Killer Karma

30

The hunt at Union Square looked well under way when Cola and Razor arrived. Patrol units swept up and down every street in the area like a swarm of black and white bees. Officers on foot checked out pedestrians in the plaza and on the grass tiers along Geary. Down in the parking garage, they passed a cruiser parked behind another cruiser that had officers going through its interior and trunk. After Razor found a parking stall for his own car, they walked back to the unit.

Razor said, “I’m assisting Homicide.”

“I don’t know where the inspectors are. They left here ten minutes ago.”

“What are you finding?” Razor pointed at Yee and Silvela’s unit.

A sergeant smiled. “More than I expected to. Our cop killer trashed the unit…hoping to find a spare handcuff key, I’m thinking…but left all the weapons and locked up behind herself. She took the keys but since we have an old homeboy with us…” She nodded toward an officer by the trunk, who sighed at what was obviously an all-too-familiar joke. “…it didn’t take us long to get in.”

Cole saw what she meant by Irah trashing the unit. Up front, the glove box and clipboard holding citation and report forms had been emptied onto the seat and floor. In the trunk, the plastic case of the first aid kit lay on its side with its contents scattered across the jumble of other trunk items. On top of everything lay a pair of bloody handcuffs, surrounded by opened hand-wipe packs and the blood-stained wipes themselves…also half-used rolls of gauze and tape, and opened antibiotic ointment packets.

The sergeant said, “It looks like she gave herself a little first aid.”

That might not be all she used the kit for, Cole reflected. The EMT shears had a black thread caught at the pivot. She needed a quick change of appearance before appearing on the street. He had a vision of her whacking the ruffles off her sleeves and shortening the long skirt. The hand wipes resembled what Sherrie used to clean off makeup. Since the Goth eyes changed Irah’s looks so much, so would cleaning them off.

He pointed out the thread to Razor.

Razor lifted the shears up near the trunk light, and pulling the thread loose, twisted it between his fingers. “Do we know if anyone saw her leave the garage?”

The sergeant eyed the thread. “Not that I’ve heard. And no one’s called in a sighting of her in the area.”

Because Irah no longer fit the broadcast description. The portions of sleeves and skirt were probably in the nearest trash barrel, along with the wipes she used to remove the eye makeup. “Let’s see if the attendant remembers a blonde in a miniskirt and platform boots.”

Razor handed the sergeant the thread. “I better catch up with Galentree and Willner.”

When Razor gave the attendant in the booth the modified description, he got a nod. “Sure, I remember her.”

“Did you see where she went?”

The attendant snorted. “Yeah, crazy broad. She was so anxious to get to Macy’s she ran straight across the street through the traffic.”

Razor, however, walked to the corner and crossed with the light.

When they came into Macy’s, he peered around. “Now where? Ladies wear?”

Straight ahead lay the beauty salon. Cole eyed it. “Irah seems to like doing things with her hair for disguise. She has those wigs in her desk. She used a black one for her tweaker disguise, and a brunette one today. You remember how different Jessie looked when she changed her color or style.”

“Jesus…don’t remind me.” Razor winced. “The hair de jour. And God help me when I didn’t recognize her instantly. How is it something that seems quirky and cute when you’re going together drives you crazy after you’re married? But…” He frowned skeptically. “…I don’t see a fugitive sitting around having her hair done. Besides, you can’t just walk into these places. Jessie made her appointments days and weeks ahead of time.”

“There’s nothing to lose by asking.”

A glossy young blonde behind the salon reception counter turned their direction with an inquiring smile.

Razor smiled back. “I think you’re right. There’s nothing to lose by asking.”

In response to his questions, though, the blonde — Tiffany, according to her name badge — shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen anyone of that description. We don’t have walk-in clients.”

But people did cancel appointments and someone calling in for an appointment could luck into a slot that opened that way. Sherrie had once. A computer sat on a lower side section of the reception desk, a schedule-looking grid on its monitor. Cole waded through the desk for a closer look. “Ask her about this S. Benet who’s scheduled for a cut and color an hour from now.”

Asked, Tiffany checked the monitor, then looked across at Razor in amazement. “How ever did you read that? As a matter of fact, she did just get the appointment. She called begging to know if we could work her in, that she’s a last-minute bridesmaid substitute for a wedding this evening. Lucky for her we had a couple of cancellations this afternoon and will be able to fit her in.”

Razor frowned as they walked away from the salon. “Do you think it’s really Carrasco?”

“A name that can be pronounced Benay can’t be just coincidence.”

“Even if it is her…” Razor shook his head. “An hour. Is there any chance in hell she’ll keep the appointment?”

“There’s one way to find out.”

Razor considered that, then, standing amid the cosmetics counters, he pulled out his cell phone. “This time there’s going to be plenty of backup.”

He might want backup, but when he called Communications and had Willner and Galentree come meet him, convincing them to call Madrid about setting up a stakeout proved another matter. They stared at him in disbelief. “Cops are swarming Union Square and you think she made and will wait around to keep a hair appointment?”

Razor nodded. “I think she’s counting on us never expecting anything like that. What do we have to lose except an hour?”

“The ability to show our faces in the Bureau again if you’re wrong,” Galentree said.

“How long did she hang around Embarcadero Center with that area swarming with cops?”

The partners raised eyebrows at each other, then Willner called Madrid on his cell phone.

“Now just pray we’re not wrong,” Razor muttered.

Amen. “I’ll be back in time to see.”

Razor blinked. “Where are you going?”

“Colma.” A very high Dunavan Diagonal and line-of-sight ought to take him there in fair time. “I want to see how Hamada’s doing.”