The Brush Off (9 page)

“That badge-carrying hunk-of-the-month didn’t look the type to consider dogs reliable witnesses,” Trudy said dryly, then brightened. “But he
did
look the type to be swayed by a roll in the sack.”

“Trudy!” This time, I hit ten decibels and compounded my sin by blushing.

“Okay.” She held up a hand in surrender. “How about a blow job, then?”

I stood up, more horrified by the blush that heated my face than by her suggestion. “Get out! I can’t believe I consider you a friend.”

“Hey, I’m your best friend, the one who was—until you so gravely insulted me—trying to save your butt from being put in a sling.”

“I don’t think sex will keep me out of the sling.”

I saw the look in her eyes just in time.

“Don’t say it,” I warned with a shake of my head.

“Oh, all right,” she muttered, disappointed that she couldn’t give me ideas about sex in a sling. “But maybe when this whole thing is over, you and Detective Gorgeous can have a nice candlelight dinner.”

“Right now, he’s probably doing his damnedest to picture me in handcuffs instead.”

Trudy was getting that look again.

“In handcuffs, fully clothed in an unattractive orange jumpsuit, and behind bars,” I clarified. “So, it’s probably a little early to be making us dinner reservations.”

“Okay, but it will give me something to shoot for,” she said, “if you promise me you’re interested and will go out with him if I can arrange it.”

Trudy was a tireless cupid; if this was the incentive she needed to help me do some digging for information about Ricardo, so be it. Her career as an interior designer left her a lot of free time. I could use an extra hand. Mario’s lucrative position as an underwriter for an insurance firm afforded her the ability to choose to work for whom she wanted, when she wanted. I wanted her to work for me. It wouldn’t be for free. But I doubt I’d ever have to pay that bill.

“A rendezvous with Scythe.” I ripped off my smock.

“In a sling.” I pulled the left shoulder of my bodysuit down. “In handcuffs.” I hiked my skirt up over my thigh. “Or at a table. You help me, and it’s a deal.”

I didn’t know Trudy’s eyes could get that wide. Why was she so shocked when this had been what she was after? Her gaze drifted past me and back again.

I felt a presence behind me and turned around.

“H
OW MUCH DID YOU HEAR
?” I
DEMANDED AS
I wiggled myself back into my clothes. Scythe, who was leaning against my office doorjamb, reached over and slid his forefinger under the Lycra at my left shoulder that had wound itself into an impossibly tight wad. With a flick of his finger, he popped it loose. I yanked out of his reach, just as the electricity from his touch zinged home to every erogenous zone I possess. How did he do that?

“I heard enough to make me glad I carry protection,” he answered with that damned poker face.

The blush on my cheeks immediately suffused my whole body before I saw he was patting the bulge at his side that under the black leather jacket would be a gun. My lust-laden embarrassment morphed into fury.

“I’ll make you glad,” I muttered, moving to the farthest corner of the office, which wasn’t nearly far enough.

“Promise?” The great stone face softened into a smile. No, a
leer
is more accurate.

I narrowed my eyes, crossed my arms over my chest, and considered how much violence I could get away with before he threw me into the slammer. I could hear Bettina’s soft alto beckoning me from the dryer. I ignored him/her.

Trudy’s head was bobbing back and forth to look at Scythe and me, her goofy grin making her resemble a garish back-window auto ornament. I took my fury out on her.

“What are you smirking at?” I snapped.

Before she could answer, a clear tenor called from the hallway. “Reyn! I think I’m ready.”

Bettina had lost patience and had resorted to testosterone to call my attention. Trudy’s brow wrinkled. Scythe looked confused.

“Coming!” I hollered.

“I didn’t see a man when I came in,” Scythe observed suspiciously. “Who’s that?”

“My sweetheart, and he’s real jealous, so you’d better go.”

“Claude?” Scythe guessed, part sarcastic humor and part uncertainty that Claude might really exist. Good, let him wonder.

Now poor Trudy’s forehead looked like a road map. If she drew her brows together any harder, she’d have one long, well-plucked, copper caterpillar eyebrow. She opened her mouth to ask who the hell I was talking about and who the hell Claude was (not that way, of course, as, despite her reference to oral sex earlier, she is very pious). But without letting her get a word out, I stomped to the doorway, slipping through the space between Scythe’s body, his arm, and the doorjamb. He smelled of freshly cut wood, although I couldn’t place what kind. I had the urge to step back to get another whiff but resisted. Marching up to Bettina, I flipped the dryer off and whispered a warning to him/her as I unrolled one bouncy curl. I was betting she wouldn’t be inclined to be too friendly to Scythe as the cops’ recent hobby had been hassling Illusions.

I was right. Bettina glared at Scythe, who’d followed me out of the office and now was peeking into Daisy Dawn’s nail haven as he stalked down the hall toward the room with Justine’s and Alejandra’s chairs.

“You better not scare the customers,” I warned as I herded Bettina to my chair.

“Don’t worry,” he threw over his shoulder. “If they’re
your
customers, they don’t scare easily.”

Behind me, Trudy blew a chuckle out her nose. So much for friends. Although I itched to follow Lieutenant Nosy down the hall, I began whipping curlers off Bettina’s head, flinging them into the tray with a necessary speed. As heavy as her hair was, if any curl hung loose for too long without maximum chemical support (i.e. mucho hairspray), the style would droop pitifully. Despite what I’d told Ricardo last night about not wanting to own an empire, I
was
ambitious. I didn’t want to be shown up in my chosen profession by anyone, dead or alive.

“So, who’s Claude?” Trudy asked, pulling up a stool. She perched on it, crossed her legs, and bounced her sandal-clad foot up and down.

Scythe reappeared, industrial steno pad in hand. His gaze lingered on Trudy’s legs, proving, I suppose, that he was a real man. I hadn’t found one yet who could resist staring at Trudy’s gams. She had the best pair I’d ever seen; long, perfectly shaped, tan, and—the true crime—without a trace of cellulite. Even her knees were pretty. She was truly inhuman. I considered it a credit to my character that I could be best friends with a woman with legs like that, especially since mine were best hidden under nothing less than ankle-length denim.

So I didn’t blame him for what had now lasted long enough to be considered ogling, but I didn’t especially like it, either. In fact, my stomach twisted in an odd way. I gripped the brush tighter to get a grip on my weird reaction.

“Ouch,” Bettina protested, in her alto, not her tenor.

Apologizing, I tugged through her hair more gently and bit my lip instead.

“So, you don’t know Claude?” Scythe, whose eyes had traveled back up to her face, asked Trudy. Cutting me a confused look, she shook her head wordlessly. Scythe picked up on the undercurrents and read way too much into them, as usual. He cleared his throat.

“Are you someone who
would
know him?”

That did it. Trudy was insulted. She planted her hands on her hips.

“I guess so. I’m her best friend. I know everything about Reyn,” Trudy announced.

“Then you and I need to talk,” he said, flashing a grin so inviting it sparked a girl’s imagination. How come all I got were frowns, groans, eyebrow hitches, laser-beam stares, and leers?

“Jackson Scythe, SAPD,” he said, offering his hand.

“Trudy Trujillo.” Trudy’s affront visibly melted as she took his large hand in her fine-fingered one. I noticed with a small degree of satisfaction that he was the one to drop the handshake. Good thing, too, because from the looks of Trudy, they might still be standing there at the turn of the
next
century. I was in real trouble if these two talked. Scythe had Trudy so under his testosterone spell that he’d know everything about me—even about the boring underwear. That thought drew me up short. I have bigger secrets than that; I don’t know why that particular one came to mind first. As if he were reading my mind, Scythe threw me a look, then half hitched his left eyebrow. I thought about my toad-green bra and had a sudden urge to run to Victoria’s Secret.

“If you have time, I have some questions now,” Scythe said to Trudy.

Uh-oh.

I heard the front door open and prayed it wasn’t the
National Enquirer
. After all, if I was tromping around all over the TV, it wouldn’t be long before the media figured out who I was and where to find me.
Argh.
Sherlyn was taxed to her limit by having to answer one phone call every half hour and greet an occasional transvestite customer. How was she going to be able to hold the press at bay? With her iridescent tennis shoes? I’d probably have to close up the shop.
Damn.

“Miss Sawyer, none of your employees saw Mr. Montoya come by the salon last night.”

I looked at Scythe, whose hard face told me he’d taken a time-out from charming Trudy to harass me. “First of all, the only employee is my receptionist, and she goes home at five. The rest are independent contractors and go home whenever they choose. Yesterday, they were all gone by seven-thirty when Ricardo came by.”

“How convenient,” he murmured, noting it on his steno, “for you to be all alone.”

“But she wasn’t alone,
señor
,” Mario interrupted as he loped his lumpy body down the hall. “I was here, along with
mi cara
.” He kissed each one of Trudy’s knees and then peppered her face with kisses as she cooed in pleasure, Scythe’s dry-ice blues apparently forgotten for the moment. Bettina viewed the scene with mushy tenderness. Scythe looked like he needed to use his own barf bag. Maybe we had something in common after all.

“And you are?” Scythe tapped the butt of his Bic on the pad.

“Mario Trujillo,” he answered between smooches.

Scythe shot me a questioning glance. I shrugged. Nobody ever understood. It was like finding Nicole Kidman married to Danny DeVito. No, that wasn’t it, either, because Danny was funny. Mario didn’t even have a wicked sense of humor going for him.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, my left hand cradling Bettina’s curls like a baby, my right hand wielding an industrial-size can of style freeze. “I’m about to spray.”

Nothing got men out of the room faster than threatening hairspray. Mario and Scythe rushed out to stand by the sinks, where Mario began regaling the detective with the events of last night without being asked. Bettina closed her eyes. I pressed the trigger, meeting Trudy’s eyes over the fountain of black curls. She cocked her head toward my office and disappeared. I remembered why she was my best friend: her ability to read my mind. I heard the squeak of the door that led to my living quarters. I described the way out the back to Bettina. She nodded silently and waited until I moved to stand in front of the chair, where the men could see me but not anything else in the room. I could hear Mario’s emotional description of his fantasy hairstyle to a visibly dismayed Scythe. I bit back a chortle; they’d be there awhile. I couldn’t think of a better torture for the arrogant detective. After a parting shot of hairspray that would repel them a little longer, I slipped out of sight, through the door, and into my den.

Illusions, here we come.

Fortunately, Bettina had parked halfway down the block. Unfortunately, what she’d parked was a minuscule Karmann Ghia painted saffron.

“Love this color,” Trudy said as she slid into the passenger seat and looked at me like I’d better prepare to ride on the roof.

“It’s custom,” Bettina answered proudly.

“It’ll be great for losing that police tail,” I observed.

“Tail?” Alarmed, Bettina looked in the rearview mirror.

Trudy waved off her concern. “There’s no tail. It’s just Reyn’s pessimism talking. She always thinks the worst.”

Except when my friends are dying.
I thought Ricardo was looped and getting a quickie when he was really bleeding to death. The reminder forced me to squeeze into the passenger seat with Trudy. We grappled for position until Trudy insisted that, being taller, she deserved the seat, and I, the shrimp, had to sit in her lap.

“Just call me the human air bag,” I muttered.

“That wouldn’t be accurate, hon, your breasts aren’t big enough,” Bettina corrected.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Remember, hon, God wouldn’t have given us the gift of plastic surgeons without intending us to use them,” Bettina pointed out.

That appealed to Trudy’s warped Catholicism. “Wow. I never thought of it like that. You think I should get my eyes done?”

“No,” I answered sourly. Trudy was only thirty-three and looked twenty-five.

Bettina assessed Trudy with a serious look. “Maybe not for a year or two. I’ll give you the name of a great surgeon.” She turned the ignition and adjusted herself carefully in her bucket seat. When I remembered what on her needed tucking, I felt a twinge of pity for how dicey a proposition sitting might be.

Then, with a lurch that sent my forehead cracking into the windshield, Bettina popped the clutch, and we were off.

“I’m so glad I talked you into that perfume, Reyn,” Trudy said, giving my neck a sniff as I rubbed the egg on my forehead. “It’s sexy.”

Now, I knew she meant sexy to, perhaps, Lieutenant Arrogant, but the sidelong glance Bettina slid us told me she thought different.

“I know a great club you two might enjoy. After my show, I’ll take you there.”

I held up a hand. “No, thanks.”

“It’s very discreet,” Bettina insisted.

Trudy, oblivious as usual to nuances that didn’t have to do with shape or color of furniture, rugs, or window treatments, shoved my shoulder as punishment for what she perceived as rudeness. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Bettina. Maybe we’ll have time.”

Shaking my head, I let it go. The silence dragged on for a few minutes before Trudy couldn’t stand it any longer.

“You said you did a show, Bettina. What can we look forward to seeing?”

Considering my position, which would likely soon be catapulting out the windshield if Trudy got the whole truth at this moment, I answered before Bettina could, “She’s an entertainer at Illusions.”

“How exciting,” Trudy enthused. She never read anything beyond design magazines and books on feng-shui and antiques. She carried a copy of
Color Me Perfect
and color swatches in her purse. A night out for her and Mario would be to Bible study or salsa dancing (scary thought, I know). So, if she hadn’t decorated Illusions herself or been paying attention when her idol Amethyst Andrews mentioned the city council debate over the club on television, Trudy would have no idea what we were walking into. In fact, I couldn’t swear she knew what a transvestite was.

That was probably for the best.

As we passed through the stately but overpriced homes in staid Olmos Park, then the more modest circa-1950s neighborhoods on our way to the freeway, I couldn’t help having an out-of-body image as I sometimes do. What if I were that slightly dumpy yet very normal-looking bottle blonde pushing a baby stroller on the sidewalk there, and what if I knew that a transvestite, a murder suspect, and a model-beautiful airhead married to a troll were the trio speeding through my neighborhood in a little off-yellow bullet?