Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(40)

“I understand Rachel was older, but do you know if she had a friend named Kimmie?”

“Yes! I love Kimmie! OhmyGod, she was my babysitter!”

My shoulders tightened. If I could reach Kimmie, Kimmie might know how to reach Skylar.

“Kimmie and Rachel were tight?”

“The bestest of besties, which was kinda crazy, them being so different. They didn’t seem different to me, but you should hear my mom. Even my mother loved Kimmie.”

“Is Kimmie her actual name?”

“She’s a Kimberly. Everyone calls her Kimmie.”

“Okay. I understand she’s here in Los Angeles.”

“She is! She comes up all the time to visit, though. They’re different that way. Rachel never comes home.”

“Are they still close?”

“Um, I don’t really know. When Kimmie’s here, she never talks about Rachel, not to anyone in our family.”

“I need to talk to her, April. It’s really important. Do you have her phone number?”

“Um, I don’t, no, but I know where she works. Or used to work. I don’t know if she’s still there.”

“Terrific, April. Where?”

April sounded thrilled to help.

“A place called Stennis. She does hair, you know? I don’t know what Stennis means, but it’s a salon in Santa Monica.”

“One more thing. What’s her last name?”

“Laird. L-a-i-r-d. Kimberly Laird. She’s really sweet. You’ll like her.”

“If she’s anything like you, I will.”

April Bohlen giggled.

“Bye, Mr. Cole.”

“Bye, Ms. Bohlen.”

I hustled out to my car and left to find Kimmie Laird.





27





Stennis was a small salon on Wilshire Boulevard between a vegan cupcake shop and a children’s store with a for lease sign in its window. A stylish black entrance fronted the salon with a large window so private eyes could see inside. The window revealed a receptionist’s desk and three salon chairs facing three mirrors. A middle-aged woman with bits of foil in her hair occupied the chair nearest the window. She was watching a tall male stylist paint the foil like an angry school principal watches a class clown. A thirtysomething man in the last chair watched a younger female stylist run an electric trimmer over his scalp. The stylist sported a shaved pixie cut with a subtle magenta streak. I phoned the salon as I watched.

A woman I didn’t see answered.

“Stennis Salon.”

“Hey. Is Kimmie Laird in today?”

“She is, but, um, she doesn’t have anything available.”

“I’m calling for a friend. We’re driving down this afternoon and she’d love if Kimmie could squeeze her in. Kimmie knows her really well. Would you please ask?”

“Of course. What’s her name?”

“Rachel Bohlen.”

“Lemme ask.”

The invisible receptionist appeared with a handset phone and went to the pixie cut stylist. They traded a word and the pixie cut snatched the phone and stepped away from her client.

“Wherehaveyoubeen? OhmyGodwhydidn’tyoucall? Iwassoworried!”

Rachel was missing for everyone.

“I’m trying to find her, too. I believe Rachel is in danger. Will you help?”

Kimberly Laird stiffened the way a sparrow stiffens as a snake glides toward its nest.

“April Bohlen gave me your name. She said you’d help. Call her. She’ll confirm what I’m saying.”

Kimberly moved farther away from her client. The client tracked her in the mirror.

“Who is this?”

“Rachel was interviewed on a podcast, In Your Face with Josh Shoe. Remember?”

“She’s been on with Josh twice. Where’s Rachel? Who are you?”

“Josh is missing, too. His parents hired me to find him.”

“Is Rachel with Josh?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible, but I don’t know. I need to talk to you, Kimberly. I believe you know something that could help.”

“I don’t know where she is. I’ve been going crazy trying to find her. I don’t know anything.”

“Kimberly, you do. You know things no one else knows. You were her safety.”

Kimberly stepped farther away and spoke in a smaller voice.

“I’m at work.”

“I know. I see you.”

Kimberly slowly turned toward the window. I raised a hand.

“Finish his hair. I’ll wait.”

She came out six minutes later and we talked in front of the cupcake shop.

“When was the last time you spoke with her?”

“A week? I was gonna do her hair. It’s a thing. She comes over, we try out different looks, we hang, but she never showed up. She didn’t answer my calls or texts, and I didn’t know what to think, like, is she mad at me? But her other friends haven’t heard from her, either.”

She pulled at her fingers as she spoke. Nervous.

“Was she having her hair done for an escort job?”

Little dimples appeared on her chin. Kimberly seemed uneasy, as if she didn’t want to discuss Rachel’s escort work.