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knew
it was trying to form those witty words, it was more likely looking
like I didn’t comprehend.
    “ Here,” she thrust a paper
at me. A sheet of her personal stationery, heavyweight, cream
color, with her name in deep blue script centered at the top. I
remembered when she ordered it. When the first batch came in, she’d
stormed into Bass’s office waving a stack of them, screaming
something about having ordered “Midnight Blue” not “Navy
Blue.”
    Whatever shade this was, it was wonderful. I
held it up to the light. Watermark and everything. Maybe I could
talk Bass into ordering me some of this stuff.
    “ That’s a list of all the
salons I want you to visit.”
    I did a quick count. “There
are ten places on
this list.”
    “ And these,” she handed up
yet another personalized page, “are the people you need to
interview. It’s such a shame.” She shook her head, staring at the
paper till I took it, “So much suffering.”
    I tried to detect humor in her delivery.
None whatsoever. This was the woman who sat at the anchor desk and
reported mass murderers, child molesters, and global terrorism.
Weekly. And her eyes were getting glassy over bad haircuts?
    There had to be twenty names staring up at
me. She provided phone numbers, both home and cell for each, along
with e-mail addresses. I fought and won a small victory over my
emotions—restraining myself from rolling my eyes.
    She was sitting on the edge of her chair.
Just itching for a fight; I could tell.
    But then again, so was I.
    The manila files in the center of my desk
were chock full of information on Milla Voight, Father de los
Santos, the priesthood, and Brazil. I placed the two sheets of
information from Gabriela with them, one atop the other, aligning
the papers’ corners with the tips of my fingers. Movements this
precise usually heralded an explosion on my part.
    “ Tell you what,” I said
attempting a reasonable voice, but coming across more like I was
teaching English as a second language. “I’ll look over these lists
and pick out the ones that look the most promising,
okay?”
    “ I worked hard getting that
information together.”
    “ I’m sure you did. And I
appreciate it.” I detected a slight relaxation on her part as I
lied, easily. “Let me spend some time doing research before I come
up with our guests, okay? You know this will take time and we’re
not going to be able to broadcast interviews with this many women,
or salons. Not in one show.”
    I knew what she was going to say, so I
interrupted, “And I don’t think Bass is going to be up for a
two-parter.”
    Nose-scrunch again, but she smiled this
time, uncrossing her legs and standing up. “Okay, I know you
usually do a pretty good job, but I thought you might like just a
teensy bit of help. Especially since you lost that big story.”
    This time I did roll my eyes.
    “ Too bad, but isn’t it kind
of ironic?” Gabriela said.
    I never would have imagined Gabriela using
“ironic” in a sentence. “How so?”
    “ Well that girl who got
murdered was a hair washer at a salon. Not one of these, of
course,” she said as she tapped the paper in front of me. “But this
new story is about disasters at hair salons. I’d have to say that
hers was probably one of the worst disasters of all.”
    Worst doesn’t begin to describe it, I
thought, as she left.
    I looked at the list of salons she’d given
me. Murdered Milla Voight’s salon hadn’t made this cut. But that
didn’t mean I couldn’t start my hair investigation there.

    Chapter Three

    I stood outside the Hair to Dye For salon at
ten-thirty Tuesday morning. Just a few blocks off the intersection
of Chicago Avenue and Rush Street, it was considered near-north
rather than downtown. The hand-lettered, “Mowimy Po Polsku” sign in
the window was unusual. I found it odd that they would advertise
speaking Polish in such an urban and trendy area. I was also
surprised by the salon’s nondescript presence on the