A Kind of Justice (14 page)

“Congratulations, Al.”

“It's not all good news, I'm afraid. Not for you. The way it's going to come down is, your girlfriend did it. Logan. There will be plenty of proof for an indictment and because she's a tranny it's going to get a lot of press coverage. You need to create some space between you and her. That's why I'm giving you a heads-up. You have a good future, Pavlik. The suits like you. The street cops like you. You look good on TV. You don't want to get splattered with any of the mud from this one.”

“She's not my girlfriend, Wilkins, and you shouldn't call her ‘tranny.' That's a bigoted expression. She's a transgender woman and she's my friend, not my girlfriend. And since you brought it up, I don't believe she did it. She's a nice person who's had a tough life. She thinks it's personal with you. Is it?”

“You're right. I don't like her,” says Wilkins. “But that's not why I'm building a case against her. I'm after her because she did the crime. She assassinated that lawyer.”

“You know that?”

Wilkins smiles. “I've got motive and opportunity. Motive: she was raped a few months earlier by men working for Strand. She got even with one of them by having him beat to a pulp in the alley where she was raped. He wouldn't talk about it then, but he will now. He's got nothing to lose. He's going to tell me he followed Logan into that alley. Someone else delivered the beating, but Logan set him up. He's also going to tell me he was working for Strand when he was following her.”

“You know this?” Phil asks.

“I can feel it. I can tie her to the tranny prostitute who got murdered. Excuse me,
transwoman
prostitute. They were pals. Everyone knew that. And I'll be able to tie Strand to that prostitute pretty soon. It won't be long.

“I've got motive and means. She was smart enough to do Strand and she was strong enough to disable him and haul his ass into his apartment and string him up like a side of beef.

“I've got Strand entertaining trannies—excuse me,
transwomen
—at that apartment. It was his love nest for tranny fucking. Real women he took to his lakefront digs. Had to keep that kinky appetite out of the public view, right? So it makes sense that it was a
transwoman
who offed him there. Who else would know about the secret place?

“I've got a real good witness from the neighborhood who saw a man walking a block away about an hour after the time of death. Want to know what's interesting about the mystery man on the street? He's about the same height and build as your girlfriend, and even though he was dressed like a man, he has a big squishy butt that my witness thought was very sexy, and he walked like a
twink
.”

Phil shakes his head. “Wilkins, you're way out on a limb here. You have a theory that only hangs together because you don't like Bobbi.”

“Sergeant Pavlik, I have circumstantial evidence that provides a
strong foundation for my theory of the crime. And there's a lot of it. Like, remember the eye gouge she used on that junkie in her salon? She used it on Strand the night he was killed. It could be a coincidence, but it's not.

“I've been investigating murders for twenty years, Pavlik, and I clear more of them than anybody. I'm good at this. And I know when a case has turned a corner. This one has. She's going to be going down.”

“You're never wrong?”

“No. Not when the case turns. This is going to happen. Nothing can stop it now.”

Phil shakes his head sadly. “What a waste. What a tragic goddamn waste.”

Wilkins nods solemnly in agreement.

“Not just her life,” says Phil. “Yours, too. Instead of hauling in one of the murderers in this town who kill for fun or profit, you take down a person who not only didn't do it, but owns a business, employs people, does good deeds all the time. How do you justify that to yourself, Wilkins?”

“If you do the crime, you do the time. That's how.” He studies Phil closely. The man really has a thing for Logan, it's obvious. Jesus.

Phil shakes his head sadly again. “Thanks for the heads-up. I think you're way off base, but don't worry, I won't share this with Bobbi.”

“Tell her anything you want. Tell her everything. It won't change anything. She did it, she can't undo it, and she can't keep me from finding the proof.”

“You put her away and nothing is better in Chicago, it's just a little worse because there's one less good person out there.” Phil walks away, his mind conjuring a vision of Bobbi Logan being led away from the courtroom in handcuffs, her red curls losing luster with each step, her strong body aging, her animated face taking on the gray pallor of prison, her bright eyes fading to lifeless orbs. It is too sad to watch.

*    *    *

T
UESDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
16

It's not every day Martin Bancroft walks into your salon, not even every lifetime. But he walked into mine about twenty minutes ago, no phone call, no appointment, no warning. I had to keep him waiting while I finished my client, but he was fine with that. Sam got him coffee and offered him the sanctity of my office. She didn't know who he was, but she could tell he was important. Maybe it was the worshipful tone in my voice when I welcomed him.

Martin, being Martin, dropped his briefcase and umbrella in the office, then began touring the salon, station by station, sipping his coffee, watching each hairdresser work, asking questions. Professional questions. Where did you learn that cut? Who did that color? Have you ever tried a Denman brush for blow-drying that style? Only one of the stylists knew who he was, but everyone could tell he was some kind of hair god. And rich. He wears Armani suits and shoes that cost just a tad less than a Caribbean island. His tie is an elegant blend of violets and lavenders and purples, colorful, artistic, classy.

Martin Bancroft is the President, CEO, and owner of SuperGlam, and the hottest story in the beauty industry for the past decade. He was a mid-echelon manager at one of the big hair products companies before he took a walk and started his own line. He told me one night after we had all consumed too much wine that the key to his success was knowing he was only an average hairdresser but he was brilliant at seeing genius in others and still more brilliant at marketing it. He's not a modest man, but he wasn't boasting either.

His product line is pure elegance. It was one of the first organic lines and features natural ingredients and the lushest aromas in the world. But what really set SuperGlam apart was Martin's grand-scale
teaching concept, calculated to win the hearts and minds of stylists and independent salon owners by making them better at what they do.

He gets to my station last. I am finishing an asymmetrical bob. He smiles his Hollywood smile, which tells me he is going to sell me a bridge. The only question is, which one.

“I see you don't have a specialized staff in L'Elégance,” he says. “Why buck the trend?”

Many upscale salons have stylists who specialize in color and others who specialize in cutting and styling. The theory is, you do better work, faster.

I tell him we talked about it several years ago, but we all felt like we could serve the client better by not specializing. “Once you master the basics, it's not a question of how well you do the cut or the color, it's knowing the client well enough to know what she wants,” I say. “Plus, none of us wants to work in a factory.”

Martin smiles. “I like your thinking, Bobbi. It's easy to outsmart yourself in business. You get so focused on making more money you forget the only reason you ever made money was making the customer happy.”

His face turns serious. “I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, but I was hoping we might chat for a few minutes. Would you have time to fit me in?”

“Of course, Martin. For you, anything!”

I wave Jalela over to do the blow dry.

“Who is that guy?” she asks before I leave the station.

“That is Mr. SuperGlam, but you and I can call him God.”

Jalela's lips form the word “wow” as the noise of the hair dryer drowns out the word.

Wow indeed, I think to myself as I follow Martin to my office.

As we settle in, Martin apologizes again for popping in without
notice. He wants me to work the Chicago show next month for SuperGlam.

I start to give him reasons I can't do it, but he holds up a hand asking permission to continue. I nod my assent.

“You don't have to do a lot of rehearsal. We want you teaching at our exhibit. Talk people through a technique, talk them through a style, let them know which SuperGlam products you're using, be your charming self.

“You'll like the pay and we'll provide a hotel room if you want, or a driver to pick you up and take you home. And you just work show hours—unless you want to cover the parties.”

He names the daily fee. I should play hard to get, but I can't. I accept flat out. Then he tells me I'm looking very pretty, that owning a business seems to agree with me. I don't know if the accolade is just the reflex action of a career glad-hander, or if he actually sees something attractive about me. Either way, I'll bask in the compliment. It's not like they come along every day. They don't even come along every month.

*    *    *

W
EDNESDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
17

“Have you gotten that lawyer lined up yet?”

Cecelia has a stern look on her face. We are sitting in the café across the street from my salon. We have a nice view of the salon's first weekday sidewalk demo. The demos have become a Saturday staple for L'Elégance and staff and it seems to be working on a Wednesday lunch hour, too. Office workers and sightseers and moms and nannies alike stop to watch for a few minutes, take our brochure, then move on. Some pause to chat, especially men, attracted by our sexily
clad stylists and assistants. The scene is strangely serene, a weekday afternoon in the city, small groups of people constantly forming, then dispersing, then reforming. Like breezes rippling a field of grass.

“Not yet,” I say. “Why?”

“Because that nasty detective is really after you, Bobbi. He's been talking to girls in our community.”

“I heard he was showing photos to the street girls, but I heard they were pictures of guys.”

“I don't know about that,” says Cecelia, bending closer to me to lock in eye contact. “He's talking to people who know you. And he's asking about you and Mandy, and Mandy and Strand, and you and Strand.”

“I don't see the problem.” I shrug as I say it, even though my stomach is doing flip-flops. “It's no secret that Mandy and I were friends or that I met Strand a few times when I was with you. And you told the police about Mandy and Strand during the investigation of her murder, and not one of them gave a damn about it. Why should I be worried?”

Cecelia sips her coffee.

“Because, honey, he doesn't need much to indict and he doesn't need much to get a conviction. You're a transwoman. Most jurors are retired people who think transpeople are perverts. You could get convicted without a shred of physical evidence.”

Her mouth forms a hard line. The bigotries that shape our lives make Cecelia's blood boil.

“Actually, he doesn't need to get a conviction to ruin my life,” I say. “Just going to court would do that. The bad publicity, the court costs. My business would fail and I'd be as notorious as a serial murderer.”

“So get the attorney lined up. Get smart, Bobbi. You have to get in front of this.”

I nod. It's true. But my cash reserves are almost gone, I still can't
pay myself for my salon billings, I'm struggling to pay my loans every month. The last thing I need is to be writing a check to an attorney.

I admit to Cecelia I don't have the money.

“I'll pay it,” she says. Sharply. She is insisting.

“No. Friends don't borrow money from friends, not unless they want new enemies.” It's true. Plus I will not be dependent on anyone. If I can't make it on my own, I'll fail on my own.

“This is serious. Don't be such an asshole, Bobbi.”

“I prefer to be called a pussy.” I'm trying to defuse the conversation with a little humor. “I have a lot more invested in that part of my anatomy.”

“Don't change the subject,” says Cecelia, suppressing a smile. “This is life and death stuff, Bobbi.”

We are silent for a while. I know she's right. I'm trying to figure out where to get the money.

Cecelia breaks the silence. “I'll talk to him,” she says, referring to the attorney. “I'll ask him to let you go cheap on the retainer. He'll do it, but you'll still have to come up with the money if he starts racking up hours on your case. Okay?”

I agree. It's the best deal I'm going to get, even though, if I think about it, the whole situation stinks.

After a brief silence I ask Cecelia a question that's been rattling around in my mind for weeks. “Why isn't he investigating you, too, Cecelia? You're big and strong and you had ties to Strand and your alibi for the night of the murder is no different than mine.”

Cecelia locks eyes with me. “My doorman saw me come home that night and didn't see me leave again. I have a powerful attorney. He doesn't have anywhere near enough to justify pressuring me.”

I see her point.

My spirits are dark as I set up for my sidewalk demo. I'm wondering if the salon will fail before Detective Wilkins arrests me, or if his
revenge on me will be the final straw in my financial and social failure. The only thing that gets me through the afternoon is my demo, which is a big-hair up-do on a young woman of color, a friend of Jalela's. She has long, thick hair that curls and braids beautifully, and she wants to look sexy tonight. Soon I am lost in doing her hair, every part of me focused on bending and teasing and piling her hair into a presentation that will light the fire of every man who sees her.