A Hair Raising Tale

A Hair Raising Tale

I hadn’t been to a hair salon in years, but today’s visit was not for an appointment—I’d been called to investigate a murder. I cut my own locks short with a razor and the scissors Elena left behind when she moved out. The same type of sharp shears sticking into the neck of the victim sprawled before me.

Manny Rodriquez, my trusted teammate, introduced me. “Everyone, this is my partner in the LAPD Major Crimes Unit, Detective Isabella Zavala.” Manny never missed an opportunity to tease me about my full given name, instead of calling me Izzy as I preferred. Nothing about me resembled an Isabella, from my button-down flannel shirt and comfortable chinos to my steel-toed work boots.

“Our victim is Emeline Rodgers, twenty-seven, employed here as a stylist at the Venus Salon. Discovered this morning when her boss, Claire Bishop, arrived.” He gestured toward a tall brunette comforting a weeping woman sitting in a salon chair, as if dissatisfied with her recent haircut. “Door was unlocked but lock not broken.”

I examined the body and her surroundings. Emeline stared vacant eyed at the ceiling, her mouth agape and her long black hair spread out like a mat. A pool of blood oozed from her neck over the tiled floor. Emeline’s fist held a chunk of brownish hair. There had been a struggle: bottles of hair products were scattered about, a blood stained towel lay tossed in the corner, and the tread of a sneaker had been imprinted in the red mess on the floor. Above her station, a message written in the same color of blood streaked across the mirror cracked from side to side, “I know what you did.”

“Any idea what she did?” I asked.

Manny motioned to the two stylists. “About to ask those two.”

The owner straightened to a commanding pose as we approached.

“Ms. Bishop, let me express my sympathy for your loss.” I always showed concern first.

With a flinty expression, she remained silent.

“What can you tell us about Emeline?”

Bishop glanced away. “Customers liked her.”

The other woman interrupted. “Oh my God, Emeline could style hair like nobody’s business. Totally original…and contemporary.”

Bishop plastered a smirk on her face. “Misty, why don’t you check the supplies in the back.”

“No, Misty, please stay here for now.” I returned a phony grin.

“Like, just last month, Emeline won the Beauty Industry Award. Didn’t she, Ms. Bishop? Beat even you.”

Claire Bishop did not even try to look pleased. “Based on questionable judging.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She cleared her throat. “Rumors some judges were bribed. I’m not accusing anyone in particular, but the winner was not necessarily the best choice.”

I wrote the word ‘envy’ on my pad.

Misty stared at the victim’s workstation. “Hey, her award is missing. She always kept it on her shelf.” She gasped. “Maybe the killer stole it.”

I scanned the area. “What did the award look like?”

Bishop waved her hand dismissively and I noted scratches on the back of it. Defensive wounds? “Just a cheap trophy.”

“Oh, no, it was gorgeous. Gold statue shaped like a head and engraved with her name. Emeline was so proud of it. She was taking it with her when she left here next week.” Misty leaned forward, speaking conspiratorially. “Moving to the Haven Salon. The ultimate beauty parlor in town. She’d do anything to get there.”

Anything? “How did you get those scratches on your hand, Ms. Bishop?”

“My cat.”

“I didn’t know you had a cat.” Misty, the truth-buster.

I made a note. “Do you know if Emeline had enemies? Any customers who were angry with her?” A disastrous hairdo might be motive for murder.

Bishop shook her head a little too vehemently. “All our customers are highly satisfied.”

“Poor thing had a lousy boyfriend,” Misty said. “He pushed her around and once…” she glanced at her boss, “Emeline had a black eye. I did her make-up that day, you know, to cover up the bruising. ‘Cuz anyways, I’m trying to get into Hollywood as a professional make-up artist.”

“Who is he, the lousy boyfriend?”

“I don’t involve myself in my staff’s private lives,” Bishop said, her delay in answering made me doubt her.

“Billy something,” Misty answered. “A real creep. He lives in Boyle Heights. Came by a few times to pick her up, driving a fancy red Dodge Charger. He’s got a snake tattoo up his left arm.” Misty made a pukey face. “He claimed she cheated on him, but she said she never would.”

Good enough information to get us started. “Do you have any idea what that note means or who might have written it?” I pointed to the mirror. My reflection appeared tough and doughy compared to those dolled-up beauties before me.

“She never did anything wrong. She was a real sweetie.” Misty’s tears flowed again.

I waited, keeping my gaze on Bishop, who ran her fingers through her hair, looking anywhere but at me. Was she trying to cover up a spot where hair might be missing? I couldn’t say for sure from this angle.

“The police showed up here once looking for Emeline.” Bishop’s face crinkled like a sour prune. “Highly unusual for an establishment in high standing such as this one.” Her eyes sparkled, then her demeanor switched from pleasant to disturbed in one beat. “Her roommate accused her of stealing. She denied it.” She checked her red painted fingernails. “Of course, after that, I locked away all the cash and credit charges…as a precaution.”

Misty shook her head. “Her roommate’s a liar. A real doozy. One of them types, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t but figured I’d check out the lead and evaluate for myself. A few more questions yielded no more pertinent information. We were able to obtain Emeline’s next of kin who lived in Sacramento and asked our lieutenant to contact the local police station to inform her parents of their daughter’s death.

When I told Ms. Bishop she had to close the salon until further notice as this was an active crime scene, she complained with a growl. “I’ll lose business.” Her tone sounded more upset about the loss of sales than the death of her employee.

Outside, Manny and I exchanged notes. “A few leads, the boyfriend with loose fists and the accusatory roommate.”

“Seems like there might be bad feelings between owner and the late award-winning hairdresser,” I said. “Ms. Bishop is hiding something.”

Manny called in the description of Billy the boyfriend, asking dispatch to track him down. He drove as usual, listening to the sports commentary channel. On my laptop, I pulled up the complaint against our victim filed by her roommate, Juliette Fishbone.

“Fishbone charged Emeline with theft of over one thousand dollars in cash.”

He whistled. “A felony.

“Case was closed, for insufficient evidence.”

We headed down Whittier Boulevard to Emeline’s home address in East LA. At a bungalow garden court, we knocked on the door for unit #3. A barefoot young woman with bleached-blond, punk-cropped hair, wearing cut-off jeans and a crop-top, answered. We introduced ourselves.

Juliette leaned against the door frame, eyeing Manny. “About time you got here concerning the thievery.”

“Can we come in and talk?” he asked. She didn’t refuse.

Manny took the lead as he seemed to captivate her. Not to blame, Manny always attracted attention. With his gym-rat muscles, thick, wavy black hair, and a winning smile, he persuaded many witnesses and occasionally even suspects to spill.

“We’re sorry to inform you that your roommate, Emeline, is dead.” His voice sincere and soft.

She snarled. “Murdered?”

“What makes you think that?”

Juliette curled her legs underneath, like a coquette. “She deserved it. She wasn’t even nice. A taker, always out to get what she wanted. If I could afford it, I woulda kicked her out long ago.”

Quite a contrast to Misty’s statement. “Do you know of anyone who’d want to kill her?”

“Who wouldn’t?” She batted her false eyelashes at Manny.

“Would you?” I asked. Usually either Manny or I took the lead and the other took notes, quietly. But this woman seemed to be more interested in flirting than in furthering our investigation.

Juliette unraveled her legs, leapt up and sneered. “Are you accusing me?”

“No.” Not yet.

She flopped back in the chair, rearranged herself to face Manny. “I got better things to do with my time.”

Manny ran through the usual barrage of questions: When had she last seen Emeline? Where was she last night? Any strangers hanging around their place? Did Emeline have any trouble with anyone recently? To which we received evasive and uncertain answers.

“Tell us about the theft you reported.”

“I told the cops, who did absolutely nothing. Said I couldn’t prove it. My word against hers. As if.”

“Details, please.” We treated her like any witness, with respect and patience, even if they drove us crazy with their self-serving half-truths.

“There was over a thousand dollars missing from my hiding place.”

Manny’s head popped up. “You hide that much cash in the house?”

“I was about to go to the bank.”

Who makes that kind of cash these days besides drug dealers, card sharks and prostitutes?

Juliette bit the nubs of her fingernails. “I was seriously pissed when the cops said they couldn’t charge her. I told her to put back the money or else.”

“Or else what?” Manny and I asked simultaneously.

“Or else…I…I don’t know. Just, or else.”

Manny leaned in and lowered his voice. “Did you threaten her?”

“Yeah…no…the police weren’t helping.” Juliette crossed her arms, ratcheting up her small top and her large bosom. “I had to do something.”

“Like what?”

She mummed up.

We left and drove toward Boyle Heights, to the address dispatch had produced for Billy Pasquarelli. On the way, we stopped for black coffee in a chichi gentrified café where a cup that cost a dollar and a quarter in the old days now cost four-fifty.

I checked the NCIC database. “Pasquarelli’s got a rap sheet: assault and battery, drunk and disorderly, robbery.”

“Who picks a guy like that for a boyfriend?”

Someone desperate. I wasn’t desperate, but I was lonely since Elena dumped me.

Pasquarelli sat outside on the front steps of a crooked house, wearing a wife-beater undershirt, baggy, saggy jeans, and Jordan’s, smoking a joint. “Ain’t illegal no more,” he reminded us with a grin.

“Put it away.”

He snuffed it out. “What’s up, officers?”

I stifled my initial reaction that I didn’t like him and vowed to remain neutral. “Where were you last night between eight p.m. and seven this morning?” I asked, skipping the pleasantries.

He looked at the sky, as if choosing which lie to tell. I followed his gaze to a pair of sneakers hung over the electrical wire. Was that blood on the soles?

“Out with my homies. Then, back here sleeping like a baby. My Ma can verify.”

Mothers in this neighborhood always corroborated their son’s alibis. We asked for the names of the friends, which, after we promised to take him to the station if he couldn’t remember, he reluctantly gave up.

“You hit your girlfriend, Emeline Rodgers.” Manny stated the fact, didn’t ask.

Pasquarelli was taken aback. “Is that what this is about? What did the bitc—, uh, whad she tell you? That she cheated on me? The best man she ever had.” He tugged on the front of his shirt, the way soccer players do when they score. “She denied it, a course. But I know what she did.”

The same words written in blood on the mirror.

He sniffled, faking it. “I loved her, but she done me wrong.”

“Wrong enough to kill her?” Manny’s voice came out stern and demanding.

“Nah.” Pasquarelli squinted. “Wait. Emey’s dead?”

We gave him the details. He lowered his head in his hands, and we couldn’t tell if he was grieving or grinning.

“Don’t go anywhere. We’ll check your alibis.”

On the ride back to the station, we reviewed our leads. “I suspect the salon owner Bishop might be jealous and angry that her nemesis, the rising star, beat her in the contest and is now leaving her for a better gig. She has opportunity and means.”

Manny turned down the radio. “Roommate Fishbone threatened Emeline. Ex-boyfriend Pasquarelli has a history of hitting her, a rap sheet and quoted the words written on the mirror.”

“Dumb witness.”

“You mean suspect. I’m pegging him for this homicide.”

Manny left to check alibis. I did the grunt work, submitting search warrant requests for all three suspect’s laundry, trash and shoes to examine for traces of blood; researching their backgrounds, and watching eleven hours from various CCTVs for any suspicious activity surrounding the Venus Salon.

After a few hours, Manny called me from his car, the LA Dodgers radio announcer’s voice in the background.

“Check this out. I went back to the Venus Salon and guess what I found in the boss’s locker.”

My mind sorted through the clues. “The Golden Head award.”

“Exactly.”

“Not missing, just hidden. Jealousy is a strong motive.”

He chuckled. “And I got the electric company to pull those shoes down from the wire outside Pasquarelli’s. You guessed right, blood on the soles.” He sounded like a boy on his birthday. “Bringing ‘em in for the techs to compare to the print at the crime scene.”

“How about Billy’s alibis?”

“Confirmed by the sketchiest characters in town. I’d say, unreliable.”

“Cuckhold also a strong motive, and, according to his history, he has the means.”

I boasted about my discovery. “I found Juliette Fishbone’s passport picture, issued three weeks ago, showing her with long flowing brunette hair.” Sort of like Elena’s. “Same shade as the clump in the fist.”

“She suddenly changes style and color. And keeps scratching the left side of her head.”

“The bald itchy spot.”

“She has no alibi and plenty of motive. And from her coiffure job, I wouldn’t trust her with a pair of scissors.”

“Let’s bring them all in and find out who killed Emeline.”

We sat the three suspects in adjoining interrogation rooms, small spaces with bright lights, hard, uncomfortable chairs and no AC. They stunk like sweat and fear.

Claire Bishop couldn’t explain how the trophy ended up in her locker. Billy Pasquarelli, a seasoned criminal, demanded his lawyer. Juliette Fishbone turned the flirtation meter to maximum intensity, hoping Manny would fall for her feminine wiles and eliminate her as a suspect.

The CSI lab confirmed that the shoeprint at the crime scene did not match the tennies slung over the wire or Pasquarelli’s current pair of Jordans. Billy’s lawyer convinced him to explain what he had been doing the night of Emeline’s death, which included stealing catalytic converters, a crime less serious than murder. An officer searched the Pasquarelli residence and confirmed that two converters, reported stolen the night before, were hidden in Billy’s closet. We turned him over to Robbery.

Claire Bishop broke down after her fifth cup of coffee. She banged her fists on the table and yelled, “Okay, I stole it. I was supposed to win, not her.”

Now, we were getting somewhere.

“I hated Emeline. With all her talent and accolades, customers were begging to see her. My client list shrunk; even my long-term patrons betrayed me. I was left with only geriatric weekly wash-and-sets.” Claire sobbed. “Emeline was young and beautiful and on her way to unimaginable success. Everything that was out of my reach.” She fluffed her hair. “That award should have been mine. All the years I’ve tried, and this her first year, snapped it from my grasp. By cheating. How could I tolerate that?”

Were we on the edge of a confession?

Claire continued. “I stole the award, but I did not kill that girl. Tarnish my own salon? I don’t think so.”

I had to agree. Which left us with one suspect.

A lab tech met us in the hallway on our way to Juliette. “I took a sample of the suspect’s hair and ran a DNA test against the clump found in the victim’s fist. There’s a match.”

Manny and I entered the interrogation room where Juliette sat crossed legged on the floor in the corner, eyes closed, hands posed in a thumb and finger touch, chanting. He stood by the door while I sat across from her.

“Juliette, tell us what happened last night when you confronted Emeline at the salon about the money she owed you.”

Tears strolled down her cheeks. She breathed in hard and let out a whimper. “I worked hard for that money. Demeaning myself at times to earn it.” Juliette opened her eyes. “And she stole it.”

“So, you confronted her last night at her workplace.”

We waited. Juliette sat perfectly still. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I wanted my money back. I needed it back. To get started again. Change my life; get out of this one.”

She slumped forward, elbows on knees. Then, bound back up. “You know what she did with that money? Bribed a judge for some dumb contest. I overheard her talking on the phone, saying she’d pay one thousand dollars to win the award.”

A full circle of complicity.

“It wasn’t fair.”

We booked Juliette for manslaughter. As I released Claire Bishop to Misty, waiting for her in the lobby, she turned to me and focused on my unruly hair.

“You really ought to make an appointment with me. Soon.”