Janet Evanovich - Explosive Eighteen

Brenda unrolled one of the foils and looked at my hair. “Still needs more time,” she said.

“But you got the car back, right?” I asked her.

“Yeah, I was complaining to this person I know, and he said he could override all the systems and get me my car. Only thing is, he was living in Hawaii, and he was worried about sending me information. So when my client Ritchy came in to get a haircut, and he said he was leaving for a conference in Hawaii, I had this brilliant idea that he could bring the information back for me.”

“Why didn’t your friend just mail it to you?”

“He said it wasn’t safe. Turned out this wasn’t safe, either. At least he was smart enough to do the photo thing. I guess you wouldn’t want this code stuff to get into the wrong hands.”

“Like your brother?”

“Yeah, he’d probably sell it to the Russians, or aliens from outer space, or whoever the heck the enemy is. I can’t keep up with it. Or he could keep it and use it to hijack shit.”

I looked at myself in the mirror and tried not to grimace. This was more than I’d expected. My whole head was covered in foil.

“Here’s the big question,” I said to Brenda. “Why did Richard Crick put the photo in my bag?”

“It was an accident. He was airsick, or maybe he was coming down with the flu or something. Anyway, he got off the plane for the layover and was too sick to get back on. He was looking through his bag for his boarding pass, to get it changed out, and he realized he didn’t have my envelope. And he said he remembered you had the exact same bag. A black Tumi messenger bag. And he realized he stuffed the yellow envelope into your bag by mistake in his rush to deplane. He said your bag was laying on the floor between the seats, just like his. So he called and told me. He said when he thought about it, he knew exactly what happened. He thought maybe I could meet you when you got off the plane, but I didn’t get his message in time. And then he was dead. What are the chances, right?”

Probably pretty good, considering the circumstances.

“How’d your brother find out?”

“He was with me when I played the message back. How was I to know he’d be such an asshole?”

“You told him about the photo with the code?”

“I’d had a couple Appletinis,” Brenda said. “I get chatty.”

“I love them Appletinis,” Lula said. “I could drink a gallon of them.”

“Over to the sink,” Brenda said to me. “You’re done processing. This is going to be awesome.”

I’m always amazed at the way life plays out. How so often a single decision sets people on an irreversible journey. Richard Crick agreed to do a simple favor for a friend, and it led to his death. And the whole ugly chain of events was set in motion when Bernie Schwartz borrowed money from Sammy the Pig. And what was the ultimate result? Highlights from Brenda.

When your hair is wet, you really can’t see exactly what the hairdresser from hell has given you. So when I left the shampoo sink and sat in the styling chair, there was hope. By the time my hair was blow-dried, ratted up, and sprayed, I was ready for serious alcohol consumption. The highlights were brilliant red and yellow, my hair looked like it had exploded out of my head, and I was at least six inches taller.

Brenda had tears in her eyes. “This is the most fabulous thing I’ve ever done,” she said. “I’m going to call it Route 1 Sunrise.”

“I never seen anything like it,” Lula said. “This here takes her to a whole other level. She’s not just another ordinary bitch no more. She’s, like, Super Bitch. She’s, like, got fire hair.”

“And you see how I gave her hair some lift,” Brenda said. “It gives her style some drama.”

“I could see that,” Lula said.

“What do you think?” Brenda asked me.

“I’m speechless,” I said.

Brenda put her hand over her heart. “My pleasure. I’m glad I could help you.”

Lula and I left the salon and climbed into the truck. I got behind the wheel, and my hair stuck to the roof.

“I can’t drive like this,” I said. “My hair’s stuck.”

“You need a bigger vehicle to go with your new look,” Lula said.

I slouched in my seat and drove to the edge of the lot, where Brenda couldn’t see me. I took a brush out of my bag and worked at my hair.

“I can’t get the brush to go through it,” I said to Lula.

“That’s the way hair’s supposed to be when it got some body. She kicked your hair up a notch. Wham!”

“You might want to dial back on the wham thing,” I told her. “I’m not in the mood.”

“How could you be Miss Crankypants when you got hair like that?”

“This is not my kind of hair.”

“Yeah, but it could be. It could be a whole new you.”

I didn’t want a new me. I still hadn’t figured out the old me.

I WAS STILL IDLING in the shopping-center lot, trying to squash my hair, when Morelli called on my cell phone.

“I finally caught up with Berger,” he said. “They’ve been reviewing security tapes from LAX, and they have Razzle Dazzle on one of them. There were no cameras in the vicinity of the crime scene, but they have Raz leaving your gate area. They checked the plane manifest, and two passengers didn’t reboard at LAX. Crick and a Somali national, Archie Ahmed.”

“Archie Ahmed? Is that Razzle Dazzle?”

“Yeah, apparently Raz has something like sixty-four identities. The Somali government uses him as an operative. Everything from running guns to recruitment to wet work. They probably drop a stack of passports off to him once a month. Berger got tapes from Honolulu International and identified Raz going through security. It looks like he was on your plane.”

“I don’t remember him.”

“Put a hat on him, and he might look human,” Morelli said.

“Did Berger say anything about his source? I mean, how did he know about the photograph?”

“Information from an overseas operative that a courier had passed a photo to you. Berger is going on the assumption that it’s a photo of a hacker the FBI has been looking for.”

“Wonderful. Anything else?”

“Be careful.”

I took Route 1 back to Trenton. I turned off Broad and parked in front of the bonds office. Lancer and Slasher were across the street, sound asleep in the Lincoln. Connie was inside at her desk, wearing a disposable surgical mask.

“What’s with the mask?” I asked her.

“This office reeks,” Connie said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”

Lula tipped her head back and sniffed. “Rat fart,” she said. “They probably got into the deli Dumpster. Smells like they been eating sauerkraut.”

“You’re an expert on this?” I asked her.

“I know a rat fart when I smell one. And there’s more than one rat farting up there. You probably got a rat condo over you. Personally, I don’t like rats. They got those beady eyes, and skinny tails, and they give you the plague.”

Connie was staring at my hair. “Speaking of rats’ nests!”

“Brenda thought I needed to glam up,” I said to Connie.

“It looked good before Miss Prim and Proper here tried to comb it,” Lula said. “She ruined the dramatic effect of the line.”

“I like the color,” Connie said.

“It’s Brenda’s specialty,” Lula said. “It’s called Route 1 Sunrise.”

Connie adjusted her mask. “It takes the attention away from the black eye.”

“I’m leaving,” I said. “The rat farts are getting to me.” I turned to Lula. “I’m going after Magpie tonight. Are you in?”

“Hell, yeah. And if we get done early enough, we could go to a club and test-drive your hair.”