t want to tell him how sick she was of writing stories on Stylettos. Lacey stepped out of the Jeep slowly. It had been a long, exhausting day, and the picture of Josephine greeting Vic played over and over in her head. Never mind the scenes her imagination supplied after the ex-Mrs. Radford shut the door. Not asking him about it was becoming to be harder than asking.

Vic unlocked the front door of the office building. They had just started up the stairs when they heard a woman scream. Vic took the stairs two steps at a time. Lacey followed on his heels. They rounded a corner through a lavishly decorated reception area into Boyd’s office, where Josephine was screaming hysterically. Boyd Radford lay face-up across a coffee table, his hand clutching a bronze sculpture of a blow-dryer. His throat was cut. Blood drained onto the floor. Lacey noticed that his hair was neatly slicked back, not even a lock out of place. His eyes were open and Lacey stifled a scream and willed her stomach to calm down. She was not about to be sick, especially with Josephine caterwauling like a wounded banshee.

Although it seemed useless, Vic took Radford’s pulse. He looked at Lacey and shook his head. He reached for the cell phone in his pocket. “Can’t you do something with her?” He indicated Josephine.

“I thought that was your job.” Nevertheless, Lacey grabbed Josephine by the shoulders and shook her. Josephine wouldn’t focus. She was surprised to see the imperious Frenchwoman in such a state, her makeup smeared, her hair flying out of her chignon.

“Get her out of here. And don’t touch anything,” Vic barked at her.

“You think I don’t watch television?”

Josephine, noticing Vic for the first time, snatched her purse from the floor where it had fallen before Lacey could safely steer her out into the reception area. “
Mon Dieu,
what a mess. An unholy mess,” Josephine muttered.
“Merde, merde, merde.”
She retrieved a mirror and gasped at her reflection. Then she sat down on a leather sofa and went to work repairing the damage. Lacey watched as Josephine used a delicate handkerchief to wipe away the tears. She took a small vial of cream and patted it gently on her face, following that with a dab of concealer. She freshened her lipstick and blush and expertly combed and restyled her hair. Her eyes still glittered from her crying jag. All the while she chattered.

“I just came here to check up on Boyd. He has been so not himself lately. So hard to pin down. I wanted to talk to him about family matters. Our property settlement. He wasn’t home, so I came here, went through that door, and found him like that. So horrible.”

“Did you touch him?”

“Touch him?” Josephine shivered. “With him looking like that?”

Lacey had to agree the thought was pretty unappetizing. “To see if he was still alive?”

“No. I didn’t think he could be alive. His throat . . .” Josephine stopped speaking and looked at Lacey for the first time. “What are you doing here?”

“I had an appointment to talk with Boyd.”

“And you came with Victor?” Josephine caressed his name, but her eyes narrowed.

“That’s right.” Lacey wasn’t convinced that Josephine was telling the truth, but police sirens interrupted her thoughts. First the officers came, then the ambulance and the detectives. They took Josephine to a conference room and closed the door. That was the last Lacey saw of her that night.

Lacey’s part in the police investigation was relegated to a short statement and a long wait for Vic, during which she made a phone call from an outside pay phone to Tony “Be there in twenty minutes” Trujillo, who wasn’t answering his cell phone. She didn’t leave a message, but instead called the night desk at
The Eye
with a tip. She knew that she wouldn’t be writing the cop story on Radford’s murder. She would save her own observations for a later column.

Several hours later, Vic drove her home. They had nothing to say beyond a few polite words of good night. Lacey was almost certain it wasn’t her fault that every time she and Vic were together lately, someone ended up dead. But she had a feeling Vic didn’t see it that way.

Chapter 24

When three people you know turn up dead in a short period of time, others are bound to notice. Even reporters.

Someone had fashioned a large warning sign above Lacey’s desk. Bright orange letters outlined in black declared: WARNING: FASHION MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH. Sitting in the Death Chair was a skull wearing a beret with a rhinestone clip and the legend THIS BEAT KILLED ME! YOU MAY BE NEXT! -MARIAH.

Felicity popped up in an oversized red plaid jumper, a white shirt with a Peter Pan collar, knee socks, and loafers. It was a cute outfit for a second-grader. She giggled at Lacey.

“When you walk by, Lacey, bodies fall.”

If looks could kill . . .
“Well, step right up. Who’s next?”

“You’re so funny, Lacey. We all thought it was just awful about the attack, the haircut, and all, but your hair is so cute now,” she gushed. “I like it so much better this way.”

Trujillo must have spilled his guts. He even told them about her hair. Lacey knew coming into the office would be tough, and there was nothing she could do but take it. To fortify herself, she wore a sapphire-blue suit that had been a favorite of Mimi’s. The jacket had full shoulders and a nipped-in waist with pearl buttons. The slim-fitting skirt reached just below the knees and featured side kick pleats. She’d pulled her hair back with tortoiseshell combs. The total look had an early Brenda Starr/Lois Lane don’t-mess-with-me effect. She hoped.

“You could be some kind of walking occupational hazard,” Felicity pointed out. “A carrier, you know? Like Typhoid Mary.”

“Oh, Felicity, you witty thing.” Lacey wished she felt a little more dangerous, to give her courage. Her comrades in the newsroom all wanted journalism’s five Ws: who, what, where, when, and why. And they wanted them “now, now, now.” She shouldn’t begrudge them their curiosity. But she did.

She glared at Trujillo across the room. He squirmed. “I had nothing to do with the decorating, Lacey, I swear.” He had, however, already written the story on Radford’s homicide, as well as one on her attack in Dyke Marsh. Thankfully, the story on her haircut was tucked inside the news section at the bottom of the page, next to a tire ad.

“What’s this?” she asked, holding up the Radford story.

“I grabbed some background from your columns and the story on the Dupont Circle and Virginia Beach deaths, to make the connection to Radford. Two dead women. Their boss winds up dead. Coincidence? I credit you in the third ’graph.”

“Thanks, Tony.” She knew she wouldn’t have been allowed to write about Radford’s death and get it into print. It was Trujillo’s beat, but it still rankled. She went looking for her editor.

“Mac, you gotta take me off this fashion beat. It’s bad luck. Did you see my desk? Even the reporters think I’m a public menace.”

“Nice try, Smithsonian,” Mac said. She noticed he wasn’t even wearing anything funny today. He looked pretty good. Dark blue slacks, white shirt, muted tie.
His wife must have dressed him.
Mac invited Lacey and Trujillo into his office. He refrained from making cracks about her bangs. Trujillo looked uncommonly solemn, dressed ominously in black T-shirt, black leather jacket, black jeans, black boots.

Mac shut the door.
Now what did I do?
Lacey thought.
Am I being fired?
“Sit down, Lacey.” It was an order, but she remained standing. “First of all, I want you to know that
The Eye Street Observer
asks a lot of its reporters, but it does not ask them to risk their lives for a story.”

Unless it’s a really big story,
Lacey thought.

“If you were expecting trouble you should have told someone, me or Tony,” Mac said. He drummed a pencil on his desk.

Lacey shrugged. “How could I anticipate an ambush on the bike path? The only threats came here at the paper.”

“Threats? As in threats plural?”

“The hair and the letter, you know.” She hadn’t told him about the Radford threat, which happened after work on Friday. Now it seemed pointless to mention it. Suspicion clouded his face, but he let it go.

“After the guy attacked you, why didn’t you call me first thing?”

“Trujillo had the story in hand. Hell, he knew about it almost before I did.”

“I’m not talking about the story, damn it! Did it never cross your mind that I might care whether one of my reporters lives or dies?”

It never had crossed her mind. She was a reporter, he was an editor, and never the twain shall meet.

“No,” she said. He rubbed the back of his neck and glared at her. She wondered what his angle was on this. “I guess it would be embarrassing to lose another fashion reporter, after Mariah. But you could always take a hook and grab one off the street.”

Mac growled and smacked his fist on the desk. “That’s not funny, Smithsonian. I am very concerned about this! About you! Two women die. You are attacked. Then this Radford character gets himself killed in his own office. Somewhere in the mix is a missing videotape and a federal witness. The police are saying he may have interrupted a burglary, but we all know that’s a lot of coincidence for a lousy hair salon.”

“But not for Washington,” Lacey said. “And what burglary?” She had seen only the headline. Vic hadn’t mentioned a burglary. But of course, Josephine had been there, so who really knew? Mac shoved over a copy of the latest edition.

“There’s something else you should know,” Mac said. “We got the DNA results back. Tony tells me the lab broke its own speed record for him. It’s a match.” Mac fingered a piece of paper. He slid it to Lacey.

She whistled. “So it
was
Angela Woods’ hair.”
Of course it was Angie’s. Duh.
It seemed like she’d had no rest at all since Friday. The weekend had been packed: an assault, a makeover, Radford’s death, and a lecture and a lesson at the gun range.
Several lessons,
Lacey reflected. But this would be one hell of a front-page story over the byline Lacey Smithsonian.

“That’s what they say.”

Lacey sank down into a chair. “Stupid. Sending the hair. Doesn’t this guy even watch TV?”

“The cops will say it doesn’t prove anything, in and of itself,” Tony said. “And it doesn’t. It could be years old. No way to trace the jerk who sent it.”

“Of course we’ll inform the Metropolitan P.D. what we’ve got. Courtesy call,” Mac said. “They’ll thank us and pay no more attention to it. The police response, or lack thereof, ought to be played high in the story. We’ll box it on the front page.”

“What about the FBI?” Lacey asked.

Mac snorted. “Let them call us.” The magnitude of the story was beginning to dawn on her. There was a moment of silence.

Lacey stood up. “Well, thanks for the information, guys. I’ve got work to do.” Her mind was racing, starting with the calls she needed to make. “What’s my deadline on this one?”

Mac cleared his throat. “Not your deadline. This one is Tony’s. You’ve got fashion, Lacey, not cops and robbers. Not murders.” Tony looked away when she glanced at him. This was exactly what she had been afraid of. They were going to pull the rug out from under her.
The rats,
she thought.
I already paid the price of admission on this story.
“And if anything further develops on the hair killer, or Boyd Radford, Tony gets it. He’s the police reporter, after all.”

“That’s completely unfair, Mac. I’m the one who got the death threat! I should get the story,” Lacey protested. “I’m the one who got the hair.”

“Yes, you’re the one who got the death threat!” Mac seemed ready to jump over the desk at her. “That’s why you’re off the story. I want you out of the line of fire.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am a reporter.”

“Sing me no sad songs, Smithsonian. Life is unfair. I mean it. Stick to fashion and stay out of trouble.”

“Boyd Radford’s memorial service is tomorrow. I have to be there.” Stella had already called her with a full report to go with her breakfast.

Mac was adamant. “Cool your jets. It’s Tony’s.”

“But I know all the players. The stylists trust me. I can put things together.”
With a little help, a lot of luck, and maybe divine revelation.

“Then tell Tony all about it,” Mac said. She shot poisonous looks at each man. “Take it easy, Lacey. You’re probably in shock or something. Just write your column, something funny, something light.” Something light. As if she could whip up humor like a soufflé, light, frothy, insubstantial.
Is that still what you think of me?

She glared at him. “It’ll be about Big Head Ted, the senior senator from Massachusetts,” Lacey said, seizing on one of her most reliable whipping boys. “You might not know it, but Kennedy’s tailor must be the cleverest man in Washington and he deserves some credit. For anyone to get that fat head of Ted’s to look human is some kind of miracle.” Slamming the venerable senator was a sure way to get Mac to spark and Lacey was spoiling for a fight. “If Ted rummaged his suits off the rack at Men’s Wearhouse, he’d look just like Bob’s Big Boy. With white hair.”