Chapter 22
Incessant pounding on her apartment door woke her up. It was nine a.m., according to the clock next to her bed. Saturday morning. She staggered to the tiny foyer wrapped up in her white satin robe, grabbed a pair of sunglasses to cover her puffy, bloodshot eyes, and peered out the peephole in the door. It occurred to her that maybe it was Vic, who was known for his early-morning forays into her life. But it never crossed her mind that Tony Trujillo would show up. He obviously had eluded the highly effective building security system, like every other visitor she’d had lately.
“I know you’re in there, Smithsonian. Open up. I come in peace.”
She unchained, unlocked, and slowly opened the door, her eyebrows quizzical above the tinted lenses.
“This isn’t exactly your neck of the woods, Trujillo. I didn’t think you ever left the District.”
“I crossed the Big Water just to see you.”
“No doubt you saddled up your Mustang?” Lacey had heard about, but had never seen, his new wheels, a special-order black convertible with a white ragtop.
“Exactly.” He appraised her attire. “Very glamorous. Do you always do the movie-star routine around the house?”
“Always. You’re not even in the door and you’re already irritating me.” She smoothed her hair, trying to calm it down. Trujillo wore tight blue jeans, black snakeskin boots, a blue work shirt, and a black leather jacket. He looked terrific and he knew it.
“Invite me in. I can be even more irritating.” He entered the apartment, wandered through the kitchen and around the living room. “Fascinating police report this morning.”
“Any particular jurisdiction?”
Oh God, he knows.
But after all, there were the U.S. Park Police, any number of city police, Virginia and Maryland state police, District police, federal police, Metro transit police, and more.
No, he knows.
“Park Police, Dyke Marsh,” he said. She sighed. Someone had called him. Trujillo would not be perusing a Park Police blotter (“Man Chases Duck”) without a tip-off. “I guess you really got to the guy,” Tony said. He suggested she get dressed and they go out for coffee. “And wear something casual, Smithsonian. It’s Saturday. No need to dazzle your adoring fans.”
The bedroom door slammed, leaving him in the living room while she dressed. Her mud-soaked clothes were in the laundry basket, a filthy reminder. She felt dangerous and on edge. No one from her office had ever been in her place before. Trujillo was an intruder into her territory. At least he cared—about what? The damn story? She set out a pair of clean jeans and a light blue sweater that hugged her curves.
“I’ll just make myself at home,” Trujillo yelled as she dashed from bedroom to bathroom for a quick shower.
“Don’t you dare,” she yelled back before closing and locking the door. She gritted her teeth as she stepped gingerly into the spray, which wasn’t yet hot.
Only after she put on makeup to camouflage her tired eyes and scrunched some waves in her hair did she feel like facing him. The hair came out tousled, the eyes smoky. Satisfied that she looked as dangerous as she felt, she emerged from her steamy sanctuary to find him poking into Aunt Mimi’s trunk.
“Hey, get out of there!”
“There’s cool stuff in here. Your own ‘way-back’ machine, like in the cartoons. Now I know where you get that kooky Smithsonian style.”
“Out. Now.”
He shrugged and gave her a smile and a wink. “I’m a snoop. It’s my nature. It’s my job.”
“That’s enough, Newsboy,” she said.
“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” Reluctantly, Trujillo put the lid down. He looked her over and she thought she saw something like concern in his expression. “New hairdo, Lacey? Good job. You can’t even tell where he cut it.”
“So, that’s in the report?”
“Cop logs are a unique literary form, you know. Sort of a minimalist, stream-of-consciousness style, but I got the gist of it: Masked assailant snipped off chunk of hair, was interrupted by barking dog, and ran off.”
“Hey, I bit the bastard and elbowed him in the gut too. It wasn’t just the barking dog.”
“That wasn’t in there. They gave the dog all the credit.”
Where on earth does Trujillo get sources who call him at home?
She was suddenly aware that her body ached all over. Her shoulders sagged. She leaned against her sofa.
“I bet you need something to eat. I’m buying. By the way, your hair, it looks nice. Sexy.” Trujillo seemed to be one of the few men in Washington unafraid of a volatile word like “sexy.”
“Razor cut,” she said. “The latest thing.”
Lacey wanted to walk into Old Town—it would be faster than parking—but Tony insisted on driving his Mustang so she could lust after it. They decided on Bread & Chocolate, a bakery and café on King Street, for breakfast. Lots of bread and sweets under glass up front and tables in the back. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the air.
There must be something about me that makes men want to buy me food.
They ordered cappuccinos, baskets of bread, and plates of cheese. It was destined to be a comfort-food weekend.
“Lacey.” Tony used her first name only when he wanted something or when he was contrite. “I’m really sorry. I had no idea the guy would go after you physically.”
She savored her coffee, both hands wrapped around the mug. “It wasn’t your fault. It was my column. My idea.” She was a grown-up; she took her own licks. She made a mental note to pick up some muscle rub.
“But I told you that you should write it.”
“It was my idea before you suggested it. No use blaming anyone else.” Lacey was not going to let Tony take credit for it. She grabbed the last piece of olive bread away from him as he reached for it.
“I just thought he’d write you another love letter. I never thought this would happen.” Tony pulled out his card and wrote his home phone number and address on the back and slid it over to her side of the table.
In a loud voice, someone said, “Lacey Smithsonian! God, you’re
everywhere
. Do you live around here?” Leonardo advanced on her table, eyeing Trujillo, who sat casually against the wall. “Quite the spunky column you wrote. Got everybody all excited. Let me know if you find that hot videotape. I’d love to see it.”
“Did you see me in Virginia Beach?”
“No, I was supposed to interview for a management spot, but that plan just got put on hold.”
“Well, Tammi did die.”
“And it is ever so tragic, Lacey, my dear. I know that, but we must bear up and go on.”
“Maybe you should try another salon, Leo.”
Leonardo leaned in close to her, conspiratorially. “Actually, and this is just between you and me, and not for ‘Crimes of Fashion,’ there are plans in the works. If Josephine’s property settlement ever comes through, I’ll have my own salon. My own name on the awning.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Boyd. He’s stalling.”
“So, she’s your backer.”
“I’ll give you an exclusive when it happens.”
“You’re a peach. Do
you
live around here?”
“No, but Eric does. This is Eric. Say hello, Eric.” Eric said hello. He was smaller than Leonardo and delicate-looking. He wore tiny wire-framed glasses, a fresh crew cut, and a beige fisherman-knit sweater. Leonardo, as usual, wore black to set off the dramatic auburn sweep of his hair. He looked inquiringly at Lacey’s companion. Lacey obliged his curiosity, up to a point.
“Anthony Trujillo. Friend of mine. Tony, this is Leonardo. Just Leonardo.” Tony nodded and sipped his cappuccino while Leonardo peered at Lacey’s hair, making her squirm.
“Oh my God. Bangs?” Leonardo waggled his finger at her. “I told you to come see me! What on earth were you thinking?” Leonardo stepped closer and fingered her bangs, sweeping them away from the shorter fringe underneath. Lacey slapped his hand away. He arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. She noticed an Ace bandage peeking out of his left sleeve. She felt a chill despite the hot coffee.
“Hurt yourself, Leo?”
Bite marks? Mine?
“Nothing so exciting, my dear. Carpal tunnel. Occupational hazard from rolling too many perms. And not nearly enough rolling in the hay.” He reached for her hair again. She stopped his hand. “Are we to assume the person who did this doesn’t like you? It wasn’t Stella, was it? Next time, Lacey, see me for a real haircut. Come in next week. I’ll cancel someone for you.”
“It’s not that bad!”
“I didn’t say it was bad, exactly.”
“She looks great,” Trujillo said, half rising. His tone was enough to shove Leonardo right back to his table. Leonardo sat, picked up his menu, and ignored them, although Eric couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Tony.
Lacey grinned at Trujillo. “Thanks, pal.”
“So, was the guy who attacked you that tall? For example, exactly that tall?”
“I don’t know. He was behind me. I was on the ground and I only saw him run away. But I suspect everyone. Including you.” She gave Tony the
look.
He picked his card off the table and tucked it into her coat pocket.
“Don’t lose this, Lacey. Call me if anyone messes with you. I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Swell. If anyone ‘messes’ with me, you’ll be there in time for the crime-scene photos. ‘Hair Ball Claims Third Victim.’ ”
That afternoon, Lacey finally felt strong enough to face Brooke, new haircut and all. Only this time
she
had the plan.
An incredulous Brooke stared at Lacey’s hair. “Bangs, huh? It looks . . . good. It’s just so different. Fluffy.”
“You hate it.” Lacey smoothed it back.
“No. Actually, I’m just glad you still have hair after that little adventure yesterday.”
“Are you coming with me?”
“Definitely. I’m in. You want to pull a surveillance on Boyd Radford?”
“I wouldn’t call it a surveillance, I just want to know where he lives, are the lights on, are the drapes drawn, what cars are in the driveway. That’s all for now.”
“Absolutely. He threatened you. Then you were attacked. We just need to collect information on potential suspects. Now, why do you want to take my car?”
“You have a pavement-gray Acura with smoked windows. Sorry, Brooke, but it’s totally anonymous. In this town, you could be looking straight at it and still not see it.”
“Exactly why I ordered it that way.”
For all his money, Radford’s house in Falls Church, Virginia, was not all that flashy, with the exception of a grand Southern touch in the Tara-like pillars defining the front porch. The lot was small and the house sat fairly close to the street, which made it easier to watch. Brooke parked between a couple of Hondas and an older Volvo, all gray. It was still light when Brooke and Lacey, both in basic black, arrived there, but night was falling. At dusk, the preset lights at Chez Radford turned on. The house was quiet with no sign of activity. Brooke handed Lacey a pair of compact ten-power binoculars.
“These are adorable. Where’d you get them?” Lacey asked.
“The Counter Spy Shop on Connecticut.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I have an account there.”
“And what are those?” She pointed to the large pair of binoculars that Brooke kept to herself.
“Night vision. Second generation. Totally cool and indispensable. But why should I tell you? You won’t even carry a cell phone.”
“Well, I don’t travel with a treasure trove of techie spy toys, no.” A movement outside Radford’s house caught their attention. Lacey raised the binoculars and focused on a woman at the door, a woman dressed in black. “It’s Josephine.”
“Who?”
“Radford’s ex. She’s trying the door with her key. Uh-oh.”
“What?” Brooke trained the night-vision binos on the front door.
“Looks like her key won’t work. Maybe Radford changed the locks. Hey, I think she just said something bad in French, and I think she made a couple of French gestures. Rude French gestures.”
“She looks like a French movie star playing a burglar. And if she’s his ex, why does she have a key in the first place?”
“I gather that it’s very complicated.” Failing to get in, Josephine signaled to someone. Leonardo emerged from the shadows, and at her signal, jimmied the lock like a pro. The door had a sliver of glass on either side, through which Lacey saw Josephine disarm a burglar-alarm system. “I guess he didn’t change the code.”
“Cool. And I thought this was going to be another lost Saturday night. Where’s my cell phone?”
“Why?”
“To call the police.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Lacey, I am an officer of the court. I cannot stand by and witness a crime being committed.” Brooke rummaged around for her phone.
“Wait. We don’t know whether or not Radford just forgot to give her a key. Besides, they’d hang together if the police got involved.”
“You’re right. We haven’t seen the whole show anyway.” Brooke put her cell phone away and picked up her binoculars. An upstairs light went on. They caught glimpses of Josephine tearing through the drawers of a huge antique oak roll-top desk and tossing papers all around. Leo helped, but he was not quite so messy or enthusiastic. “I can’t understand people who never shut their drapes, especially when they’re tossing the place. Don’t they realize that anybody could be out here with binoculars?”
“It would be a shame to cover up those Palladian windows though. Man, she looks really irritated.”
“Guess she didn’t find what she was looking for.”
The lights switched off, and a few minutes later Josephine and her protégé left. Leo’s yellow Corvette pulled out of an alley behind the house.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t think we were spotted,” Brooke said. “Want to hang out some more? See who breaks in next?”
“No.” Lacey thought that they had probably witnessed the main event, and if Josephine felt safe enough to rummage through the place with the lights on, she probably knew that Boyd was out for the evening. “Let’s go.”