twenty-three
WE DECIDED WE WERE HUNGRY, AND EVEN though I knew if I ate at two o’clock in the morning, I’d be sorry, I threw together some chorizo and egg breakfast tacos anyway. I was piling on jalape?os and tomatillo salsa as I watched Mario insist on preparing Trudy’s tacos for her. The girl couldn’t do anything on her own when he was around, not even take off her own shoes. There he was rubbing on her feet as she ate. It made me sick, and I wondered why. Every woman should want such fawning attention from her man. I must be a masochist, because all I could do was think about the biggest jerk on the planet and the way he kissed.
Maybe I needed therapy.
Maybe the vitamin salesman would rub my feet when I ate. I could rub his bald head.
I turned back to the phone book. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to call on the who-knows-who-from-whom-I-knew strategy for finding out where the Van Dykes lived. It ate up too much time and required me to dish out too much information to people who didn’t need it. No luck in the Metro phone book. I tried the supplement for the outlying suburbs. Bingo. There it was. So one thing in this whole mess had been easy.
“They live in Fair Oaks.” A suburb slightly north of where Ricardo had lived.
“We’re going to break in?” Trudy asked, excited.
“No, Trude. What would that accomplish? You think we’ll find the blood-splattered clothes just lying around? Or maybe a confession note pinned on the refrigerator?” She looked hurt, and I felt guilty. “I need to talk to the Van Dykes and get whatever I can out of them. I just wish I could even guess at what their connection would be to Ricardo.”
“Maybe Ricardo was the paramedic who answered the call when her first husband died,” Mario said, chewing a mouthful of taco.
Trudy and I both stared for a moment, my taco poised halfway to my mouth. “What?”
“Well, Trudy told me that the newspaper article you found said an ambulance responded when Johnstone collapsed. That was around twenty-five years ago, right? Remember the night Ricardo died—when he fixed your shoulder, he let it slip that he’d been a paramedic. I thought that was too cool. And it might have been around the same time.”
Now I was really embarrassed. First Trudy finds the secret compartment, then her ding-a-ling husband remembers a major clue.
“Okay, say Ricardo was the paramedic who answered the call. So what? Why keep the article?”
“Maybe Ricardo was in love with this Sarah woman just like he was with Celine Villita. Maybe it was his chest of forgotten lovers,” Trudy mused as she chewed.
Mario cooed, “Oh, you are so romantic, my sweetness.”
Trudy blew him a kiss. “Maybe Sarah had a love child of Ricardo’s, too.”
I shook my head. “Then where are all the pictures of him or her? There weren’t any in the box, and he sure kept enough of Jon.”
“Maybe Sarah wasn’t as accommodating as Celine was about photos.”
“It just doesn’t feel right,” I said, finishing off my taco but not really tasting it. “If that was the case, are we looking at one of the two husbands who found out about his kid’s true parentage and offed Ricardo because he’s pissed? Or Ricardo two decades later finally decides he wants the kid to know he’s his?”
“What if Ricardo was the paramedic who went to the Johnstones’ that night, and he made a mistake that ended up killing the guy?”
“And the widow waited twenty-some-odd years to blackmail Ricardo?”
“Well, he is famous now. And rich.”
“But so’s she.”
“Oh, yeah.”
We all stared at the center of the table, deflated. Nothing seemed to make sense.
“Okay, what if Johnstone was murdered and Ricardo had proof?” Ricardo telling me the proof was in the pudding kept ringing in my head. But so did the two mistakes. Was one a mistake that killed?
“And he waited twenty years to blackmail the murderer?” Trudy took over as devil’s advocate. “Why now, when he’s rich and famous, instead of when he was struggling with his first salon?”
“Do you know how he really went from being a paramedic to a hairstylist?” Mario asked. “I think those paramedics make pretty good money.”
“No. Ricardo always carefully deflected talk about his past. I just assumed he started at one of those five-dollar haircut places here in town, then scrimped and saved or found an investor to start his first salon.”
“Maybe that’s it,” Trudy put in. “He screwed the investor out of his return.”
“And the investor’s coming at him just now? Ricardo has been successful for a long time.”
We stared off into the silence for a while again. The rap at the kitchen door made all of us jump. The Antonio Banderas lookalike whose badge read “Espinoza” opened the door and peeked in. I beckoned, and he entered. “Our relief is here. They’ll stay on until the seven o’clock shift change.” He paused for a moment, seeming to search for the right words, then he stretched out his hand to shake mine. He handed me two business cards with the SAPD emblem. “Miss Sawyer, thank you for what you did with the lieu. I think he was getting ready to write us up. Now he’s not, and that means a lot to me and Pete, the other officer on tonight. If there’s anything you ever need, you can give us a call, and we’ll do our best to help you.”
I considered the kiss; the kid was damned cute. But I sacrificed spicing up my love life for the sake of the case. “I might need some help tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You know anybody who has access to twenty-five-year-old records in the medical examiner’s office?”
“A guy in my rookie class, his girlfriend works in the ME’s office.”
I wrote down Paul Johnstone’s name, the date of his death, and my fax number on a scrap of paper. “If you can swing it without getting anyone in trouble, I’d love to see the ME’s report on this guy. Or, at the very least, notes on the report with cause of death, stomach contents, and the names of the paramedics who brought him in.”
“No problem.” Espinoza nodded and pocketed the paper. “My classmate owes me. I saved his butt when we did our shooting test.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m glad to help. And I’m glad you’re okay. We’re sorry we let that intruder get past us.”
“He nearly got past my dogs, and that’s practically impossible, so don’t worry about it.”
Espinoza looked around the table as he backed for the door. “Hey, where’s your sister?”
Oops. I didn’t want to embarrass him with the truth, especially since he was about to do me a huge favor, so as Trudy and Mario looked at each other, perplexed, I forced a smile. “Uh, she’s gone to bed already.”
He nodded and made for the door. “It’s late. Good night.”
We wished him well, but as soon as he was out of earshot, Trudy gave me a quelling look. “Which sister is here? Pecan or Charade?”
“My twin sister?” I smiled sheepishly.
Mario and Trudy shared another look, this one exasperated.
“It’s a long story,” I began.
Trudy held up her hand. “Everything’s a long story for you, Reyn Marten Sawyer. You complicate life without even trying.”
With that, my best friend and her husband rose. Holding hands and giggling, they were off to my spare bedroom. I dragged myself, my girls following, up the stairs. I fell into bed wondering if I’d be awakened this time by a drill, dogs, or a dream.
It was none of the above but the insistent tapping on the door to my bedroom that woke me. I thought for a moment that it might be the murderer after me. But by the time my heart’s beat accelerated and my fingertips tingled with adrenaline, I’d already convinced myself that the killer wouldn’t be so polite.
I sat up. The tapping continued. “Yes?”
“Reyn?”
It might be worse than the murderer.
“Come on in, Mario.” I’d tried to keep the resignation out of my voice and failed.
“No, no. You sound tired. I’ll come back later.”
Later? For the first time, I noticed the sun was up, too far up. I was beginning to remember throwing my alarm clock onto the floor at some point. I looked on the night-stand. Sure enough, it was gone. “What time is it?”
“Nine-fifteen.”
I jumped up, swallowed the scream when I saw myself in the mirror, and ran for the bathroom. I had a nine-thirty appointment coming into the salon. The girls yawned. Char followed me, looking guilty that she’d let me sleep so long. The other two snuck up on my bed, completely unrepentant.
“Sherlyn’s canceled your morning appointments because we told her you needed some rest.”
“She can’t cancel Miss Olive. She’s ninety, has a bad heart, and it’ll kill her to miss her weekly ’do. I draw the line at one body a week.”
Mario was still wheedling outside the door. “Trude’s gone to work and left me to keep an eye on you. I was wondering…”
“Wondering what, Mario?”
“Would you cut my hair?”
I met my own eyes in the mirror and shook my head at myself. Just say no. “No, Mario.”
Proud of myself, I stripped off my T-shirt and got into the shower. In a minute, I was out and clean. After spraying some root lifter along my crown, I ran the blow-dryer over my hair as I toweled off. I considered shaving my head, too, as the drying took way too long. Finally, it was dry but not sleek the way it was cut to be. It looked tousled. I used some shaping wax to make it look like it was supposed to be that way. It still didn’t look quite right, so I grabbed some scissors and point-cut the asymmetrical style into a short symmetrical mess. This would be much easier to keep. Too rushed to agonize over my wardrobe, I yanked on discount-store underwear and shrugged into my only padded bra, stuck my legs into some Levi’s, pulled a black silk T-shirt over my head, and stepped into a pair of gray and black ostrich boots. I was cinching up a black leather belt studded with silver and brass as I opened the bedroom door.
“Aack!” I knocked my head against the doorjamb as I jumped back from Mario, who was lurking just outside.
He didn’t seem to notice he’d scared three years off my life or that my hair was shorter. “But Reyn, I was just watching Kelly and Regis on TV, and George Clooney got this buzz cut. Trudy loves George Clooney.”
“Go rent her some old ER episodes.”
“But he doesn’t have the hair buzz in those.”
Was I going to have to listen to this all day? I would have to ditch him at some point. What better way than to get the clippers and make him so embarrassed he wouldn’t be seen in public? I reminded myself of the consequences as I skipped down the stairs—Mario’s whining, Trudy’s certain retribution. But on the upside, I would be free today, and I wouldn’t be bothered about doing his hair again until the quarter-inch buzz grew out.
It might be worth it.
The clock read nine twenty-five. I let the dogs out into the backyard and pushed the button on the coffee-maker, which I so handily set up the night before and forgot to turn on for my company. Mario followed me like a fourth dog. Since the chorizo still sat in my stomach as if it had re-formed into the pig overnight, I eschewed breakfast and went straight for the door that led to the salon.
My hand was on the knob when Mario started whining again. “Please, Reyn, just consider it.”
“Come on, Mario, let’s do it.”
His mouth opened and shut a few times. He shook his head before a sound finally came out. “Really? You mean it?”
“Yup. Get into position, and make it snappy. I’ll be ready to start when I get there.”
He lumbered off.
Behind me, a familiar and unwelcome bass said, “Just what I like, a woman who takes control of her sexuality.”
I turned around to see Scythe, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow hitched, at my office door.
“You know, I’d always heard when one was over-sexed, it meant you didn’t have to think about it all the time. Guess you blow that theory.”
“Who says I’m oversexed?”
“Well, you’re more sexed than I am, since you’ve had more dates than I have in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Who says that was my date? That could’ve been my sister. My twin sister.”
I glanced into my office and saw a few pages on the fax machine. The autopsy results on Johnstone?
“You’re having sex with your sister?” I said a little too loudly. Heads popped out of the rooms where Daisy Dawn was doing nails, Alejandra was foiling a highlight, Autumn was trimming a bob, and Enrique was finishing a flat-top. As Scythe waved at the audience, I scooted into my room and grabbed the clippers, hoping he’d be distracted enough to pass my office without looking inside.
I started at the hairline and ran up to the top before I realized I had the number two blade in. Okay, it was going to be a little shorter than he’d wanted it. Mario screamed, “Wait! Wait! I changed my mind!”
“Too late now. But the good news is, it’ll grow out. Even faster than you think, because summer’s right around the corner, and hot weather makes hair grow faster.”
Scythe finally meandered in and stood off to the right of my chair. He looked pained as he watched Mario’s black hair falling to the ground. I had the nearly uncontrollable urge to shift the clippers to his head. Maybe I was a sadist, after all.
I was finished in record time, and I spun Mario around and ran my hand over his scalp to make sure his peach fuzz was even. Damned if he didn’t look almost handsome. Trudy was going to thank me.
Mario was blithering so hard he couldn’t look in the mirror. Super, guess my babysitter was out of commission for the day, or at least until enough people told him he looked good. I had to be out of there ASAP. Mario rose and went sobbing down the hall.
Now, to get rid of the badge.
“What’d you do to your hair? Stick your finger in a light socket?”
I wanted to tell him where to stick his finger but decided to be cool-headed and mature instead.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, clippers poised invitingly.
“Uh.” Scythe shifted on his toes. I finally had knocked him off-balance. Did it only take a hairstyling tool? Next time, I’d try snapping scissors when he got smart-ass. He cleared his throat. I tried to look earnest.
“I came to find out why you were at Illusions last night.”
“Who’s the rat?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Well, then, why I was there is none of your concern.” I started the motor on the clippers on the pretense of oiling them. Scythe shivered.
“The informant likes to dress like a schoolgirl,” he blurted.
Now I knew whom to avoid, as if I would ever again need the services of a transvestite club. I really had just wanted a concession from him. He gave, so I should. “Okay, I was there to show one of the performers two photos to see if they could identify whom Ricardo met at the club recently.”
I had Scythe’s full attention now. It also looked like I had earned a modicum more of respect and a modicum more of irritation. Probably a wash all around. “The two photos were of…?
“Senator Sal Villita and a Mike Van Dyke.”
I’d shocked him. Boy, that felt good. “And was it either man?”
“The redhead couldn’t be sure it was Van Dyke. But it certainly wasn’t Villita. Ricardo met with a middleaged gringo tennis player.”
The relief was palpable. I imagine dealing with a political bigwig was one of the cops’ biggest headaches. “Why did you even consider Villita?”
“Because his son is really Ricardo’s biological child.”
“What?” Scythe looked pained instead of amazed.
“How do you know this?”
“I haven’t gotten a DNA sample, if that’s what you’re asking. But I talked to Celine Villita and met the son, Jon, and his speech, mannerisms, walk, and profile are dead ringers for Ricardo.” I left out the part about her threatening me. I thought it might make him so mad that it would distract him from the important information.
“And you knew to go nosing around at the Villitas’ why? Because you picked the highest-profile family in San Antonio and decided to make life difficult for yourself, or what?” He was getting angry. Aw, I didn’t know he cared.
“Ricardo kept a photo of Celine and photos of Jon.”
“You saw this where?”
“At his house.”
“We didn’t notice them,” Scythe muttered to himself, running his hand through his hair. Then he got back into laser-vision mode and tried to extract honesty out of me.
“And you got into his house how?”
“I had a key.”
“You didn’t tell me you had possession of a key.” Scythe looked a little suspicious. I think he still entertained the idea that Ricardo and I did the nasty. Well, let him think it.
“I borrowed the key.” I didn’t want Gerald to get in trouble. “Without the owner’s knowledge.”
“Okay.” He put one hand up. “I don’t want to know. Don’t try to tell me. Just tell me who this Mike guy is and why you had a photo of him.”
“He’s a rich scion of San Antonio society. I’m ashamed of you that you don’t keep up with the Who’s Who around here.”
Laser blues heated a hole through my head. “And the second part of my question? Why you had a photo of him?”
“Oh, because Ricardo did.”
“House, too?”
“Right.” He moved toward the doorway. “I’m gone. And remember, you have a tail. Don’t lose it, it’s for your own protection.”
“Being a devil is protection in and of itself,” I agreed.
It took him a few seconds to process my rejoinder. Then he shook his head but couldn’t stop the smile. Wow. Good thing he didn’t smile often. I wouldn’t have many pithy comebacks with that looking me in the face. I stopped thinking again. Just briefly, because as soon as it appeared, the smile was gone, and so was Scythe.
He hadn’t seen the fax. And I was dying to see it, only I had Miss Olive coming unsteadily down the hall at me first. This investigating stuff was going to teach me to be patient whether I wanted to be or not.