“Is there anything else you can tell me, Pam? Anything at all?”
“Only one thing, it’s probably nothing…but I kept thinking how ironic it was.”
“What’s that?”
“The beauty parlor she goes to. It’s called The Queen Bee Salon.”
Chapter Sixteen
11:00 A.M.
Ten minutes later, Micki had corralled Carmine with the promise of a late lunch, her treat. Now that she had him buckled in the Taurus and traveling seventy miles per hour, she figured it was safe to fill him in.
“It’s been a busy morning,” she began. “Renee Blackwood called me. After she’d fired her receptionist, Pam. Who then paid me a visit at the Eighth.”
For a long moment, he simply gazed at her. She kept her eyes on the road but was aware of his stare.
Micki glanced at him. “Say something.”
“You’re a bit of a pit bull, aren’t you?”
Not what she was expecting. “Meaning?”
“You sink your teeth in, then you won’t let go.”
Not the nicest mental picture, but she supposed an accurate one. “I can live with that.”
“So my question is, why?”
“Why what?”
“Why the call from Blackwood? Why’d she fire her receptionist and why did said receptionist pay you a visit at the Eighth?”
She quickly explained it all—driving by Blackwood’s office, seeing Pam Barnes, stopping and questioning her. Then the fallout this morning.
“Blackwood threatened me,” she said. “Asked how I’d feel if I lost what I held most dear.”
“Son of a bitch, Dare. You call her on it?”
“Of course. She laughed it off. Just a rhetorical question, she said. Here’s the thing, I don’t think she’s done.”
“I don’t get it. Done with what?”
“I think there’s going to be a third dead queen.”
He didn’t respond, so she pressed on. “Bad things happen in threes. Isn’t that what your mama always told you?”
“I played ball, Dare. Three strikes and you’re out.”
His subtext wasn’t lost on her. “I know I’m right about this, Angelo. I know it.”
“You’re sure this doesn’t have something to do with your history with shrinks?”
She appreciated his candor. He thought it; he said it. She owed him the same. “Maybe at first. Not now. Not after this morning. Think about it, partner. Fire her receptionist? Just for talking to me?”
“Because she lied about talking to you,” he corrected.
She ignored him and went on. “Then she calls me, a police officer, and delivers a ‘back off or else message’? C’mon, what’s she trying to hide? It’s got to be something big to risk threatening a cop.”
He sighed. “We’re not going to lunch are we?”
“Sure we are. Just one quick stop first.”
“Where?” he asked, tone cautious.
“The salon where Blackwood gets her hair done. It’s called the Queen Bee Salon and Spa.”
“Aww, shit. That’s just too frickin’ freaky to be a coincidence.”
***
They were too late, Micki saw as the Queen Bee came into view. Four cruisers sat in front of the salon, lights flashing. One officer stood at the corner, diverting traffic around the scene, several others were taking statements from witnesses in various states of hair horror—tin foil, curlers, and caps. A CSI van parked directly in front and crime tape stretched across the salon’s front entrance.
Their credentials got them through to the inner perimeter. The officer there held out the log. “You don’t have enough to do over at the Eighth?”
He looked at Angelo when he said it. “Yeah, right,” he answered. “This one may be related to another case we’re working.”
“Doubt it. Seems pretty cut-and-dry.”
Angelo snorted at the pun. “Good one.”
“Thanks.” He grinned. “I thought so, too.”
“What happened?” Micki asked.
“Stylist attacked the owner of the salon with a pair of scissors. Came right out of the blue. One minute everything’s fine, the next it’s pandemonium.”
Bingo, Micki thought. “Owner’s dead?”
“Nah, she managed to fight her off. Got cut up pretty bad, but nothing life threatening.”
“She still here?”
He shook his head. “The ambulance left with her just before you got here.”
“The perp?”
“Dead.”
“Excuse me?”
“Turned the scissors on herself. Jammed them into her own throat.” He shook his head, expression disgusted. “Who does that?”
“Body’s still here?”
“In the tranquility room. That’s where she did it. Detective Parsons’ in charge. He’s the one wearing—”
“—the orange tie,” Angelo finished for him. “We know each other. Thanks.”
They crossed to the other detective, moving around techs in the process of collecting and documenting evidence. Angelo greeted Parsons with a slap on the back, then introduced Micki.
He eyed them both suspiciously. “What’s up?”