The Brush Off (25 page)

On that happy note, I stripped and dragged on the once black, now gray “Buck Off” T-shirt that my horse- crazy niece sent me for my birthday years ago. I crawled into bed.

The cacophony was deafening.

I pulled the pillow over my head and tried to ignore it. I was bound and determined to get the first uninterrupted night of sleep I’d had in three nights. Some people might call this stubborn, I call it focused. At any rate, I was so focused that I really didn’t consider for several minutes why my three Labs would be having fits in the middle of the night. It was still dark; I registered that before the pillow came down. When I finally began to feel uneasy about the barking, I assumed it must be the cops doing a perimeter search. But then I asked myself why. They hadn’t left their vehicles since they’d driven up, as far as I could tell.

Then I heard dog toenails scrambling across my hardwood floor and the screech of nails being dragged across said hardwood floor. Ouch, that was going to leave a scar.

“What the hell are you girls doing?” I yelled. I don’t often swear at the dogs, but that floor represented every drop of blood, sweat, and tears I put into this damned house.

As I threw the covers back, I heard a thump and a whump. And two yips.

It was only then that I considered I might have an intruder.

Okay, so I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer when woken from a deep sleep.

I jumped out of bed and proved I had a modicum of brainwave power by pulling on the smelly gray gym shorts I had left lying next to the bed several days before when I’d gotten a wild hair to exercise.

As I descended the stairs, I realized I should have a weapon. Besides my morning breath, that is. So I grabbed the girls’ leashes with their metal-link choke collars that I had wrapped around the bannister at the base of the stairs and envisioned myself swinging them like a lasso above my head, ready to strike the bad guy in one fell swoop.

I was too late. Three hundred pounds of frustrated dog came at me as I reached the first story. They scrambled for purchase on the hardwood floor and bashed into me, barking and baying. But as soon as they stopped, they were off again, leading me to the scene of the crime, I presumed. I followed them to the kitchen door, which was standing wide open, having been wrenched that way by a crowbar. I know that because the crowbar was sitting right on the steps outside. The door looked like it hadn’t put up much of a fight. There was a small dent in the hundred-year-old wood, and that was it. The lock still even looked intact. I guess I needed to move to Fort Knox if I was going to keep nosing around in Ricardo’s murder.

Char came up and nuzzled my hand. I patted her head and reached down to cradle her muzzle to thank her for protecting me. That’s when I saw the six inches of black material hanging from her left canine tooth.
Hmm.
Can we say
clue?
I felt the shiny material. Lycra. I grabbed her collar and visually inspected the other two. They didn’t get a piece of him. Or her. I hated to be sexist, even when someone was trying to get me.

I kicked the door the rest of the way open and marched barefoot to the SAPD car still sitting out behind my house. Now, granted, it was a bit of a stretch for the guy to see both doors, and he’d really have to be up patrolling all night and still not be able to swear he never saw anyone at either door, but he couldn’t argue it to me, because when Char and I walked up, he was asleep. I tapped on the window. He jumped. Poor guy. He looked about thirteen.

“Hi. I just wanted you to know someone just broke into my house, and my dog got a piece of the intruder’s clothing.”

“Uh.” He cleared his throat and sat up straight. “How did that happen?”

“You tell me, Officer Norland,” I said, reading his badge. “You’re out here.”

“Ma’am…”

“Don’t call me ma’am. I’m not old enough for that.”

“Of course you’re not,” he agreed, not believing it for a minute.

“Call your
compadre,
” I recommended, “and we’ll go inside and figure this out.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he reached for his radio.

I led Chardonnay back to the house, giving up on him having the wherewithal to think of saving the material as evidence. I saw slobber dripping off the tip of the Lycra and hoped she didn’t swallow real hard between now and when someone with a Ziploc came along.

Norland and the cop who had been sitting at the front walked up to the kitchen door just as two cars pulled up into the salon parking lot. One turned out to be the burglary detective, who tried to make me feel like he was doing me a favor. The other was the fingerprint tech, who dusted the door. Someone, I’m not sure who, put the Lycra in an evidence bag, but the detective downplayed its importance and told me we’d have one in a million chances of ever finding a suspect from a generic clue like that, unless, of course, my dog had drawn blood.

Twenty minutes later, as I was trying to figure out how to keep my wrenched door shut for the night, I heard, then saw, a four-wheel-drive diesel Ford truck—all shiny black paint and chrome—roar up. Jackson Scythe emerged from the stud mobile and started talking to the surveillance cops, who’d gone back outside to check for clues at the perimeter. It was the first time I realized I might not be dressed appropriately for company—with no bra or underwear and a holey oversize T-shirt that hid rather ripe shorts. I considered going upstairs to put more or better clothes on, or at least underwear, until I saw how hard Scythe was chewing out the poor young guys.

“Hey, you!” I shouted out onto the lawn. “Try picking on someone closer to your own age.”

Baby-blue chips of dry ice found me. Boy, were they ever smoking. “And where would I find that?” he asked.

I shrugged. I pegged Scythe for around forty, though I never was good at guessing ages. It didn’t matter, I was after the insult. “Happy Trails Retirement Home? AARP membership roster?”

The two officers who were about half his age bit back smiles. The dark-haired Antonio Banderas lookalike Scythe had been chewing out particularly hard looked like he wanted to kiss me for the distraction. Cradle robbing had its appeal. I’d have to take a rain check. Scythe was already stalking my way.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he demanded in that low, quiet voice that was tight with fury.

“What for?” I answered. “The police were already here.”

That set him back a moment. “But I’m in charge of the Montoya case.”

“Who says this has anything to do with Ricardo?”

“Don’t be stupid, Reyn,” he snapped.

He was being his bossy self, which never failed to raise my hackles, but just as I was about to tell him where to go, he’d used my first name. He had never done that before. It distracted me from my counterattack just long enough for him to get in another verbal jab.

“Where did you go when you snuck out?”

“To see my boyfriend.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend.”

“How do you know that?”

“The same way I know you don’t have a twin sister.”

“You’ve investigated
me
?”

“You’re a suspect. How good a cop would I be if I didn’t?”

“I guess you think you know everything about me, then.”

“Not hardly,” he admitted, shaking his head in obvious bewilderment. “I don’t know why you’re the only one of five kids to have a halfway normal name.”

“Because I’m the only one that’s halfway normal. I’m the white sheep in a family of black ones.”

He shook his head, completely flummoxed. “That is unbelievable.”

“It’s not my sisters’ and brothers’ faults. Mom and Dad named us after something that happened during our conception. They were in Dallas; they were in the back of a Chevy; they were feeding each other pecan pie; they were playing a game of buck-naked charades.”

“And they couldn’t remember with you, so they pulled out some old family name?”

“No, they went bird watching and saw a wren and a marten before they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, apparently.”

“Wow, I guess they were really hot for each other.”

“Still are. It’s very embarrassing.” I pulled a face.

“Anyway, my parents’ naming strategy is well known in our little town, and the nurse assumed that
wren
was short for
Reynolds wrap,
about which she’d drawn her own kinky scenario. Hence the
Reyn
on the birth certificate. I send that nurse a thank-you card on my birthday every year.”

The corner of his mouth was twitching. “So, I guess you really like birds.”

“I hate them with a passion. That’s one thing I would murder.”

“Don’t joke about murder.” He was back to dead serious. I think he allowed himself amusement only ten seconds at a time, stopping it before it got way out of hand and he might have to smile.

“Who’s joking?”

“You are, most of the time, usually to avoid a serious conversation.” He seemed to see what I was wearing for the first time. I fought the urge to squirm under his laser vision which zeroed in on the “Buck Off” on my chest. “Like that shirt, for instance. How do you expect to get a date wearing that?”

I raised my eyebrows and crossed my arms over my chest. “ ‘Buck Off’ could be interpreted a lot of different ways. It could be a warning. It could be a challenge.”

I turned then and began tidying up my kitchen. I could feel him come up behind me. A little too close. “So maybe your parents passed down some of their sexual adventure to you?”

Just then, we heard the slamming of car doors out front. We hurried to the living-room window to see Trudy and Mario get out of the Miata and head for the house.

Once inside, they fussed, kissing and hugging until I waved my hands to get some space.

“Rick called us,” Trudy explained.

“Big mouth,” I muttered as I wandered back into the kitchen to make coffee.

“He told me to tell you he’s already working on a third song, and at this rate he’d have a whole Reyn album by the end of the week. What did that mean?”

“Never mind,” I said, spooning the Kona coffee beans into the grinder. “Everybody want a cup?”

“Thank you,” Scythe said, “but I can’t. I have someone waiting in the car.”

“Bring Crandall on in,” I threw out.

“It’s not Crandall,” Trudy observed as I followed her gaze out the window and to his car, where a willowy blonde had rolled down her window and was preening in the rearview mirror.

He’d been flirting with me with a
date
in the car? Did he never fail to surprise me with how low he could go?

“Better not keep her waiting,” I said.

“I suppose not,” he admitted. “It looks like she’s getting restless.”

Scythe turned to Mario and Trudy. “You all will take her home with you tonight?”

“The hell they will. I’m not going anywhere.”

All three sighed simultaneously. Trudy shook her head and patted Scythe on the arm. “We’ll stay here.”

“Thank you,” he said as he headed for the door.

“Hey,” I called. “You have any luck with Zorita?”

He half turned as he went out the door. “Yeah, I’m orange.”

“Wow.” Trudy breathed as she watched him go. “Orange is passionate, creative, adventurous, ambitious.” Then she turned to me. “Since he’s leaving looking dissatisfied, I guess you didn’t deliver your end of the deal?”

“I still don’t know what the deal is. You won’t tell me. He won’t tell me.”

“I guess he will when he’s ready.”

W
E 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
jalapeños
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.”