which she didn’t do.
“Can’t I sit down?”
“Sure, let’s go back to the kitchen, I’m just making myself a sandwich. Sorry the place isn’t cleaned up more.”
“Looks fine to me.”
Michelle followed me to the kitchen, and I pulled out a chair for her at the small, square, wood-topped table parked in the corner.
“Want a sandwich? I’m making ham and cheese.”
“No thanks.”
“How about a beer?”
“You have any wine?”
“Just beer.”
“Beer’s OK.”
I pulled a bottle from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap, and handed it to her. I caught a slight whiff of fresh soap, like she had just come out of the shower.
“You look like a girl I used to date,” I said. In fact, she looked like
every
girl I used to date, until I met Patricia.
She smiled and held up the beer bottle. “Could I have a glass?”
I opened a cabinet, found a glass that looked like it might work for beer, and handed it to her.
“So, are you going to tell me?” I asked.
“Tell you what?”
“Why you look like this.”
“I will, in a minute.”
I laughed. “OK, don’t want to rush you. By the way, there’s something I’ve been trying to check out. Every once in a while, Steve would disappear for an hour during his shift. He’d just take off in the police car by himself.”
“That was probably Wendy.”
I thought for a moment. “Wendy Bass, the little blonde in the Twelfth?”
“You didn’t know about that?”
“No—they had something going?”
“That’s the first thing I heard about when I got put in the Twelfth, hey, you know your brother’s doing a Barbie-and-Ken with Wendy Bass.” That’s what we called it when two cops got together romantically, a Barbie-and-Ken.
“I guess that makes sense,” I said. “That’s probably where he was going.”
I finished making my sandwich, and sat at the table.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” I said, “your hair is extremely curly.”
“Yeah, it’s a perm. Isn’t it great?”
“It wasn’t like that at the funeral.”
“Yes it was. I just kept it under my hat. So to speak.”
“I got to be honest, with that makeup and hair, you look like you just moved to Westmount.”
“I did. The day before yesterday.”
When I laughed, she said, “No, I did. I got an apartment above Angela’s, you know, that beauty shop at Seventy-eighth and Locust.”
“You’re serious.”
“And, I got a job at Angela’s, doing manicures. There was an apartment available upstairs, so it worked out great.”
“Wait, when did you get this job?”
“Same day I got the apartment, day before yesterday.”
Today was Thursday, which meant Michelle would have gotten the job on Tuesday—two days after Steve was killed. It didn’t make any sense.
“What’s the deal with being a manicurist all of a sudden?”
“I’m good at it. I learned when I was in high school, at my aunt’s hair salon up in the Northeast. And every year I was in college, that was my summer job—doing manicures there.”
“Don’t you need to go to beauty school and get a license for something like that?”
“If you really know what you’re doing, the salon owners don’t care if you have a license.”
“You’re not quitting the Department, are you?”
“No, but I’m taking a leave of absence. Stress-related, because of Steve.”
“So you can be a manicurist.”
Michelle looked at me for a moment with a half smile. “You used to be in the Organized Crime Unit, right?” I nodded.
“Did you run any investigations? You know, undercover?”
“A few.”
“You want to run another?” She raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?” I asked, but my mind was racing ahead, already beginning to understand.
“You said Bravelli knows why my brother was killed.”
“He may know, I’m not positive.”
“I want to find out.”
“By going undercover,” I said.
She nodded.
“And this is your undercover outfit.”
“Yeah.” She smiled, sitting up straight
“Can’t I sit down?”
“Sure, let’s go back to the kitchen, I’m just making myself a sandwich. Sorry the place isn’t cleaned up more.”
“Looks fine to me.”
Michelle followed me to the kitchen, and I pulled out a chair for her at the small, square, wood-topped table parked in the corner.
“Want a sandwich? I’m making ham and cheese.”
“No thanks.”
“How about a beer?”
“You have any wine?”
“Just beer.”
“Beer’s OK.”
I pulled a bottle from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap, and handed it to her. I caught a slight whiff of fresh soap, like she had just come out of the shower.
“You look like a girl I used to date,” I said. In fact, she looked like
every
girl I used to date, until I met Patricia.
She smiled and held up the beer bottle. “Could I have a glass?”
I opened a cabinet, found a glass that looked like it might work for beer, and handed it to her.
“So, are you going to tell me?” I asked.
“Tell you what?”
“Why you look like this.”
“I will, in a minute.”
I laughed. “OK, don’t want to rush you. By the way, there’s something I’ve been trying to check out. Every once in a while, Steve would disappear for an hour during his shift. He’d just take off in the police car by himself.”
“That was probably Wendy.”
I thought for a moment. “Wendy Bass, the little blonde in the Twelfth?”
“You didn’t know about that?”
“No—they had something going?”
“That’s the first thing I heard about when I got put in the Twelfth, hey, you know your brother’s doing a Barbie-and-Ken with Wendy Bass.” That’s what we called it when two cops got together romantically, a Barbie-and-Ken.
“I guess that makes sense,” I said. “That’s probably where he was going.”
I finished making my sandwich, and sat at the table.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” I said, “your hair is extremely curly.”
“Yeah, it’s a perm. Isn’t it great?”
“It wasn’t like that at the funeral.”
“Yes it was. I just kept it under my hat. So to speak.”
“I got to be honest, with that makeup and hair, you look like you just moved to Westmount.”
“I did. The day before yesterday.”
When I laughed, she said, “No, I did. I got an apartment above Angela’s, you know, that beauty shop at Seventy-eighth and Locust.”
“You’re serious.”
“And, I got a job at Angela’s, doing manicures. There was an apartment available upstairs, so it worked out great.”
“Wait, when did you get this job?”
“Same day I got the apartment, day before yesterday.”
Today was Thursday, which meant Michelle would have gotten the job on Tuesday—two days after Steve was killed. It didn’t make any sense.
“What’s the deal with being a manicurist all of a sudden?”
“I’m good at it. I learned when I was in high school, at my aunt’s hair salon up in the Northeast. And every year I was in college, that was my summer job—doing manicures there.”
“Don’t you need to go to beauty school and get a license for something like that?”
“If you really know what you’re doing, the salon owners don’t care if you have a license.”
“You’re not quitting the Department, are you?”
“No, but I’m taking a leave of absence. Stress-related, because of Steve.”
“So you can be a manicurist.”
Michelle looked at me for a moment with a half smile. “You used to be in the Organized Crime Unit, right?” I nodded.
“Did you run any investigations? You know, undercover?”
“A few.”
“You want to run another?” She raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?” I asked, but my mind was racing ahead, already beginning to understand.
“You said Bravelli knows why my brother was killed.”
“He may know, I’m not positive.”
“I want to find out.”
“By going undercover,” I said.
She nodded.
“And this is your undercover outfit.”
“Yeah.” She smiled, sitting up straight
Similar Books
