Killer Hair (18 page)

Lacey didn’t know what would develop with Marcia or if the young scandal scamp would even show up. Therefore, there was no need to bother her new buddy Mac with superfluous information. She read all
The Eye’s
coverage of the scandal, looking for insight. Only one interesting note popped up. Sherri Gold, Angie’s last client, was one of the staffers who had lost their jobs. Unwisely, she had appeared in the buff on the now-defunct Web site and placed the blame on Marcia.
Sherri Gold in the buff? Another horrifying thought. All sinew and no sex.

 

The Eye’s
front page story on Wednesday, “Dead Hairstylist Linked to Robinson,” created a brief sensation, although the other media sniffed derisively once they found out that the mysterious Angie was a mere hairstylist. One called it “a tempest in a Teapot Dome.” But Mac was pleased. He had broken very few stories on this scandal. He also liked the homicide angle on Angie. He loved to razz the D.C. police department and its less-than-sterling homicide record. Mac often pointed out that in D.C. you had a better chance of getting away with murder than with overtime parking. What D.C. really ought to do, he said, was to put the relentlessly efficient meter maids to work on homicide.

Pinched-face Peter ignored her in the most obvious way, which was to be expected. Trujillo approached with what seemed like a compliment. “Way to go, Smithsonian.”

“What?”

“You didn’t see it? You made the DeadFed Web site.” Lacey tossed him her what-are-you-raving-about-now look. Tony took it as an invitation to rearrange her desk, sit down on it, and play professor. “Can’t believe you don’t know. Check it out. Something dot something slash WashingtonDeadFed dot com.”

“Cut to the chase, Trujillo.”

“It’s a clearinghouse of all the dead, dying, beaten, mugged, or vanished people who are now or ever have been related to a Washington scandal. It reaches back as far as Admiral James Forrestal, who either jumped or was pushed out a window during the Truman administration. Vince Foster is, of course, still the big star. Heck, even Clinton’s dead dog, Buddy, made the list. Your Angie Woods story put you in the picture.”

Lacey switched screens and Trujillo typed in the Web address. She was horrified and fascinated to see a link to her story with the teaser LATEST VICTIM IN CAPITAL CONTRETEMPS?

“Pretty slim link, I’d say,” Lacey commented.

“For now. Stay tuned.”

The phone rang. She picked it up, glad for an excuse to be rid of Tony.

“Now you’ve done it!” It was Brooke.

“What? I really don’t have time now.”

“DeadFed. WashingtonDeadFed dot com. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it.”

“I saw it. Are you going to go into your Conspiracy Queen mode? Because I’m on deadline,” Lacey said.

“Fine.” Brooke sounded miffed. “I just called to warn you to be careful. Very careful.”

“Thank you. I’m fine.”

“You might just check out the Dead Journalists link. And Matt Drudge has it too.”

“Yikes! We’ll talk later.”

“Beware of geeks in trench coats, with bulges under their jackets.”

“Very good, Brooke. Maybe we can confer on a fashion column.”

“Just remember: I warned you.” Brooke hung up.

Drama queen.
Unfortunately, Lacey still had her column to write before her secret rendezvous with Marcia Robinson. And it wasn’t going to be funny.

On the record, Boyd Radford said that Angie was “a nice girl, a hard worker, and it was too bad she died so young.” Radford denied threatening his stylists and said, “Of course they could talk freely about Angela.” Off the record he told Lacey it was in poor taste to write a column about “this whole mess” and she should leave it alone. Lacey asked whether he had dated Angela Woods or pressured her for sex, as was rumored. Radford hung up. She hadn’t even gotten to her questions about his hasty cleanup of the salon.

On the record, Leonardo, “just Leonardo,” said, “Angela had not yet reached her peak as a Stylettos stylist, but she would have grown under my tutelage and been a star.” Off the record, he said she was just a “pretentious little wench” who couldn’t wait to take over his clientele. He was sorry, of course, but “life goes on, sweetheart.” Leonardo said it was mere luck that Angie styled Marcia because he had to go out of town that day on a family emergency. He admitted that he had called in sick because it was easier than explaining. Lacey asked if his family lived on the beach and if they could verify that he was there. He slammed the phone down.

On the record, Stella said Angela was “hardworking and sweet and would never have killed herself.” She blamed herself for not being there that night. Stella said she had no idea who would want to harm Angela. There was no off-the-record with Stella. “I think maybe she seemed tense lately. But I figured it was ’cause she needed a guy. Know what I mean? Like you’re tense all the time.”

“I am not.”

“You need a man, Lacey.”

Angela’s mother wept and rambled on about how sweet her departed daughter was. She said that Angie “loved the city but was too trusting.” She added that it would be “a cold day in hell” before her other daughters would go to live in such a sinful place as Washington, D.C.

Sherri Gold, Angie’s last client on her last day, could not remember anything on the record, except that Angie was “a sweet girl and a genius with a pair of scissors,” as good as any in New York. “Too bad she’s dead now.” Off the record, Sherri said Angie was in a rush and seemed distracted and maybe it wasn’t the best haircut she had ever had. Sherri said someone else could have been in the shop, but she didn’t really notice. In the meantime, she had an appointment with Leonardo for highlights, as he came highly recommended. When Lacey brought up Marcia Robinson, Sherri was less forthcoming. “What’s that got to do with my hair? I’m not answering any questions about that bitch. It’s just too bad that nobody slit her wrists and watched her bleed to death, instead of Angela.”

Lacey felt goose bumps. “Did you see something, Sherri?”
Or do something and then watch?
“Do you think it was murder and not suicide like the police say?”

Sherri slammed down the phone.

And things were going so well,
Lacey thought.

Lacey put in several calls to Vic with a request to see Stylettos’ warehouse. He left a message on her voice mail: “Sorry, Lacey, but there’s no way. Radford’s got a bug up his ass, warned me not to talk to you. Said you’re wacko. Déjà vu all over again.”

It had been eleven days since Angie died. Since then, ten more people had been murdered or “suicided” in the District of Columbia. On the record, the D.C. police said Angela Woods was “a clear-cut suicide.” No mystery to it. Officer Stanley, a PR flack for the department, told her, strictly off the record, there was no way a nice neat suicide, case closed, would be reopened on some reporter’s whim. He reiterated what Trujillo had told her: The medical examiner makes the determination and cops don’t overrule the M.E.

Was any evidence collected from the crime scene? Lacey asked. For example, a hank of hair or a straight razor? No, ma’am, she was told. No evidence was in custody and it was not considered a crime scene. If there was new evidence, that would be a different matter and the case could be reopened. But it would have to be real evidence, Stanley said. “If you get real evidence, you bring it on down. We aren’t unreasonable.”

Lacey had no reason to doubt the officer. And she had no reason to doubt the D.C. cops could mistake a murder for a suicide and misplace the murder weapon. She had to look no farther than a recent case where the District medical examiner and the police department had determined that four women whose bodies were found underneath a porch in Southeast Washington had all died of natural causes. Perfectly reasonable. If you were to believe the cops, the women, all about twenty-five years old, had apparently crawled there to die, like elephants seeking a burial ground. Outraged, the neighborhood was up in arms over what they believed could be nothing but four murders. The investigation was finally reopened—a year later. And a year-old cold case in the District was probably unsolvable.

Ruby from Not-a-Trace, the crime-scene cleanup crew, finally connected with Lacey. Over the phone, Ruby’s voice was deep and homey and carried traces of Maryland’s Eastern Shore. She revealed that there were Polaroids of the bloody mess. They were given to Boyd Radford, presumably for the insurance company. It was probably pointless to ask Radford if she could take a look at them. He was already so touchy about the whole matter.

According to Ruby, the stylist’s station was pretty well cleaned up, even though Radford had instructed her not to waste her time, that it was going into storage anyway. And the chair was set aside to be disposed of, because no one would want to use it again. Lacey glanced over at her late predecessor’s Death Chair. It held an oblivious intern.

But Lacey was more interested in whether Ruby had seen any long blond hair. It might have been strewn everywhere like a golden spiderweb or dropped in one thick plait, still wound in blue ribbon. But it would have been there in the salon, Lacey was sure. It was preposterous to think it would have been cut anywhere but the salon.

“No long hair,” Ruby said. “Some little snippets someone didn’t sweep up. Nothing big. No blue ribbon.”

“Are you sure?”

“Honey, I’ve been in this business for five years, cleaning up more gore than you better hope you never see. Blood spatter is funny. It can fly all over the place. We clean it all. We even look for tiny little specks of blood on plant leaves and the insides of drawers when you pull ’em out, just to make sure there isn’t a trace left. If there was a big hank of pretty blond hair with a ribbon, believe you me, I would remember it. We don’t do hair salons that often.”

“Was it a real messy scene?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“What about a straight razor, maybe covered with blood?”

“Didn’t see any such thing. Anything sharp with blood, we handle real careful. Probably the cops would have bagged something like that for evidence.”

“Could you tell if there was some kind of struggle?” Lacey persisted. “If more than one person was there?”

“Oh Lord, lady, I just clean it up. I don’t spend my time making up ghoulish stories. I leave that up to the police. By the time I get there, it’s not an evidence scene anymore.”

“Okay. No hair, you’re sure?”

“No hair.”

Lacey thanked the woman and hung up. So Rapunzel’s hair was missing and that meant murder. She had known all along it must have been murder, but this somehow confirmed it on a deeper, more personal level.
Oh my God. And the cops have the murder weapon and don’t know it. Or they tossed it after the M.E. said suicide. What do they care? No crime, no evidence needed.

After a few moments of deep breathing, a walk around the block to clear her head, and a cappuccino break, Lacey returned to her keyboard.

The column continued with various tributes from people who knew her. Lacey concluded by agreeing with Stella, that somebody killed Rapunzel. She closed with one last question:

Who took the hair, and why?

Lacey filed her “Crimes of Fashion” column early for Friday’s paper, leaving barely enough time to get to the cathedral and meet Marcia. Lacey waited until Mac was on a phone call, then waved to him on her way out. He put his hand over the phone.

“Hey, how’s that column?”

“It’s a killer,” she said.

Chapter 14

Lacey grabbed a bright purple hack just outside the office to take her to the lush Northwest D.C. neighborhood of the National Cathedral. She was treated to the classic lurch-and-zoom style cab drivers in Washington have perfected—one foot on the accelerator, the other on the brake, alternating rhythmically to ensure maximum queasiness in the backseat passenger, while cursing under his breath at every red light, stop sign, bus, pedestrian, and daredevil bike messenger. Her driver, Ishmael, according to his posted taxi permit, was careening merrily from pothole to pothole. Washington streets no doubt reminded him fondly of the goat paths of home, wherever that was.

Lacey preferred the older black cabbies, the D.C. natives who really knew the city and had driven its streets for the last thirty or forty years. They circumnavigated the District with ease and could reminisce about the days when Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington held court on the floating bandstand in the middle of the Tidal Basin. They could describe the crowds of people who would gather on the steps to listen to the free evening jazz concerts in a Washington, D.C., that sounded like a pretty great city.